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Title: The Ravens and the Angels, with Other Stories and Parables

Author: Elizabeth Rundle Charles

Release Date: February 21, 2011 [EBook #35346]

Language: English

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E-text prepared by Peter Vachuska, Chuck Greif, Josephine Paolucci,

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THE

RAVENS AND THE ANGELS:

WITH

Other Stories and Parables.

BY

MRS. RUNDLE CHARLES

Author of

"THE SCHÖNBERG-COTTA FAMILY," &c. &c.

London:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.

EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1894

All Rights Reserved.

Contents.

THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS, 7

ECCE HOMO, 33

THE COTTAGE BY THE CATHEDRAL, 59

THE UNKNOWN ARCHITECT OF THE MINSTER, 69

ONLY THE CRYPT, 74

THE SEPULCHRE AND THE SHRINE, 80

THE CATHEDRAL CHIMES, 91

THE RUINED TEMPLE, 98

THE CLOCK-BELL AND THE ALARM-BELL, 106

THE BLACK SHIP, 109

THE ISLAND AND THE MAIN LAND, 125

THE JEWEL OF THE ORDER OF THE KING'S OWN, 137

THE ACORN, 148

PASSAGES FROM THE LIFE OF A FERN, 153

THORNS AND SPINES, 158

PARABLES IN HOUSEHOLD THINGS, 161

"THINGS USING US," 166

SUNSHINE, DAYLIGHT, AND THE ROCK, 170

WANDERERS AND PILGRIMS, 172

THE ARK AND THE FORTRESS, 175

THE THREE DREAMS, 178

THOU AND I, 183

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL, 187

THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS, 192

The Ravens and the Angels.

A STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

I.

In those old days, in that old city, they called the Cathedral—and they thought it—the house of God. The Cathedral was the Father's house for all, and therefore it was loved and honoured, and enriched with lavish treasures of wealth and work, beyond any other father's house.

The Cathedral was the Father's house, and therefore close to its gates might nestle the poor dwellings of the poor,—too poor to find a shelter anywhere besides; because the central life and joy of the house of God was the suffering, self-sacrificing Son of Man; and dearer to Him, now and for ever, as when He was on earth, was the feeblest and most fallen human creature He had redeemed than the most glorious heavenly constellation of the universe He had made.

And so it happened that when Berthold, the stone-carver, died, Magdalis, his young wife, and her two children, then scarcely more than babes, Gottlieb and little Lenichen, were suffered to make their home in the little wooden shed which had once sheltered a hermit, and which nestled into the recess close to the great western gate of the Minster.

Thus, while, inside, from the lofty aisles pealed forth, night and day, the anthems of the choir, close outside, night and day, rose also, even more surely, to God, the sighs of a sorrowful woman and the cries of little children whom all her toil could hardly supply with bread. Because, He hears the feeblest wail of want, though it comes not from a dove or even from a harmless sparrow, but a young raven. And He does not heed the sweetest anthem of the fullest choir, if it is a mere pomp of sound. Because, while the best love of His meanest creatures is precious to Him, the second-best of His loftiest creatures is intolerable to Him. He heeds the shining of the drops of dew and the rustling of the blades of grass. But from creatures who can love He cannot accept the mere outside offering of creatures which can only make a pleasant sound.

All this, or such as this, the young mother Magdalis taught her babes as they could bear it.

For they needed such lessons.

The troubles of the world pressed on them very early, in the shape little children can understand—little hands and feet nipped with frost, hunger and darkness and cold.

Not that the citizens of that city were hypocrites, singing the praises of God, whilst they let His dear Lazaruses vainly crave at their gates for their crumbs. But Magdalis was very tender and timid, and a little proud; proud not for herself, but for her husband and his babes. And she was also feeble in health. She was an orphan herself, and she had married, against the will of her kindred in a far-off city, the young stone-carver, whose genius they did not appreciate, whose labour and skill had made life so rich and bright to his family while he lived, and whose early death had left them all so desolate.

For his dear sake, she would not complain. For herself it had been easier to die, and for his sake she would not bring the shame of beggary on his babes. Better for them to enter into this life maimed of strength, she thought, by meagre food, than tainted with the taint of beggary.

Rather, she thought, would their father himself have seen them go hungry to bed than deserve that the fingers of other children should be pointed scornfully at them as "the little beggars by the church door," the door of the church in which she gloried to think there were stones of his carving.

So she toiled on, carving for sale little devotional symbols—crosses, and reliquaries, and lilies, and lambs—with the skill she had learnt from him, and teaching the little ones, as best she could, to love and work and suffer. Only teaching them, perhaps, not quite enough to hope. For the lamp of hope burnt low in her own heart, and therefore her patience, not being enough the patience of hope, lacked something of sweetness. It never broke downward into murmurs, but it too seldom soared upward into praise.

So it happened that one frosty night, about Christmas-tide, little Gottlieb lay awake, very hungry, on the ledge of the wall, covered with straw, which served him for a bed.

It had once been the hermit's bed. And very narrow Gottlieb thought it must have been for the hermit, for more than once he had been in peril of falling over the side, in his restless tossings. He supposed the hermit was too good to be restless, or perhaps too good for the dear angels to think it good for him to be hungry, as they evidently did think it good for Gottlieb and Lenichen, or they would be not good angels at all, to let them hunger so often, not even as kind as the ravens which took the bread to Elijah when they were told. For the dear Heavenly Father had certainly told the angels always to take care of little children.

The more Gottlieb lay awake and tossed and thought, the further off the angels seemed.

For, all the time, under the pillow lay one precious crust of bread, the last in the house until his mother should buy the loaf to-morrow.

He had saved it from his supper in an impulse of generous pity for his little sister, who so often awoke, crying with hunger, and woke his poor mother, and would not let her go to sleep again.

He had thought how sweet it would be, when Lenichen awoke the next morning, to appear suddenly, as the angels do, at the side of the bed where she lay beside her mother, and say,—

"Dear Lenichen! see, God has sent you this bit of bread as a Christmas gift."

For the next day was Christmas Eve.

This little plan made Gottlieb so happy that at first it felt as good to him as eating the bread.

But the happy thought, unhappily, did not long content the hungry animal part of him, which craved, in spite of him, to be filled; and, as the night went on, he was sorely tempted to eat the precious crust—his very own crust—himself.

"Perhaps it was ambitious of me, after all," he said to himself, "to want to seem like a blessed angel, a messenger of God, to Lenichen. Perhaps, too, it would not be true. Because, after all, it would not be exactly God who sent the crust, but only me."

And with the suggestion, the little hands which had often involuntarily felt for the crust, brought it to the hungry little mouth.

But at that moment it opportunely happened that his mother made a little moan in her sleep, which half awakened Lenichen, who murmured, sleepily, "Little mother, mother, bread!"

Whereupon, Gottlieb blushed at his own ungenerous intention, and resolutely pushed back the crust under the pillow. And then he thought it must certainly have been the devil who had tempted him to eat, and he tried to pray.

He prayed the "Our Father" quite through, kneeling up softly in bed, and lingering fondly, but not very hopefully, on the "Give us our daily bread."

And then again he fell into rather melancholy reflections how very often he had prayed that same prayer and had been hungry, and into distracting speculations how the daily bread could come, until at last he ventured to add this bit of his own to his prayers,—

"Dear, holy Lord Jesus, you were once a little child, and know what it feels like. If Lenichen and I are not good enough for you to send us bread by the blessed angels, do send us some by the poor ravens. We would not mind at all, if they came from you, and were your ravens, and brought us real bread. And if it is wrong to ask, please not to be displeased, because I am such a little child, and I don't know better, and I want to go to sleep!"

Then Gottlieb lay down again, and turned his face to the wall, where he knew the picture of the Infant Jesus was, and forgot his troubles and fell asleep.

The next morning he was awaked, as so often, by Lenichen's little bleat; and he rose triumphantly, and took his crust to her bedside.

Lenichen greeted him with a wistful little smile, and put up her face for a kiss; but her reception of the crust was somewhat disappointing.

She wailed a little because it was "hard and dry;" and when Gottlieb moistened it with a few drops of water, she took it too much, he felt, as a mere common meal, a thing of course, and her natural right.

He had expected that, in some way, the hungry hours it had cost him would have been kneaded into it, and would have made it a kind of heavenly manna for her.

To him it had meant hunger, and heroism, and sleepless hours of endurance. It seemed strange that to Lenichen it should seem nothing more than a hard, dry, common crust.

But to the mother it was much more.

She understood all; and, because she understood so much, she said little.

She only smiled, and said he looked more than ever like his father; and as he sat musing rather sadly while she was dressing, and Lenichen had fallen asleep again, she pointed to the little peaceful sleeping face, the flaxen hair curling over the dimpled arm, and she said,—

"That is thy thanks—just that the little one is happy. The dear Heavenly Father cares more, I think, for such thanks than for any other; just to see the flowers grow, just to hear the birds sing to their nestlings, just to see His creatures good and happy, because of His gifts. Those are about the best thanks for Him, and for us."

But Gottlieb looked up inquiringly.

"Yet He likes us to say 'Thank you,' too? Did you not say all the Church services, all the beautiful cathedral itself, is just the people's 'Thank you' to God? Are we not going to church just to say 'Thank you,' to-day?"

"Yes, darling," she said. "But the 'Thank you' we mean to say is worth little unless it is just the blossom and fragrance of the love and content always in the heart. God cares infinitely for our loving Him, and loves us to thank Him if we do. He does not care at all for the thanks without the love, or without the content."

And as she spoke these words, Mother Magdalis was preaching a little sermon to herself also, which made her eyes moisten and shine.

So she took courage, and contrived to persuade the children and herself that the bread-and-water breakfast that Christmas-Eve morning had something quite festive about it.

And when they had finished with a grace which Gottlieb sang, and Lenichen lisped after him, she told him to take the little sister on his knee and sing through his songs and hymns, while she arrayed herself in the few remnants of holiday dress left her.

And as she cleaned and arranged the tiny room, her heart was lighter than it had been for a long time.

"I ought to be happy," she said to herself, "with music enough in my little nest to fill a church."

When Gottlieb had finished his songs, and was beginning them over again, there was a knock at the door, and the face of old Hans the dwarf appeared at the door, as he half opened it.

"A good Christmas to thee and thy babes, Mother Magdalis! Thy son is born indeed with a golden spoon in his mouth," croaked old Hans in his hoarse, guttural voice.

The words grated on Magdalis. Crooked Hans's jokes were apt to be as crooked as his temper and his poor limbs, and to give much dissatisfaction, hitting on just the sore points no one wanted to be touched.

She felt tempted to answer sharply, but the sweet Christmas music had got into her heart, and she only said, with tears starting to her eyes,—

"If he was, neighbour, all the gold was lost and buried long ago."

"Not a bit of it!" rejoined Hans. "Didn't I hear the gold ring this very instant? The lad has gold in his mouth, I say! Give him to me, and you shall see it before night."

She looked up reproachfully, the tears fairly falling at what she thought such a cruel mockery from Hans, who knew her poverty, and had never had from her or hers the rough words he was too much used to from every one.

"The golden days are over for me," was all she said.

"Nay! They have yet to begin," he replied. "Your Berthold left more debtors than you know, Frau Magdalis. And old Hans is one of them. And Hans never forgets a debt, black or white. Let the lad come with me, I say. I know the choir-master at the Cathedral. And I know he wants a fine high treble just such as thy Gottlieb's, and will give anything for it. For if he does not find one, the Cistercians at the new convent will draw away all the people, and we shall have no money for the new organ. They have a young Italian, who sings like an angel, there; and the young archduchess is an Italian, and is wild about music, and lavishes her gifts wherever she finds it good."

Magdalis looked perplexed and troubled.

"To sell the child's voice seems like selling part of himself, neighbour," she said at length; "and to sell God's praises seems like selling one's own soul."

"Well, well! Those are thy proud burgher notions," said Hans, a little nettled. "If the Heavenly Father pleases to give thee and the little ones a few crumbs for singing His matins and evensong, it is no more than He does for the robins, or, for that matter, for the very ravens, such as me, that croak to Him with the best voice they have."

At these words, Gottlieb, who had been listening very attentively, gently set little Lenichen down, and, drawing close to Hans, put his little hand confidingly in his.

"I will go with neighbour Hans, mother!" he said, decisively. "The dear Lord Himself has sent him."

"Thou speakest like a prophet," said the mother, smiling tenderly at his oracular manner, "a prophet and a king in one. Hast thou had a vision? Is thy will indeed the law of the land?"

"Yes, mother," he said, colouring, "the dear Lord Jesus has made it quite plain. I asked Him, if we were not good enough for Him to send us an angel, to send us one of His ravens, and He has sent us Hans!"

Hans laughed, but not the grim, hoarse laugh which was habitual to him, and which people compared to the croaking of a raven; it was a hearty, open laugh, like a child's, and he said,—

"Let God's raven lead thee, then, my lad, and the mother shall see if we don't bring back the bread and meat."

"I did not ask for meat," said Gottlieb, gravely, "only for bread."

"The good God is wont to give more than we either desire or deserve," croaked Hans, "when He sets about giving at all."

II.

There was no time to be lost.

The services of the day would soon begin, and Hans had set his heart on Gottlieb's singing that very day in the Cathedral.

The choir-master's eyes sparkled as he listened to the boy; but he was an austere man, and would not utter a word to make the child think himself of value.

"Not bad raw material," he said, "but very raw. I suppose thou hast never before sung a note to any one who understood music?"

"Only for the mother and the little sister," the child replied in a low, humble tone, beginning to fear the raven would bring no bread after all, "and sometimes in the Litanies and the processions."

"Sing no more for babes and nurses, and still less among the beggars in the street-processions," pronounced the master, severely. "It strains and vulgarizes the tone. And, with training, I don't know but that, after all, we might make something of thee—in time, in time."

Gottlieb's anxiety mastered his timidity, and he ventured to say,—

"Gracious lord! if it is a long time, how can we all wait? I thought it would be to-day! The mother wants the bread to-day."

Something in the child's earnest face touched the master, and he said, more gently,—

"I did not say you might not begin to-day. You must begin this hour, this moment. Too much time has been lost already."

And at once he set about the first lesson, scolding and growling about the child setting his teeth like a dog, and mincing his words like a fine lady, till poor Gottlieb's hopes more than once sank very low.

But, at the end of a quarter of an hour's practice, the artist in the choir-master entirely overcame the diplomatist.

He behaved like a madman. He took the child in his arms and hugged him, like a friendly bear; he set him on the table and made him sing one phrase again and again, walking round and round him, and rubbing his hands and laughing with delight; and, finally, he seized him and bore him in triumph to the kitchen, and said to his housekeeper,—

"Ursula, bring out the finest goose and the best preserves and puddings you have. We must feast the whole choir, and, may be, the Dean and Chapter. The archduke and the young archduchess will be here at Easter. But we shall be ready for them. Those beggarly Cistercians haven't a chance. The lad has the voice of an angel, and the ear—the ear—well, an ear as good as my own."

"The child may well have the voice of an angel," scolded old Ursula, "he is like to be among the angels soon enough!"

For the hope, and the fear, and the joy had quite overcome the child, enfeebled as he was by meagre fare; his lips were quite pale, and his cheeks.

Moreover, the last order of the choir-master had not been quite re-assuring to him. The fat goose and the puddings were good, indeed; but he would have preferred his mother and Lenichen being feasted in his honour, rather than the choir and the chapter.

And besides, though little more than seven years old, he was too much of a boy quite to enjoy his position on the master's shoulder. He felt it too babyish to be altogether honourable to the protector of Lenichen and incipient bread-winner of the family. And, therefore, he was relieved when he found himself once more safely on the ground.

But when Ursula set before him a huge plate of bread and meat, his manly composure all but gave way. It was more of an approach to a feast than any meal he had ever participated in, and he was nearly choked with repressed tears of gratitude.

It was so evident now that Hans was altogether an orthodox and accredited raven!

At first, as the child sat mute and wondering before the repast, with a beautiful look of joy and prayer in his blue eyes, Ursula thought he was saying his grace, and respected his devotion. But as the moments passed on, and still he did not attempt to eat, she became impatient.

"There is a time for everything," she murmured, at length. "That will do for thy grace! Now quick to the food! Thou canst finish the grace, if thou wilt, in music, in the church by-and-by."

But then the child took courage, and said,—

"The ravens—that is, the good God—surely do not mean all this for me. Dear, gracious lady, let me run with the plate to the mother and Lenichen; and I will be back again in two minutes, and sing all day, if the master likes."

Ursula was much moved at the child's filial love, and also at his politeness.

"The little one has discrimination," she said to herself. "One can see he is of a good stock. He recognizes that I am no peasant, but the daughter of a good burgher house."

And, in spite of the remonstrances of her master, she insisted on giving the lad his way.

"I will accompany him, myself," said she.

And, without further delay or parley, she walked off, under the very eyes of the master, with the boy, and also with a considerable portion of his own dinner, in addition to the plate she had already set before Gottlieb.

A very joyful and miraculous intervention it seemed to Mother Magdalis when Gottlieb re-entered the hermit's cell, under the stately convoy of the choir-master's housekeeper, and with food enough to feed the frugal little household for a week.

The two women greeted each other ceremoniously and courteously, as became two German housewives of good burgher stock.

"The little lad has manners worthy of a burgomaster," said Ursula. "We shall see him with the gold chain and the fur robes yet, and his mother a proud woman."

With which somewhat worldly benediction, she left the little family to themselves, conjuring Gottlieb to return in less than an hour, for the master was not always as manageable as this morning.

And when they were alone, Gottlieb was not ashamed to hide his tears on his mother's heart.

"See, darling mother!" he said, "the dear Saviour did send the raven! Perhaps, one day, He will make us good enough for Him to send the angels."

Then the simple family all knelt down and thanked God from their hearts, and Gottlieb added one especial bit of his own of praise and prayer for his kind Hans, of whom, on account of his grim face and rough voice, he had stood in some dread.

"Forgive me, dear Lord Jesus," he said, "that I did not know how good he was!"

And when they had eaten their hasty Christmas feast, and the mother was smoothing his hair and making the best of his poor garments, Gottlieb said, looking up gravely in her face,—

"Who knows, mother, if Hans is only a raven now, that the good God may not make him, his very self, the angel?"

"Perhaps God is making Hans into the angel even now," replied the mother.

And she remembered for a long time the angelic look of love and devotion in the child's eyes.

For she knew very well the Cathedral choir was no angelic host.

She knew she was not welcoming her boy that morning to a haven, but launching him on a voyage of many perils. But she knew, also, that it is only by such perils, and through such voyages, that men, that saints, are made.

III.

The next day Gottlieb began his training among the other choristers.

It was not easy.

The choir-master showed his appreciation of his rare treasure by straining every nerve to make it as perfect as possible; and therefore he found more fault with Gottlieb than with any one else.

The other boys might, he could not but observe, sing carelessly enough, if the general harmony were but good; but every note of his seemed as if it were a solo which the master's ear never missed, and not the slightest mistake was allowed to pass.

The other choristers understood very well what this meant, and some of them were not a little jealous of the new favourite, as they called him. But to little Gottlieb it seemed hard and strange. He was always straining to do his very best, and yet he never seemed to satisfy. The better he did, the better the master wanted him to do, until he grew almost hopeless.

He would not, for the world, complain to his mother; but on the third evening she observed that he looked very sad and weary, and seemed scarcely to have spirits to play with Lenichen.

She knew it is of little use to ask little children what ails them, because so often their trouble is that they do not know. Some little delicate string within is jarred, and they know nothing of it, and think the whole world is out of tune. So she quietly put Lenichen to bed, and after the boy had said his prayers as usual at her knee, she laid her hand on his head, and caressingly stroked his fair curls, and then she lifted up his face to hers and kissed the little troubled brow and quivering lips.

"Dear little golden mouth!" she said, fondly, "that earns bread, and sleep, for the little sister and for me! I heard the sweet notes to-day, and I thanked God. And I felt as if the dear father was hearing them too, even through the songs in heaven."

The child's heart was opened, the quivering lips broke into a sob, and the face was hidden on her knee.

"It will not be for long, mother!" he said. "The master has found fault with me more than ever to-day. He made me sing passage after passage over and over, until some of the boys were quite angry, and said, afterwards, they wished I and my voice were with the old hermit who houses us. Yet he never seemed pleased. He did not even say it was any better."

"But he never gave thee up, darling!" she said.

"No; he only told me to come early, alone, to-morrow, and he would give me a lesson by myself, and perhaps I should learn better."

A twinkle of joy danced in her eyes, dimmed with so many tears.

"Silly child!" she said fondly, "as silly as thy poor mother herself! The master only takes trouble, and chastens and rebukes, because he thinks it is worth while; because thou art trying, and learning, and art doing a little better day by day. He knows what thy best can be, and will never be content with anything but thy very best."

"Is it that, mother? Is it indeed that?" said the boy, looking up with a sudden dawning of hope.

And a sweet dawn of promise met him in his mother's eyes as she answered,—

"It is even that, my own, for thee and for me!"

IV.

With a glad heart, Gottlieb dressed the next morning before Lenichen was awake, and was off to the choir-master for his lesson alone.

The new hope had inspired him, and he sang that morning to the content even of the master, as he knew, not by his praise, but by his summoning Ursula from the kitchen to listen, unable to resist his desire for the sympathy of a larger audience.

Ursula was not exactly musical, nor was she demonstrative, but she showed her satisfaction by appropriating her share of the success.

"I knew what was wanting!" she said significantly. "The birds and the blessed angels may sing on crumbs or on the waters of Paradise; but goose and pudding are a great help to the Alleluias here below."

"The archduchess will be enraptured, and the Cistercians will be furious!" said the choir-master, equally pleased at both prospects.

But this Gottlieb did not hear, for he had availed himself of the first free moment to run home and tell his mother how things had improved.

After that, Gottlieb had no more trouble about the master. The old man's severity became comprehensible and dear to him, and a loving liberty and confidence came into his bearing toward him, which went to the heart of the childless old man, so that dearer than the praise of the archduchess, or even the discomfiture of the Cistercians, became to him the success and welfare of the child.

But then, unknown to himself, the poor boy entered on a new chapter of temptations.

The other boys, observing the choir-master's love for him, grew jealous, and called him sometimes "the master's little angel," and sometimes "the little beggar of the hermitage," or "Dwarf Hans's darling."

He was too brave and manly a little fellow to tell his mother all these little annoyances. He would not for the world have spoiled her joy in her little "Chrysostom," her golden-mouthed laddie. But once they followed him to her door, and she heard them herself. The rude words smote her to the heart, but she only said,—

"Thou art not ashamed of the hermit's house, nor of being old Hans's darling?"

"I hope, never!" said the child with a little hesitation. "God sent him to us, and I love him. But it would be nice if dear Hans sometimes washed his face!"

Magdalis smiled, and hit on a plan for bringing this about. With some difficulty she persuaded the old man to take his dinner every Sunday and holiday with them, and she always set an ewer of water—and a towel, relic of her old burgher life—by him, before the meal.

"We were a kind of Pharisees in our home," she said, "and except we washed our hands, never ate bread."

Hans growled a little, but he took the hint, for her sake and the boy's, and gradually found the practice so pleasant on its own account, that the washing of his hands and face became a daily process.

On his patron saint's day (St. John, February 8), Mother Magdalis went a step further, and presented him with a clean suit of clothes, very humble but neat and sound, of her own making out of old hoards. Not for holidays only, she said, but that he might change his clothes every day, after work, as her Berthold used.

"Dainty burgher ways," Hans called them, but he submitted, and Gottlieb was greatly comforted, and thought his old friend a long way advanced in his transformation into an angel.

So, between the sweetness of the boy's temper and of the dear mother's love which folded him close, the bitter was turned into sweet within him.

But Ursula, who heard the mocking of the boys with indignation, was not so wise in her consolations.

"Wicked, envious little devils!" said she. "Never thou heed them, my lamb! They would be glad enough, any of them, to be the master's angel, or Dwarf Hans's darling, for that matter, if they could. It is nothing but mean envy and spite, my little prince, my little wonder; never thou heed them!"

And then the enemy crept unperceived into the child's heart.

Was he indeed a little prince and a wonder, on his platform of gifts and goodness? And were all those naughty boys far below him, in another sphere, hating him as the little devils in the mystery-plays seemed to hate and torment the saints?

Had the "raven" been sent to him, after all, as to the prophet of old, not only because he was hungry and pitied by God, but because he was good and a favourite of God?

It seemed clear he was something quite out of the common. He seemed the favourite of every one, except those few envious, wicked boys.

The great ladies of the city entreated for him to come and sing at their feasts. And all their guests stopped in the midst of their eager talk to listen to him, and they gave him sweetmeats and praised him to the skies; and they offered him wine from their silver flagons, and when he refused it, as his mother had desired him, they praised him more than ever; and once the host himself, the burgomaster, emptied the silver flagon of the wine he had refused, and told him to take it home to his mother and tell her she had a child whose dutifulness was worth more than all the silver in the city.

But when he told his mother this, instead of looking delighted, as he expected, she looked grave, and almost severe, and said,—

"You only did your duty, my boy. It would have been a sin and a shame to have done otherwise. And, of course, you would not for the world."

"Certainly I would not, mother," he said.

But he felt a little chilled. Did his mother think it was always so easy for boys to do their duty? and that every one did it?

Other people seemed to think it a very uncommon and noble thing to do one's duty. And what, indeed, could the blessed saints do more?

So the slow poison of praise crept into the boy's heart. And while he thought his life was being filled with light, unknown to him the shadows were deepening,—the one shadow which eclipses the sun, the terrible shadow of self.

For he could not but be conscious how, even in the cathedral, a kind of hush and silence fell around when he began to sing.

And instead of the blessed presence of God filling the holy place, and his singing in it, as of old, like a happy little bird in the sunshine, his own sweet voice seemed to fill the place, rising and falling like a tide up and down the aisles, leaping to the vaulted roof like a fountain of joy, and dropping into the hearts of the multitude like dew from heaven.

And as he went out, in his little white robe, with the choir, he felt the eyes of the people on him, and he heard a murmur of praise, and now and then words such as "That is little Gottlieb, the son of the widow Magdalis. She may well be proud of him. He has the voice and the face of an angel."

And then, in contrast, outside in the street, from the other boys, "See how puffed up the little prince is! He cannot look at any one lower than the bishop or the burgomaster!"

So, between the chorus of praise and the other chorus of mockery, it was no wonder that poor Gottlieb felt like a being far removed from the common herd. And, necessarily, any one of the flock of Christ who feels that, cannot be happy, because if we are far away from the common flock, we cannot be near the Good Shepherd, who always keeps close to the feeblest, and seeks those that go astray.

V.

It was not long before the watchful eye of the mother observed a little change creeping over the boy—a little more impatience with Lenichen, a little more variableness of temper; sometimes he would dance exultingly home as if he were scarcely treading the common earth, sometimes he would return with a depression which made the simple work and pleasures of the home seem dull and wearisome.

So it went on until the joyful Easter-tide was drawing near. On Palm Sunday there was to be a procession of the children.

As the mother was smoothing out the golden locks which fell like sunbeams on the white vestments, she said, "It is a bright day for thee and me, my son. I shall feel as if we were all in the dear old Jerusalem itself, and my darling had gathered his palms on Olivet itself, and the very eyes of the blessed Lord Himself were on thee, and His ears listening to thee crying out thy Hosannas, and His dear voice speaking of thee and through thee, 'Suffer the little children to come unto me.'"

But Gottlieb looked grave and rather troubled.

"So few seem thinking just of His listening," he said doubtfully. "There are the choir-master and the Dean and Chapter, and the other choristers, and the Cistercians, and the mothers of the other choristers, who wish them to sing best."

She took his hand. "So there were in that old Jerusalem," she said. "The Pharisees, who wanted to stop the children's singing; and even the dear disciples, who often thought they might be troublesome to the Master. But the little ones sang for Him; and He knew, and was pleased. And that is all we have to think of now."

He kissed her, and went away with a lightened brow.

Many of the neighbours came in that afternoon to congratulate Magdalis on her boy—his face, his voice, his gentle ways.

"And then he sings with such feeling," said one. "One sees it is in his heart."

But in the evening Gottlieb came home very sad and desponding. For some time he said nothing, and then, with a brave effort to restrain his tears, he murmured,—

"Oh, mother! I am afraid it will soon be over. I heard one of the priests say he thought they had a new chorister at the Cistercians whose voice is as good as mine. So that the archduchess may not like our choir best, after all."

The mother said nothing for a moment, and then she said,—

"Whose praise and love will the boy at the Cistercian convent sing, Gottlieb, if he has such a lovely voice?"

"God's!—the dear Heavenly Father and the Saviour!" he said reverently.

"And you, my own? Will another little voice on earth prevent His hearing you? Do the thousands of thousands always singing to Him above prevent His hearing you? And what would the world do if the only voice worth listening to were thine? It cannot be heard beyond one church, or one street. And the good Lord has ten thousand churches, and cities full of people who want to hear."

"But thou, mother! Thou and Lenichen, and the bread!"

"It was the raven that brought the bread," she said smiling; "and thou art not even a raven,—only a little child to pick up the bread the raven brought."

He sat silent a few minutes, and then the terrible cloud of self and pride dropped off from his heart like a death-shroud, and he threw himself into her arms.

"Oh, mother, I see it all!" he said. "I am free again. I have only to sing to the blessed Lord of all, quite sure He listens, to Him alone, and to all else as just a little one of the all He loves."

And after the evening meal, and a game with Lenichen, the boy crept out to the Cathedral to say his prayers in one of the little chapels, and to thank God.

He knelt in the Lady chapel before the image of the Infant Christ on the mother's knees.

And as he knelt there, it came into his heart that all the next week was Passion week, "the still week," and would be silent; and the tears filled his eyes as he remembered how little he had enjoyed singing that day.

"How glad the little children of Jerusalem must have been," he thought, "that they sang to Jesus when they could. I suppose they never could again; for the next Friday He was dead. Oh, suppose He never let me sing to Him again!"

And tears and repressed sobs came fast at the thought, and he murmured aloud, thinking no one was near,—

"Dear Saviour, only let me sing once more here in church to you, and I will think of no one but you; not of the boys who laugh at me, nor the people who praise me, nor the Cistercians, nor the archduchess, nor even the dear choir-master, but only of you, of you, and perhaps of mother and Lenichen. I could not help that, and you would not mind it. You and they love me so much more than any one, and I love you really so much more than all besides. Only believe it, and try me once more."

As he finished, in his earnestness the child spoke quite loud, and from a dark corner in the shadow of a pillar suddenly arose a very old man in a black monk's robe, with snow-white hair, and drew close to him, and laid his hand on his shoulder, and said,—

"Fear not, my son. I have a message for thee."

At first, Gottlieb was much frightened; and then, when he heard the kind, tremulous old voice, and saw the lovely, tender smile on the wrinkled, pallid old face, he thought God must really have sent him an angel at last, though certainly not because he was good.

"Look around on these lofty arches, and clustered columns, and the long aisles, and the shrines of saints, and the carved wreaths of flowers and fruits, and the glorious altar! Are these wonderful to thee? Couldst thou have thought of them, or built them?"

"I could as easily have made the stars, or the forests!" said the child.

"Then look at me," the old man said, with a gentle smile on his venerable face, "a poor worn-out old man, whom no one knows. This beautiful house was in my heart before a stone of it was reared. God put it in my heart. I planned it all. I remember this place a heap of poor cottages as small as thine; and now it is a glorious house of God. And I was what they called the master-builder. Yet no man knows me, or says, 'Look at him!' They look at the Cathedral, God's house; and that makes me glad in my inmost soul. I prayed that I might be nothing, and all the glory be His; and He has granted my prayer. And I am as little and as free in this house which I built as in His own forests, or under His own stars; for it is His only, as they are His. And I am nothing but His own little child, as thou art. And He has my hand and thine in His, and will not let us go."

The child looked up, nearly certain now that it must be an angel. To have lived longer than the Cathedral seemed like living when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.

"Then God will let me sing here next Easter!" he said, looking confidingly in the old man's face.

"Thou shalt sing, and I shall see, and I shall hear thee, but thou wilt not hear or see me!" said the old man, taking both the dimpled hands in one of his. "And the blessed Lord will listen, as to the little children in Jerusalem of old. And we shall be His dear, happy children for evermore."

Gottlieb went home and told his mother. And they both agreed, that if not an angel, the old man was as good as an angel, and was certainly a messenger of God.

To have been the master-builder of the Cathedral of which it was Magdalis's glory and pride that her husband had carved a few of the stones!

The master-builder of the Cathedral, yet finding his joy and glory in being a little child of God!

VI.

The "silent week" that followed was a solemn time to the mother and the boy.

Every day, whatever time could be spared from the practice with the choir, and from helping in the little house and with his mother's wood-carving, or from playing with Lenichen in the fields, Gottlieb spent in the silent Cathedral, draped as it was in funereal black for the Sacred Life given up to God for man.

"How glad," he thought again and again, "the little children of Jerusalem must have been that they sang when they could to the blessed Jesus! They little knew how soon the kind hands that blessed them would be stretched on the cross, and the kind voice that would not let their singing be stopped would be moaning 'I thirst.'"

But he felt that he, Gottlieb, ought to have known; and if ever he was allowed to sing his Hosannas in the choir again, it would feel like the face of the blessed Lord himself smiling on him, and His voice saying, "Suffer this little one to come unto Me. I have forgiven him."

He hoped also to see the master-builder again; but nevermore did the slight, aged form appear in the sunshine of the stained windows, or in the shadows of the arches he had planned.

And so the still Passion week wore on.

Until once more the joy-bells pealed out on the blessed Easter morning.

The city was full of festivals. The rich were in their richest holiday raiment, and few of the poor were so poor as not to have some sign of festivity in their humble dress and on their frugal tables.

Mother Magdalis was surprised by finding at her bedside a new dress such as befitted a good burgher's daughter, sent secretly the night before from Ursula by Hans and Gottlieb, with a pair of enchanting new crimson shoes for little Lenichen, which all but over-balanced the little maiden altogether with the new sense of possessing something which must be a wonder and a delight to all beholders.

The archduke and the beautiful Italian archduchess had arrived the night before, and were to go in stately procession to the Cathedral. And Gottlieb was to sing in the choir, and afterwards, on the Monday, to sing an Easter greeting for the archduchess at the banquet in the great town-hall.

The mother's heart trembled with some anxiety for the child.

But the boy's was only trembling with the great longing to be allowed to sing once more his Hosannas to the blessed Saviour, among the children.

It was given him.

At first the eager voice trembled for joy, in the verse he had to sing alone, and the choir-master's brows were knitted with anxiety. But it cleared and steadied in a moment, and soared with a fulness and freedom none had ever heard in it before, filling the arches of the Cathedral and the hearts of all.

And the beautiful archduchess bent over to see the child, and her soft, dark eyes were fixed on his face, as he sang, until they filled with tears; and, afterwards, she asked who the mother of that little angel was.

But the child's eyes were fixed on nothing earthly, and his heart was listening for another voice—the Voice all who listen for it shall surely hear.

And it said in the heart of the child, that day, "Suffer the little one to come unto Me. Go in peace. Thy sins are forgiven."

A happy, sacred evening they spent that Easter in the hermit's cell, the mother and the two children, the boy singing his best for the little nest, as before for the King of kings.

Still, a little anxiety lingered in the mother's heart about the pomp of the next day.

But she need not have feared.

When the archduchess had asked for the mother of the little chorister with the heavenly voice, the choir-master had told her what touched her much about the widowed Magdalis and her two children; and old Ursula and the master between them contrived that Mother Magdalis should be at the banquet, hidden behind the tapestry.

And when Gottlieb, robed in white, with blue feathery wings, to represent a little angel, came close to the great lady, and sang her the Easter greeting, she bent down and folded him in her arms, and kissed him.

And then once more she asked for his mother, and, to Gottlieb's surprise and her own, the mother was led forward, and knelt before the archduchess.

Then the beautiful lady beamed on the mother and the child, and, taking a chain and jewel from her neck, she clasped it round the boy's neck, and said, in musical German with a foreign accent,—

"Remember, this is not so much a gift, as a token and sign that I will not forget thee and thy mother, and that I look to see thee and hear thee again, and to be thy friend."

And as she smiled on him, the whole banqueting-hall—indeed, the whole world—seemed illuminated to the child.

And he said to his mother as they went home,—

"Mother, surely God has sent us an angel at last. But, even for the angels, we will never forget His dear ravens. Won't old Hans be glad?"

And the mother was glad; for she knew that God who giveth grace to the lowly had indeed blessed the lad, because all his gifts and honours were transformed, as always in the lowly heart, not into pride, but into love.

But when the boy ran eagerly to find old Hans, to show him the jewel and tell him of the princely promises, Hans was nowhere to be found; not in the hermit's house, where he was to have met them and shared their little festive meal, nor at his own stall, nor in the hut in which he slept.

Gottlieb's heart began to sink.

Never had his dear old friend failed to share in any joy of theirs before.

At length, as he was lingering about the old man's little hut, wondering, a sad, silent company came bearing slowly and tenderly a heavy burden, which at last they laid on Hans's poor straw pallet.

It was poor Hans himself, bruised and crushed and wounded in his struggles to press through the crowd to see his darling, his poor crooked limbs broken and unable to move any more.

But the face was untouched; and when they had laid him on the couch, and the languid eyes opened and rested on the beloved face of the child bending over him bathed in tears, a light came over the poor rugged features, and shone in the dark, hollow eyes, such as nothing on earth can give—a wonderful light of great, unutterable love, as they gazed into the eyes of the child, and then, looking upward, seemed to open on a vision none else could see.

"Jesus! Saviour! I can do no more. Take care of him, Thou thyself, Jesus, Lord!"

He said no more—no prayer for himself, only for the child.

Then the eyes grew dim, the head sank back, and with one sigh he breathed his soul away to God.

And such an awe came over the boy that he ceased to weep.

He could only follow the happy soul up to God, and say voicelessly in his heart,—

"Dear Lord Jesus! I understand at last! The raven was the angel. And Thou hast let me see him for one moment as he is, as he is now with Thee, as he will be evermore!"

Ecce homo

A STORY OF THE YEAR OF OUR LORD ONE THOUSAND.

I.

"Apparebit repentina dies magna Domini."[1] Again and again the words of the old Latin hymn echoed through the aisles of the Minster.

It was the dusk of a short winter's day in the year of our Lord One Thousand.

The shadowed spaces were filled with a vast crowd; all the city had gathered together to hear the stranger monk. He had come into the city yesterday, and was to leave to-morrow.

It was reported that he came from an island beyond the seas, of an ancient race, rich in saints when the Teutons were still wild heathen tribes; from the borders of the sea without a shore.

All was mystery about him. He flitted through the land like a wandering voice, a voice crying in the wilderness. No man knew certainly whence he came or whither he went. He came not so much to teach or to preach, as to utter a great "cry," and be gone.

It was the old cry, that the generations of men are as the crops of grass, mown down surely by the mower; and the glory of man as the flower of the grass, scattered before the mowing-time by any passing wind.

But the old cry would scarcely have gathered the people together and riveted them in breathless, awe-struck attention as this voice gathered and fixed them.

To the old cry was added a new cry, "an exceeding great and bitter cry."

"The mowers are at hand, the harvest is come. It may not be to-day or to-morrow. But this year it will be.

"It is the Saturday night of the ages.

"The world is doomed.

"The thousand years have run their course at last. The long-suffering of God has an end.

"You may sow your fields this spring.

"You may possibly reap the seed you sow this autumn.

"But you will never see another spring.

"You will never reap another harvest.

"'Apparebit repentina.' Suddenly and so soon!

"You may keep one more Easter.

"But before the next the graves will have been opened. The resurrection to endless woe or joy will have come.

"You may even possibly keep one more Christmas. But it will be the last. It must be all but the last day of the world, for before its octave has dawned 'apparebit repentina.'

"He will have come. Not as a babe smiling on His mother's knee, not as the lowly Saviour to the manger, to live, and teach, and heal, and suffer, and die.

"As the Judge, to punish, to reward, to avenge.

"And before Him all the world will be gathered, all the ages, and all the nations.

"But not in one band; in two bands. Divided for ever into two flocks. Not Teuton and Latin, not rich and poor, not noble and slave, not clergy and laity, not learned and ignorant; but wicked and good, just and unjust, merciful and unmerciful, those who love God and men, and those who love only themselves.

"And the division exists now.

"'Apparebit repentina,' His fan in His hand; the winnowing fan. What does the fan do? It only stirs the air; it stirs the wind of God. It does not make the wheat wheat, or the chaff chaff. It only divides them; the wheat into the garner, the chaff away.

"Away whither?

"It does not make wheat wheat, or tares tares.

"The wheat to the barn; the tares whither? In bundles to be burned.

"This year, this year, in His heavens, or in His fires.

"And what will be burned in His fires? Your gold? your houses? your harvests? Nay, earthly fires can do that.

"You, you yourselves: in His fires.

"'Apparebit repentina.'

"Suddenly, and this year.

"At early dawn, at dead of night, in the hush of the summer morn, in twilight such as this? We know not. The day and the hour knoweth no man.

"But this year; suddenly, as the lightning which comes before the thunder.

"As the thief on the slumbering household, as the tramp of the foe on the slumbering army.

"If ye will, if ye can, sleep on still!

"But listen! already is there no rumble of the far-off storm? no faint far-off murmur of His footsteps?

"When the thunder-peal comes, it will be too late to warn. The lightning will have come first, shrivelling the earth like a heap of dry grass, and heaven like a roll of old parchments, leaving you alone with your Judge; all the world there, and each one as much alone with Him as if no one else were there, seen through, searched through, scorched through with one gleam of the eyes that are as a flame of fire.

"Before you the Judge, behind you the flames. The Judge so terrible that the wicked will rush backward from Him into the fire rather than meet those eyes again, those eyes which are as a flame of fire searching and burning through and through.

"And what do they search? You, for sin. What will they burn? You, with your sin, if you will not give up the sin."

And then he laid bare sin after sin—avarice, evil-speaking, wrongs wrought, wrongs unforgiven, injustice, envy, unmercifulness, pride, selfishness in all its disguises—until heart after heart felt itself seen through and laid bare.

Then turning and pointing to the great Crucifix above them he said,—

"Not one of you, not one of us but has helped to weave that crown, to drive in those nails, to pierce that heart.

"Repent, for He is at hand.

"'Apparebit repentina.' Suddenly and so soon."

And then suddenly the penetrating voice ceased, and there was a great hush, broken now and then by a sob, as, high above them, catching the last rays of the wintry sun, the sacred bowed Head, and the outstretched hands, rose lifted up on high.

And when the hush began to break up again into separate movement, and the voice which had bound the multitude into unity had ceased for some minutes, and one and another turned their eyes again towards the pulpit, it was empty.

And none in that city ever saw the face of the preacher or heard his voice again.

Like a voice crying in the wilderness, he vanished again into the wilderness, and was heard no more.

But from the voices of the choir, begun it was scarcely known how, broke forth in a long wail the hymn—

"Apparebit repentina dies magna Domini."

When the last notes of the solemn chant had died away, and once more left a silence in the vast church, the multitude still kept together. A common instinct of unity seemed to have come on them, as on a besieged city, or on a ship in a storm.

Not to one, here and there, uncertainly, as death came; but to all! Suddenly, and this year, the one great event was to come, which was to unite them all and to divide them all for ever!

Not that this message and this terror were altogether new to them. Long it had been floating in the air that the distracted world was not to last beyond the thousand years.

The probability had long loomed vaguely before them; and now this stranger came and proclaimed, with assured conviction, the certainty.

They waited and waited on, as if listening for the first peal of the Last Trump; but no sound broke the stillness. The dusk silently died into the dark, the last rays faded from the Crucifix to which the monk had pointed, and then slowly the congregation began to creep away to their homes.

Out of the silent church under the solemn silent vault of stars; each household again beneath its own roof, yet all still under that great roof of heaven from which at any moment might burst the final fires.

The city roofs, great and little for the time had become the shadows, and the upper light shone terribly through.

There was little talking on the way home through the streets, none of that eager bubbling up of pent-up thoughts which marks the dispersing of a great listening throng. The mighty common expectation which united all, sent each back into his own life with great searchings of heart.

For the day at hand was to be a Judgment Day. The day of the great gathering was also to be the day of the great dividing.

II.

Two fellow-students, Hermann and Gottfried, went back to the Abbey School together.

And when they reached their cells, Hermann flung his books into a corner and cried, "Vanity of vanities; all is vanity; vain instruments of vain learning, farewell! Of what use is it to climb a few steps higher than our fellow-men, if all are to be levelled again at the bar of God so soon?"

But Gottfried knelt at the little window of his cell, and looked up at the stars and said, "O Thou Holy and Beautiful, it has been a joy to brush off a few grains of the dust which hid Thy works. What will it be to see Thee as Thou art?"

Old Gammer Trüdchen, whose stall was close to the Minster door, crept silently into her chamber that night; for her stall of beads and cakes was a wasp's nest of malicious gossip where all dark surmises and evil reports naturally gathered, sure of something to feed on and something to sting. And she felt somewhat pricked in conscience; for the preacher had spoken of "the measure wherewith we mete being measured to us again," and of evil-speaking in itself, whether false or true, being sure to be severely judged in that day. She did not quite see the justice of it: if people were to be punished for their evil deeds, why was she to be punished for foreseeing and antedating the verdict? Nevertheless, if that was, as the monk said, the rule of the Supreme Court, it might be as well to take care. And, moreover, one might sometimes make mistakes. She must admit to herself that possibly she had been a little too hasty and hard about that poor orphan-girl whose character had afterwards been cleared, but not soon enough to satisfy her lover, who had believed the evil report, and gone and died in the wars, and left her to die of a broken heart at home. She had only repeated what others hinted, but no one was infallible, not even the whole town, which might, perhaps, be one reason why the giving sentence beforehand was objected to. And it certainly might be as well to be careful, if one's words, even one's whispers, were to be brought up against one in public on that day, and before another year.

Master Gregory, the exchanger, went home to his chests of treasure; and on his way he passed the widowed daughter of his old master the goldsmith, looking pinched and poor as usual, with a racking cough, leading her two frail, half-starved children. They were neatly clothed, as always, in their patched garments; and she greeted him with her wonted gentle friendliness, expecting nothing from him.

But his heart smote him.

"Perhaps I did make rather a hard bargain when her husband died," he said; "and her father certainly had been good to me. It is true she should not have married as she did, and I have left her more than she lost in my will. But if this monk is right, wills and testaments will not henceforth count for much in the reckoning of that Day. I might as well, perhaps, do something for her at once."

And that night, as he counted over his gold and parchments (for in those days misers had more visual delight in their possessions than they have now), the parchments seemed to shrivel in the light of the fire which was to consume the very heavens as a scroll, and instead of the pleasant ring of gold, the dry rustle of dead leaves was in his ears.

But the poor widowed mother he had passed went home lightened in heart, with her children. And when she had given them their scanty supper, and folded them to sleep, she knelt beside them, and her thankful tears fell on the thin little hands over which she wept.

"Thank God!" she murmured, "at last I may long to go to my beloved; for we shall go together, we three, his babes and I; and he will see his prayers answered, and will know I did my best for them, and did not hasten away to him too soon, for all the longing to go."

And even the prattling voice of little Hilda, the child of Blind Bruno, the basketmaker, was hushed as she led her father through the streets, instead of the faithful dog Keeper, who was growing old. She only clung to her father's hand closer than usual.

Bruno also was very silent.

Margarethe, the mother, met them, as always, on the threshold; for Bruno liked no other hands but those which had tended him so faithfully for twenty years to welcome him, and unloose his cloak, and settle him at the table or by the hearth. He could not see how thin the hands had grown, and how worn the face was. The feeble fingers seemed to gather strength always to do anything for him; and if sometimes he thought they failed a little, the soft clear voice had always its old tones to cheer him, and he had always words of tender greeting for her.

But to-night he scarcely seemed to heed even his wife. He leant his head on his clasped hands for a long time, and said nothing until old Keeper came, as was his wont, and rubbed his shaggy head against the master's knees, and little Hilda's hands, for a welcome.

At this, Hilda's composure gave way altogether, and she burst into tears and sobbed.

"Oh, Keeper, you don't know, and we can't tell you!"

Then Bruno roused himself, and the great cry of the preacher burst from his lips.

"'Apparebit repentina,'" he said; "suddenly it will come, and this year."

And slowly and solemnly he repeated what they had heard.

A strange joy came over the mother's face as he spoke.

She was lifting up her heart to God and saying,—

"I thank Thee. At last I can long with all my heart to come to Thee. For we shall not be parted. And I shall not be leaving those Thou gavest me to keep."

Bruno went on.

"The Judge!" he murmured, "the Avenger, to avenge all wrongs at last!"

And there was a flash of fierce joy on his face, such as might have gleamed in the eyes of his heathen forefathers, dying in the slaughter of their foes.

But as she saw it, the quiet delight faded from the mother's face, and she said tenderly,—

"Our little wrongs, beloved, what will they seem when we see the nail-prints on His hands and feet?"

"They will not seem little to Him!" replied Bruno sternly.

It was an old controversy between them, and the only one. She had long ceased to carry on her side of it in any way but in silent prayer.

For the wrong was great, and the doing of it as fresh in her memory as ever;—the day when her husband's kinsman, Baron Ivo, had entered their castle and treacherously massacred all who would not acknowledge him to be the rightful lord; had bound Baron Bruno to a pillar, and had him blinded, and then had turned them out with their helpless babe into the frost and snow of the winter night, to wander whither they would, or die.

Many weary months they had roamed up and down through the land, seeking redress, until the babe had died. But the enemy was strong, and it was an age when right could only be held by might. And though many pitied, none ventured to take up the blinded Baron's cause. And so at last they crept back to the old city, and found a dwelling beside a brook in the forest, not far from the city gate, yet in a secret place, where no one need see them. And Bruno made baskets from the osiers, and she sold them.

And the poor sightless eyes were healed, but not the heart.

Again and again she had begun to hope the bitter yearning for vengeance would be softened. Sometimes when his voice faltered as they said the Lord's Prayer; sometimes when his hand quivered in hers as they knelt together by the great cross before the hermit's cave; and especially when, their little Hilda was born, the child of their poverty, the sunbeam of their dark days.

But always, when she had dared to speak of forgiveness, the old wound seemed to bleed afresh. And now she felt the old fever was burning in his heart as fiercely as ever.

Once more that night she pleaded voicelessly with the compassionate Lord.

"Thou knowest, O merciful One," she said in the depths of her heart, "it is not his blindness he cannot forgive; it is our poverty and the child's. It is not his wrong he would have avenged; it is ours. If there is hatred in his heart, love is beneath the hate, Thou knowest. Forgive, oh, forgive him! even if he cannot quite forgive."

And then, in her tearful prayers, she pleaded the day when Baron Ivo himself had come to their hut, pursued by some of the many who had been turned into beggars, or robbers, by his high-handed tyranny; when, not seeing Bruno, Bruno had recognized him by his voice, and, nevertheless, had spared him, and suffered her to hide him from his pursuers, and suffered the child Hilda to quench his thirst with fresh water from the spring.

"He could have, avenged himself then," she pleaded. "And, instead, he saved. Is not that forgiving? Will not that cup of cold water be remembered by Thee?"

Yet her heart was tossed by anxiety and doubt. Could it be forgiving to wish evil? And could the unforgiving be forgiven?

That night Bruno also lay awake, and he answered her thoughts, and said reproachfully to her,—

"Wilt thou, even thou, be hard on me? Forgiveness is Divine; but vengeance also is Divine. The Judge is just, or we could not trust Him. If it were a slave, if it were a dog that had been so wronged, must I not rejoice the wrong-doer should be punished?"

"Thou art wiser than I, my beloved," she said. "I have no wisdom but His face and His words. 'Father, forgive them,' He said; and with Him forgiveness meant Paradise to the forgiven. Else where were we?"

And they said no more.

And that night, in the castle of Baron Ivo, the hall was lighted and the tables were spread for a great feast. The lights flashed from the castle steep, from many windows, over the forest and the city.

And a feast in Baron Ivo's castle meant a revel; cowed slaves hurrying about at the master's bidding; guests, many of them scarcely less cowed, making forced mirth at his pleasure.

To ears that could hear there was always heaviness in the laughter at Ivo's feasts. The moans from the dungeons below rose across it all.

But on this night the mirth jarred like a cracked bell; and ere they rose, the seneschal ventured timidly to ask the Baron if he might accept the ransom offered by the young wife of the latest captive. "Otherwise," he said, "death might be beforehand. And if—if, indeed, the Great Day was so near, and the reckoning was to come so soon!"

Baron Ivo rose with a curse, and strode off to his chamber in the tower which looked over the forest, with the dungeons at its base.

But no sleep came to him that night. He seemed to hear a long procession of heavy steps slowly tramping up the turret-stair from the dungeons to his chamber. Too often, indeed, had the wails of tortured captives come up that way.

But as he lay tossing on his bed, all the rest seemed to grow faint and far-off in comparison with one face which had haunted him often before;—a kinsman's face, with sightless eyes, which riveted his own on them, and with groping, imploring hands, which he had once ruthlessly bound. He would have given the world for one glance of those eyes, and one forgiving clasp of those blindly groping hands.

"So long ago!" he moaned; "so long ago! And never further off! And now perhaps I shall soon see him close, too late to atone. There to face the horror which has stung me to crime after crime! For, having committed this, I had to do the rest, to ward off vengeance, to secure what had been so hardly won. That first was crime; the rest were self-defence, the fruit of mortal fear—of fear, and yet also of love, all so terribly entangled, love to the child my wife left to my care when she died. She knew nothing of that terrible past, and loved and trusted me. But the child for whom I would shed my blood, for whom belike I have given my soul, does she know? Does she love or trust me? Pure and soft as a white dove, yet those tender eyes search and scorch me through and through. Is there no repentance, no reparation possible? And that Day they say coming so soon! Reparation! how can such a wrong be repaired? Probably they are all long since under the ground, he and the young wife who stood so unflinchingly by him, and the babe. For if it were possible to restore him the castle, what of the sight, and the ruined life? It is not possible; no, it is not possible! That blind beggar in the forest-hut could not have been Bruno! And if he were to instal that beggar's family in the castle, what reparation were that?"

He had risen, and was looking down on the forest, and a little gleaming light caught his eye, and strangely smote his heart. It seemed to come from where that beggar's hut was. Even yet, after all, might it be possible to atone?

But on the other side, in the next turret of the castle, a light shone from the window of his young daughter, his only child.

"Give her inheritance up to them? Never!" he moaned. And once more the strong will rose and barred the door of repentance which might have been a door of hope.

But in that turret-chamber of Baron Ivo's daughter, and in the little hut in the forest, the lamp of prayer never went out.

In the turret the child Beatrix knelt at her window and said,—

"O gentle Jesus! I cannot but be glad, altogether glad at Thy coming. If I ought to be afraid also, forgive me. But my mother, before she died, told me Thou wert so gracious and so kind! And Thy face and Thy voice always seem to me most like hers; and the faces and voices around me here are harsh and rough, so that I cannot help longing and longing to see and hear Thine. Thine and my mother's; but even most Thy own, because of that wonderful love of Thy dying for us. If it were not for my father! Every one seems in such terror of him; and there was the piercing wail that day in the dungeon which he could not explain! To me he is always tender, and yet I find it so hard to return his fondness as I would. Something in his eyes seems by turns to scorch and to freeze me. But if he is not ready for Thee, wait, O patient Saviour! wait, and make him ready! and let that look there can be in his eyes for me, be there for others and for Thee! Belike I ought to fear Thy coming, Holy and Mighty One, for myself, but I cannot. And yet I cannot say the 'Veni cito,' Come quickly, lest it should be too soon for him. If he has done wrong to any man, teach, oh, teach him to make it up before Thou shalt come!"

And in the little hut the mother Margarethe still pleaded,—

"Holy forgiving Lord Christ! it is not the wrong to himself, it is the wrong to me and the children he finds it so hard to forgive. And even Thou, dost Thou forgive cruel unrepented wrong to Thy beloved? Thou who didst say of Thy sufferers of old, 'Why persecutest thou Me?' And Thou, when Thou forgivest, makest Thy foes Thy friends. Thou forgivest because thou lovest, and because Thou knowest the most pitiable misery is not being wronged, but doing wrong, and because Thy forgiveness melts the hearts of the forgiven. By the touch of Thy love move my husband to forgive, and let his forgiveness like Thine save the forgiven. I am a sinful woman, and yet I cannot dread Thy coming. Saviour of sinners, only for him! Wait, oh, wait till he is ready; make him ready, and then come, oh, come!"

Meantime little Hilda could not sleep all that night, and at last she could bear her lonely thoughts no longer, and crept out of her little bed to her mother's side; and finding her awake, she whispered,—

"Oh, mother, what shall we do to-morrow? Will it ever be worth while to do anything any more but go to church and pray?"

"We may be sure the good God will not forget to feed His sparrows to-morrow, darling," the mother replied; "and He certainly would not have us forget our hens and chickens. And if the King Himself were to come to-morrow, what would He wish thee to be doing but just the little task He sets thee every day: lighting the fire, and getting thy father's breakfast, and helping mother, day by day, on to the last, the Great Day."

"But, oh! mother," the little one resumed with a tremulous voice, "what will it be like, that Great Day? I saw the Kaiser come into the city with the horsemen and the trumpets, and the crowd I thought would have crushed father and me, and broken down the bridge on which we stood. Will it be like that? Only, the horsemen great angels in the clouds, and the trumpets thunders, and the whole earth trembling and shaking as the bridge trembled beneath that rushing crowd, and everything falling to pieces? Will it be like the great fire when half the street was burned down—only, instead of half the street, all the world? fire, and nowhere to flee to? What will that dreadful Day be like?"

"My darling, I know not. No one knows. But the great question for us all is not, what will the Day be like? but what is the Judge like?"

"And, oh! mother, how are we to know that?"

"Think of the dear Babe in the manger," she said; "think of the patient Sufferer on the cross; think of the gracious One in the picture taking the little child in His arms; think of the story of His watching the poor widow giving her half farthings, and being pleased with her."

"Will the Judge be the same as that, mother?"

"The very same. Not what it will be like, not what the Day will be like—what He is like matters to us, and what pleases Him."

III.

On the next morning Baron Ivo woke from a heavy sleep, and shook his night thoughts of his wronged kinsman angrily from him.

The stir of life was in the castle; his labourers going out to his fields, his woodmen to his forests, his men-at-arms jesting as they brightened their weapons, whilst one in a full bass voice carolled out half unconsciously a phrase of the very hymn which had appalled them all the night before, "Apparebit repentina;" but it sounded dream-like, as the voice of an owl by day. Baron Ivo stood once more on the solid ground of possession. If the Great Day were to come this very year, it was only a little sooner than they had feared; and to-day was here, and had to be lived. Let the morrow take care of the things of itself! One thing, indeed, he did. To give up the castle and atone to his kinsman was indeed a wild fancy; but he would accept the ransom of that latest captive and set him free. And, although the ransom was in itself a robbery, it might have been larger; and so he congratulated himself on having done a good deed.

And in the forest-hut blind Bruno awoke the next morning, and as he went towards the city with his baskets, an armed band dashed past him with the clatter of arms and spurs: and he heard his kinsman's voice in harsh tones of command, and the old bitterness was deep in his heart, as he said to himself, "'Apparebit repentina.' All wrongs shall be avenged at last. Better to suffer and be avenged, than to be in Paradise and see that villain smile there too, his sins forgotten and unpunished."

The next morning, when the miser awoke and found all in the familiar room as usual—the great iron chests solid as ever, his housekeeper Griselda's voice as sharp as ever when she called him—he wondered a little at his own panic the night before.

"My master's daughter made a foolish marriage, poor thing!" he said to himself, "and I am not bound to repair other people's mistakes; and if I had yielded her a little more from what her father left, she would probably only have wasted it. It is after all safer in my keeping than in hers. And if the monk was right, and she does not come in for the reversion I have secured in my will, that is not my fault; we are not to know the times and the seasons. However, there is certainly a good deal about feeding the hungry. I will tell Griselda to boil down those mutton bones that were left yesterday into broth for the poor woman; she had a cough."

But when he came down to breakfast, Griselda laughed scornfully at the suggestion, and said she had given the bones to the dog; and Griselda being the one being in the world who represented public opinion to him, and of whom he was afraid, because her scornful honesty was essential to him, the master's widowed daughter went without the broth. But Gaffer Gregory trusted the intention would go to his credit. He, indeed, went himself to market, intending to get a larger joint, so as to have some to spare; but mutton was dear that week, so he waited till the next market day. It was not likely the End would come before that.

Habit was stronger than terror. The market day close at hand still preponderated over any day even a year off.

Gammer Trüdchen had hardly been seated an hour at her stall, the next morning, when one of her cronies came with a whisper that the Burgomaster's young wife had been seen, quite late one night that week, in one of the lowest lanes of the city, shrouded close in her hood, and evidently not at all wishing to be recognized.

Trüdchen had a twinge about evil-speaking, and the monk's warning; but after all, as she said to her crony, if somebody did not look after the morals of the place, what would become of them? The Burgomaster's young wife was fair as a lily, and had the reputation of a saint, although "she had always had her doubts, for those were just the dangerous people, who must be watched, and must not be suffered to impose on others. And besides, it might be well to teach men like the Burgomaster to choose their brides in their own town, and not go roaming to strange cities to bring home young women of whose family no one knew anything."

And so an evil rumour was hatched no one knew how, and a buzz of malignant murmurs began to gather around the sweet unconscious young stranger; and when, a month afterwards, the same old crony who had brought the whisper, came to tell Gammer Trüdchen that the Burgomaster's wife had been visiting a poor sick fellow-townswoman of her own that evening, and did not wish her husband to know because of his fear of infection for her, the one evil whisper had hatched a swarm which no contradiction of Gammer Trüdchen's could silence.

And the next morning the student who had thrown away his books gathered them together again, and was intent on his work; for next week there was to be a great competition for prizes, and the prizes and praises were precious, and nearer than the Judgment. Where the heart is, the treasure will be also.

But the student Gottfried, who had rejoiced in science as a revealing of God, had arisen first, and was below in the infirmary helping the lay brothers to nurse the sick. For there had been a pestilence in the city, and the beds were full, and he thought, "After that Day, O Master, there will be time to learn of Thy works; but there is little time left to minister to Thee and Thy sick. The time of service is short; I will wait to know!"

And even as he served, he learned many things. Love deepened the capacity for knowledge. The hours in the intervals of work were more fruitful than the whole day had been before.

IV.

So the months passed on, and old habits regained their force. The miser collected the treasure he loved; Gammer Trüdchen's stall still gathered to it the evil reports she welcomed; the student won the honours he toiled for, and toiled for more; the baron delayed his reparation; blind Bruno nursed the bitter sense of his wrongs.

Terror could not break the chains of habit. The dread of a Day could not change the heart.

But all the time mother Margarethe's prayers went up from the hut in the forest, and the maiden Beatrix's from the turret in the castle.

And little Hilda sought in her heart on all sides for the answer to the question, not what will the Day be like? but what is the Judge like, and what pleases Him now?

So it went on until the Holy Week; and then on Good Friday old Christopher the hermit came from his solitude in the pine forest to preach to the people.

It seemed to little Hilda he had come on purpose to answer the question of her heart.

To him, in his solitude among the rocks and the pines, all days were alike filled with the majesty and the joy of the presence of God, and with the great pity for the sins and needs of men.

People came to him from cities and villages all around for counsel and comfort; for to him all human troubles and wants were sacred.

Sometimes the poor mothers left their little children with him while they went to toil in the fields, and he taught the little ones the alphabet, and the story of Bethlehem.

Sometimes veteran warriors sought him, and worn-out statesmen, and perplexed students, and broken-hearted women, or successful men of the world who had won its prizes and found them dust. And he taught these also their alphabet, the Our Father, and the Cross.

And now he came to speak in the great Minster, as much alone with each hearer as when each sought him in the forest-cell; as much alone with God as when they all left him in the silence of the forest.

His words were simple and quiet.

"Ecce Homo," he began. "Behold the Man!"

Then after a pause he continued, "Apparebit repentina," and the words rang on the hearts of many like a knell of broken resolves made when they had heard them last.

"What will appear suddenly? And Who?

"Is it the Day you are dreading, or the Judge?

"Is it the sentence, or Him who will award it?

"Is it the Day, men and women of the world, which is to turn all your glory into dust? Is it the Day, beloved, which is to turn all your sorrow into joy?

"Of the Day I can tell you little.

"Of the Man I know a little, and will tell you what I know."

Then for a few minutes he took up another strain, and pictured the rending rocks, the trembling earth, the terror-stricken multitude, the shaking of all that seems most solid, the vanishing of all that seems most permanent.

His words recalled the terrors of the wandering monk, and when he paused for a minute the hush of awe-stricken expectation lay once more on all the throng.

But, as they gazed, hushed in terror, the tones which had been echoing through the aisles like the wail of wild winds, like the hollow vibrations of thunder among the hills or of the waves in a sea-cave, changed to tender human appeal.

He spoke of the Babe on the mother's knee; of the Child listening and learning in the Temple; of the hands that touched the leper; of the lips that spoke peace to the penitent sinner; of the pity, the justice, and the patience. And then, turning to the Crucifix, he said, "Beloved, if we wish, we may know Him better than we know those who dwell by our own hearths.

"If all the records of that holy life, of its gracious words and mighty deeds, could be blotted out and lost, I think we might know Him as we know no heart on earth only from His words as He hung there. His words, and His silence. Seven last words in three hours of silence.

"Listen! the voice is low, the voice which is to rend the tombs. And yet, though you may fail to hear the gathering of the storm that is coming, no heart that listens shall fail to catch the murmurs of those dying lips.

"For the murderers not yet repenting, 'Father, forgive them.' To the Blessed Mother, 'Behold thy son.' To the beloved disciple, 'Behold thy mother,'—binding His faithful ones to each other.

"To the poor tortured penitent thief, 'To-day thou shalt be with me in paradise.'

"Son of Mary, He cares tenderly for her in the languor of death, and in the agonies of redemption.

"Son of God, He gives paradise from the cross.

"To you who love, to you who repent, thus He speaks, 'Paradise,' 'Behold thy mother, and thy son.' But to you who have not loved, who have not repented, still 'Father, forgive.'

"Look, listen! it is this voice which will award our sentence. Can we doubt what pleases Him? Beloved, He is love; always; then, and now, and at that Day.

"Nothing pleases Him but holy love; nothing is like Him but love; nothing separates from Him but the death of love. What He will be hereafter, He is now.

"Is there no wrong you can forgive now before it is too late?

"No wrong you can repair now?

"No need you can supply now? No sorrow you can soften?

"It is not yet too late.

"I speak no more. Listen to Him.

"I say to you now, not, look forward to the Day, but Ecce Homo—Behold the Man!"

And that night blind Bruno knelt beside his wife Margarethe in the forest-hut, and said, "Beloved, let us say the Lord's Prayer together. I can say it from my heart at last," and gentle tears flowed from his sightless eyes as he murmured, "Forgive, as we forgive."

And in the little turret-chamber of the castle the Baron came and stood beside his daughter's bed, his hands clasped in agony.

"Child," he said, "I come to make thee homeless and a beggar, and to make thee hate me."

And he confessed the whole dark story to her, and told her how he meant to restore the lost inheritance and divest themselves of all.

Then she rose and fell on his breast, and said, "Father, you make me richer than ever I could have been, and you make me love you as I never could before. We will go through the world together, thou and I, until we find the injured kinsman, and restore him all."

And the next morning, before any in the castle were awake, the Baron went with his daughter down the turret-stairs, and through a postern gate, down the steep, and through the forest to the hermit's hut.

And the Baron knelt and wept like a child at the hermit's feet.

His was a long shrift. Crimes about which there could be no self-deception, a life of high-handed wrong. The first wrong which won him his kinsman's heritage had placed him almost inevitably among the beasts of prey, and made his dwelling a den of rapine. Yet, happily for him, he had preserved unsoiled the belief in a just and avenging God. Sullenly, hopelessly, he had pursued his track of violence; but he had never been able to falsify to himself this vision of the Just One, or to hope to appease Him by any payment or fine, save the one he thought it hopeless to attempt, the reversal of his wrong-doings and leading a just life.

And now on the Face he had believed irrevocably set against him, for the first time he had seen the yearning of forgiving pity, not only for the wronged, but for him, the criminal.

A ray of hope, a beam of holy Almighty love dawned on the long polar night of his soul, and the ice began to melt. And in the light of that hope he dared to stand face to face with his sins.

But the long array rising before him from his own lips, reflected in the compassionate sternness of the hermit's eyes, seemed to crush him to the dust; and when he came out from that terrible hour, he seemed to his young daughter to have shrunk into a feeble old man.

She drew close to him and laid her hand in his; but as they moved away, it seemed to her as if it were no longer he who sustained her, but she who sustained him.

"The holy man has given thee counsel, father," she said tenderly.

"He bids me call all our people together, at once," he said, "and confess to them my sin, and bid them proclaim my intention of restitution. That," he said, "is at once the truest penance, and the surest way to find the means of restitution."

"I will be beside thee, father," she said. "All thy burdens are mine."

"Nay," he said, with a sob in his voice, "it is thee I cannot bear to degrade."

"Nay," she said, "we are one in the depths together, now, and that will be the first bitter step on our joyful upward way."

But as they returned, it chanced that they lost the path and found themselves before the threshold of blind Bruno's hut.

And for the first time since his sorrow, the wronged man's heart was so light with the joy of forgiving that he was singing as he wove his baskets, chanting half-unconsciously the hymn "Apparebit repentina."

And the tones of the voice seemed familiar to Baron Ivo, and he paused and looked, and saw the upturned sightless face with the new peace on it, and recognized his wronged kinsman.

He strode up to him and knelt at his side, and said in a low voice half-stifled with shame and grief, "Bruno, you are avenged at last; I can never forgive myself. Can you forgive?" And after a brief pause from the quivering lips came the pardon,—

"I forgave you last night, thank God."

They said no more.

But on the morrow Baron Ivo gathered the whole of his retainers together, and as many of the townsmen as could come, and leading his kinsman, with his wife and child, to the chair of state in the great hall of the castle, he knelt before him and made confession of his wrong. And then, by his command (his last as their lord), his retainers took from him arms, and helmet, and sword, and coat of mail, and left him in rough woollen garments such as his serfs wore, girded with a rope; humbled and degraded, as he well knew, before no sympathetic eyes—for, large as the assembly was, there were few in it who had not against him some memory of rapine and wrong, and through the hall there was a murmur of execrations.

But the true Baron rose and said, "Let no man reproach him. ONE has atoned for him, and for me, and for all. Let no man reproach him, or pity me. For since I have seen that forgiving Face, I am content to be blind to all beside. Ecce Homo. Forgive, as He forgave."

And the hermit lifted the cross on high, and took one hand of the penitent, while his daughter held the other in both hers, and together they went forth through the hushed crowd, out of the castle-gates, into the forest-hut to dwell there alone.

And the miser went home from the hermit's sermon once more a stricken man—stricken before by terror to the conscience, but now smitten by love to the heart.

Once more he turned to his coffers. And the gold, which terror for a night had turned into dead leaves, seemed transmuted into coin of the Kingdom; for, once more, the thought of the goldsmith's widowed daughter and her children came to his heart. And this time he made no excuses, and no delays, but hurrying out alone with eager haste, he searched out the three destitute ones in their poor chamber in the roof, and took them home to his house, and fed and clothed them, and made himself their servant. And so the spell of death passed from his treasures, and they became living grain.

And even to Gammer Trüdchen, the power of forgiving love, the might of the thorn-crowned Face, slowly penetrated. She could not banish from her heart the tenderness of that gracious countenance. The words, "For envy they delivered Him, for envy," stung her to the heart, and dimly and slowly she grew to feel herself among those who had accused Him. And His face seemed to haunt her, with a look in it that recalled the pale saddened countenance of the Burgomaster's young wife: for lately she could not help seeing that the lady's fair bright face had grown grave and white; the shadow of calumny lay heavy on the young life alone in the strange city.

So it went on, until one day Gammer Trüdchen was seized with sudden illness, and nothing would content her, as she lay tossing on her bed, but to see again that saddened face whose memory so haunted her.

Willingly the lady came, and the old woman told her all, and the lady would not leave her until she had nursed her into health again.

And from that time the stall by the Minster door ceased to be a nest of stinging rumours, and instead, the children came to her, and the suffering, and a quiet glow fell at eventide on her heart.

And so the new year dawned familiarly on all. But the Great Day dawned not yet on the world; only on one, under Gaffer Gregory's roof, the morning of new life had suddenly arisen.

The long struggle with want and toil had worn out the delicate frame of the goldsmith's widowed daughter, and on the new year's morning the worn and patient face lay motionless on the pillow with an unutterable peace stamped on it from the soul which had learned the full meaning of the words, "Behold the Man."

Still, on earth, remained the shadow of the irreparable wrongs; not on those who had suffered, but on those who had wrought them.

Bruno's sightless eyes had indeed opened on a vision of peace beside which all earthly light is dark. But from Ivo, who came and did faithful service to him in his castle, the vision of his crime could never depart on this side the grave.

To the Burgomaster's wife the calumny proved but as a purifying fire, making her fair with a more heavenly beauty than before. But to Gammer Trüdchen the harvest of the evil words she had sown was ever returning.

And in the miser's house and heart the blank of the worn-out life he might have saved lay heavy; while the blessed spirit thus set free was resting with Him she had so faithfully loved in the Paradise of God.

On the wrong-doers fell indeed healing dews of forgiveness.

But the brows of the sufferers were glorious with the likeness of the thorn-crowned Lord, and with His own crown of forgiving love.

But to all these forgiven and forgiving, the cry, "Apparebit repentina," the Day shall appear, had become glad tidings of great joy, because to the heart of each had come, as the command of love and the inspiration of life, "Ecce Homo," Behold the Man!

FOOTNOTES:

[1] "Suddenly to all appearing the great Day of God shall come."

The Cottage by the Cathedral.

Close under the walls of the Cathedral, nestling against one of its buttresses, leant the Cottage in which the little crippled Marie lived.

Time and weather had stained and shaped the rude timbers of which it was built, and tender mosses had woven their fine tapestries over its roof, so that it seemed as little out of harmony with the stately building which looked down on it and sheltered it, as the mosses and lichens on its own stones.

For all the grandeur of the Cathedral being the grandeur of a house of God, only made it, like the everlasting hills themselves, "the hills of God," so much the more the shelter and refuge of the smallest of His creatures.

Moreover, the Cathedral, for the very reason that it was a house of God, being also a home and refuge for men, having also been designed, arch by arch, by loving human thought, and raised, stone by stone, by lowly human hands, had necessarily a twofold kindred: allying it, on the one side, with the great temple of the Creator's own building, vaulted with its infinite depths of starry worlds; and on the other side, with the lowliest dwelling in which human creatures toil and suffer. Indeed, its kindred with the cottage was closer than with the stars, because He who was adored in it became, for our sakes, Himself the greatest Sufferer; who, while He had made the stars, was made Man, and Himself lived in a very lowly cottage once for thirty years.

All this little Marie felt, as she lay hour by hour alone on her pallet; felt, not thought, for the roots of true thoughts in after-life lie deep in the feelings of the child's heart, which the child cannot utter even to itself, and which some lips indeed are never opened in this life to utter to any one: a silence not of much moment, since this is the world for learning rather than for uttering, and many of our most eloquent utterances here would seem but as babes' lispings there; while many lips which have but lisping or stammering speech here, will be opened in very glorious singing there.

For are not reverence and love the highest religious lessons of childhood; and indeed of all this life, which is but a childhood? a reverent uplooking sense of Love and Power unbounded, above, yet very near us, such as happy children learn from a holy mother's looks and tones; and little motherless Marie received, in some measure, from the Cathedral, interpreting to her, with its music and its beauty, the Our Father and the Apostles' Creed which she had learned from her dying mother's lips, when too little to understand anything but the sounds.

Marie was very much alone. Her father was a water-carrier, and was bearing water all day to the thirsty people in the hot streets of the city, or taking it to their homes. He had to leave quite early to draw the water fresh from the spring in the cool of the morning. And one of Marie's two great wishes was that one day she might go with him to the fountain, and drink the water fresh from the spring. Every morning he used to place all the things he thought his little girl would need within her reach; a little white wheaten loaf, a cup of milk, a jug of water, and, when he had had a prosperous day, some fresh fruit.

Marie thought her father's calling a very high and beautiful one, although she knew it was not considered glorious in the city, nor one that would make his name known and honoured. But that she thought little of; for her father had often told her no one in the city knew the name of the Architect of the Cathedral; and if his name had faded away from the memories of men who counted his work the chief glory of their city, it was plain, Marie thought, that the records of the city must be very imperfect and very little worth caring about, and that, probably, there were better records kept somewhere else on quite a different plan.

Water-carrying, besides not being a glorious calling in that city, was not a lucrative one; so that, in order to eke out the daily bread, Marie had learned to plait straw for fruit baskets. Agatha, the old woman who sold fruit by the Cathedral porch, bought them of her; and in return did, not without many grumblings, all the little household work Marie would have done with such deft fingers and such a glad heart, had she been able.

Sometimes, moreover, especially on a rainy day, Mark, Agatha's little orphan grandson, would spend his play-hours with Marie, and she would mend his poor ragged clothes as well as she could, and make him wonderful little toy-baskets of straw lined with orange-peel, and balls of rags; and in return he would sing her little songs, and the multiplication-table, and sometimes hymns about Paradise, and the Living Fountains, and the Temple and the Singers there.

This was Marie's visible world; her father and the Cottage, Agatha and her fruit-stall, and little Mark, and the Cathedral.

To interpret it, she had the Our Father and the Apostles' Creed. Or rather, she had them to interpret each other; His invisible things being understood by the things that are seen, and our visible things by the things that are not seen.

As to how this interpretation went on, I could say more another time. My story now is simply of the Cottage and the Cathedral.

From the window by which Marie's bed lay, she could see Agatha's fruit-stall, and the Cathedral. By propping herself up she could command the fruit-stall, and see a great deal of the world, though not in its highest circles. By leaning back as far as she could in one corner, she could see to the top of the Cathedral tower, with its wonderful crown of fretted stone; common stone sculptured by man's heart and hands into a beauty greater than that of any diadem of gems.

Marie liked to think how each stone in that beautiful crown, which glowed above her in the sunsets and sunrises, and at night was itself crowned with stars, had been once a common gray stone like the fallen ones which lay on the ground outside, useless and shapeless.

Of these stones Marie did not like to think. She hoped none of them had ever been in that glorious crown. She did not think it anything but a glory for any stone to be made the lowest stone in the uttermost buttress of the Cathedral. Indeed, the greatest glory, perhaps, for any stone was to be a hidden stone; altogether hidden, deep beneath the earth, from human eyes. For such were the very foundation and corner stones themselves, on which, as on the Unknown Architect, the whole visible glory rested. But to be a fallen stone, chipped, and marred, and useless, and crumbling into dust, when it might have been a resting-place for sunbeams, and for birds to sing welcomes to the sunbeams from, was a thought which made Marie very sad, and gave a tremulous depth to her tones when she prayed, "Lead us not into temptation," or tenderly coaxed little Mark not to render railings for his grandmother's railings, or to use the rough words which he learned in the streets.

The painted windows of the Cathedral were rather a distress and perplexity to Marie. Sometimes, it was true, the upper panes glittered a little in the noontide sunbeams; but, for the most part, they looked dark and confused. If they had not been painted, she sometimes wistfully thought, she might have caught glimpses of the glories inside. But then, of course, they were painted for the people inside, not for those without.

If she could only once creep Inside to see and to listen!

That was the great longing of her life.

If only once she could feel the great roof bending over her, and the walls embracing her; if, instead of straining to catch some clear melody which she might sing over in her heart, out of the dim labyrinth of those sweet and solemn sounds which reached her where she lay; if she could only once be among them, hearing the music, knowing the words, making melody in her heart among the worshippers! Marie thought she could live happy for the rest of her life on the remembrance; on the remembrance and the great Hope it would light up.

She did not speak of this longing. She lived, poor little one, with so keen a sense that her life was necessarily a burden on every one around her, partly awakened by Agatha's very unconcealed complainings, and much more by her father's weary looks when he came home at night with his water-jars and his few hard-earned pence and sat down to his scanty meal, that she could never bear by look or word to express a wish for anything that was not absolutely needed or freely offered.

All the more, because she knew so well that the father's love (which was mother's and father's love to her, and so interpreted to her the Our Father) would hold any burden light and any sacrifice possible to gain the motherless child a pleasure or an alleviation of suffering.

So the longing lay deep hidden in her heart, but never came from her lips, until, one autumn when she seemed to grow brighter than usual, and a flush came on her pale face sometimes towards evening, one morning her father, looking fondly at her, said,—

"Child! by Christmas, who knows but we might have thee singing the Christmas hymns inside the Cathedral!"

Then her whole face was lit up as he had never seen it shine before, with the streaming out of the long-hidden hope; and drawing his face down to her, she stroked it as she had been wont when a very little child, and kissed him, and said,—

"Oh, father, do you think God will give me the joy of going Inside?"

"Why not, darling?" he answered cheerily; "nothing is too good for Him to give; and what was the Cathedral built for, but for such as thee to sing His praises inside?"

Yet, even as he spoke, there was something in the light of the wistful eyes, and in the touch of the feeble feverish hands, that made his accents falter.

Christmas Eve came. All night the snows fell. In the morning the sun shone, but the air was keen and cold, and little Marie knew there was no going Inside for her that day. But she thanked God for making the outside so beautiful, just as if the angels of the winds had been all night decorating every ledge and angle and quaint familiar bit of carving, and all the fretwork of the stone crown, with alabaster and crystal, or some heavenly blending of glories impossible in earthly material.

As her father left her for the service, he looked fondly back, and said,—

"At Easter, darling; inside at Easter!"

But there was no ring of hope in his tones, cheerful as he tried to make the words; and when he had left her, and the soft dim music floated in broken cadences to her on her solitary little bed, for once the child felt not merely alone but lonely, and a few hot, rare tears fell through her thin fingers as she pressed them on her face.

But she was not alone. And as she lay quietly weeping, sacred words came into her heart, borne on the sacred music, like the scent of violets on the winds in spring.

"Thy will be done on earth."

She said it, she wept it, she wept it to her Father in heaven. And softly, as from the other side of the choir, came back, as from above, the glorious antiphon—

"As it is in heaven."

The sob of submission came back, as it so often does, in a song of praise, from the land where the Amens are transfigured into the Hallelujahs.

"As it is in heaven."

"It will be all Easter there," she thought. "I shall be Inside there at last!"

When her father came back, and looked anxiously at his darling as he entered the door, her smile met him like a song of victory and welcome.

"At Easter, darling! Inside the Cathedral at Easter!"

"Yes, father," she said; "one Easter I shall be Inside."

But the hidden fount of joy, from which the smile came, he did not know. She would not tell him, because to him, at first, she knew it must be a bitter well of tears.

Slowly she faded away.

The Cathedral, her great stone Poem, her Paradise, rose before her, and spoke to her, day and night.

But with new readings.

For she had learned that this whole visible world, with its earth and its heavens, its cities and its cathedrals, this whole transitory life, is but as the little timber Cottage nestling against the everlasting walls of the Temple whose builder and maker is God.

Day by day old Agatha grumbled over her household work, yet day by day more tenderness began to mingle with her complainings.

Day by day little Mark came, attracted irresistibly, he knew not how, by the gentle voice, although the feeble fingers could mend or make for him no more. And unconsciously he unlearned the rough lessons of the streets, and learned a loving reverence from the dying child.

And day by day the father laid the little white loaf, and the milk, and the water-jug by his darling's bed, only showing his anxiety by never missing any day now to bring some little gift of fruit to add to it, were his labour prosperous or not, taking it from his own scanty meal. And little Marie dared not remonstrate or refuse; she knew the memory of those little sacrifices would be so precious.

Beyond this tacit understanding, the two did not confess to each other by word or look that both knew what was at hand.

Only one morning, as he was leaving home, she said to him in a faint voice, but with a bright smile, "Father, I think God has given you beautiful work to do—to carry water to those who thirst. Is it not just what His only Son, our Lord, is doing always for us? He does not stand at the fountain; He brings the water home, does He not? home to every one of us, to our very hearts."

Then she added,—

"Father, you will come back early. I think our Lord is coming to take me to the Fountains of Waters. We shall drink together one morning, father, fresh from the spring. I think I am going Inside at last."

He did not leave her again.

Days of suffering came.

But before Easter she had exchanged the little Cottage for the Cathedral. The child had entered in, and was joining in the songs of the Temple, which is the Father's house, wherein are many mansions.

And Agatha said,—

"We have had a saint with us, a saint of God,—and I did not know it!"

But she grew gentler and kinder. The Cottage where the gentle child had lived and died had grown as sacred as the Cathedral, and a hush of reverence was on it which seemed to make harsh words impossible where she had suffered and entered into rest.

Little Mark said, "My friend is gone." But when he said the Our Father she had taught him, he understood a little what a heaven it must be where all the voices were as gentle as Marie's, and all the hearts as true and kind.

The father said nothing, except to God.

"Our Father which art in heaven," he said, "mine and hers, Thou gavest me a saint of Thine to be an angel in my home. I thank Thee I knew it while she was here with me; not first now that she is Inside, at home with Thee."

But a glory came down on his lowly work from her memory, her words, and the sense he had of her immortal life, until he too should be called to the Living Fountains, to hear once more the dear familiar voice, then long at home in the Hallelujahs, but sure never to forget the tones of welcome it had on earth for him.

"Sic hat ihren Sprung gethan. Ach wollt' Gott dass ich den Sprung gethan hätte. Ich wollt' mich nicht sehr herwieder sehnen."—MARTIN LUTHER (Watchwords for the Warfare of Life, p. 304).

Say not they sank to rest,

As a wave when its force is spent,

As a weary child on its mother's breast,

So it seemed; but not thus they went.

Not thus it seemed to those

Who watch by our side alway,

And through the calm of the last repose

See the dawn of the endless day.

As a stream the frosts enchain,

By the touch of Spring set free,

Vocal and strong bounds forth again,

Springs forth to meet the sea;

As a bird of some sunny land,

Caged in the darkness long,

Freed by the touch of a friendly hand,

Springs into light and song.

We are the feeble, and bound

In fetters of night and frost;

Winged, but chained to the ground,

In fevered slumbers tost.

The dying, the dead are we;

The living, the living are they;

Ever living, from death set free,

To praise thee, Lord, this day.

Say not they sank to rest,

As a wounded bird on the sod;—

As a waking child to its mother's breast,

They sprang to life and to God!

The Unknown Architect of the Minster.

A LEGEND, NOT OF COLOGNE.

In the days when Gothic architecture was still a vital force in the world, ever spontaneously renewing itself in varied forms, nourishing itself with all the life around it, enriching itself with all the changes of the times and seasons, and giving them forth in new and ever-varying forms of growth and beauty, as living things do, the Architect of the Minster lived.

Day by day, and night by night, the beautiful thought grew in his heart and brain. For, as with the Kingdom of God itself, so more or less with all the works of the Kingdom, is it not "as if a man should cast seed into the ground; and should sleep, and rise night and day, and the seed should spring and grow up, he knoweth not how"?

All the beauty of all he saw and heard in the City and in the fields grew into it, the wonder and the joyousness of his childhood, the aspirations of his youth, the power of his manhood,—all the joys and sorrows of his life, its sacred memories, and its more sacred hopes.

When, he went through the streets of the City near at hand, the happy faces of little children, the patient toil of working-men and women, the furrows on the faces of the aged who could toil no more, all were sacred to him, and inspiring; for all said: "You are building a home for us, a home for each, where children's voices shall soar in praise, and the toil-worn find rest in the sacred shadow, and the aged a foretaste of the rest to which they are drawing near. A home for all, which, like the Great Home that abideth, shall unite, not separate."

When he wandered over the undulating reaches of solitary moorland near the city, or through the shades of forest and copse, or listened to the little rills trickling from their gravelly sources through the sedges of the marshy hollows, not a golden arrow of sunshine that shot through the trees, nor a curve of sedge or grass in the quiet places, but sowed some germ of beauty in his brain.

The sweep of the great River round meadow and tower, the rush of the current which linked it with the heart of the land, and the ebb and flow of the tides which bound it to the heart of the changing sea; the day, with its revelations of earth, and its awakening of eyes to see and work; the night, with its revelations of heaven, and its awakening of souls to see and pray; the steadfast arch of starry sky, which was no roof, but an unveiling of the Infinite; the changing gleams of cloud and sunshine, clothing the earth with her robe of light and tears; the intervening brief glows of dawn and sunset, when earth and sky held festival with blaze of colour and burst of choral song;—all these sank deep into his spirit, to live again in the pillars of his forest aisles, and the arch of the aspiring roof, which, like the starry roof of heaven itself, was not to shut the adoring heart in and down, but to lift it up and up for ever.

So the Minster grew—grew as human works do grow, by patient mechanical toil of brain and hand elaborating the original inspiration, by accurate measurement, by rigid faithfulness to law, by lowly learning from God's work, by patient study of man's needs. Curve by curve, line by line, stone on stone, till the vision of the poet's heart grew into a vision of beauty for the refreshment of the hearts of all men.

But the Architect did not live, on earth, to see his thought grow into sight.

On a pallet, in a cell of the monastery, he lay, smitten with fever.

And while the thought of his brain was growing into solid stone on the sunny earth outside his cell, the solid earth itself was passing away, like a dream, from him.

It was Easter Eve. In the deepest dusk before the dawn, in the silence of his cell, a stirring and shadowing of something unholy seemed to darken and disturb the air.

Unloving voices answered each other in hoarse whispers, like a hot, dry wind through the crisp and shrivelled sedges of a dried-up watercourse.

"Ha!" laughed the voices; "he thinks he has been working for immortality. But we know better. A century hence, not a creature will remember his name, any more than they remember or care who planted the first tree in the forests around the city.

"He dreams of the gratitude of men; and centuries after he has mouldered into dust, the generations of the dust-born will be gazing up with stupid wonder at the thing he built, and pouring out their prayers and praises to the stone roof which rises above his dust and theirs, fancying their words pierce through, instead of falling back like the echoes. But we know better.

"Among all the names glorified there, no mention will be made of his. He fancies his name is written in stone, and in men's hearts. It is written in dust, and in men's breath. 'Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is Vanity.'"

A faint ray of gray light crept in through the window of the cell, and the mocking voices died away among the chill morning winds.

But the Architect lay on his bed in a rapture of gratitude and content.

"Father," he said in his heart, "can this be true? Shall this thing for which I have thought and toiled indeed grow up into a holy place, wherein men shall adore Thee for centuries after I am gone—even Thee? Shall this offering of mine be indeed so accepted on Thine altar? First me, and then it?—Wilt Thou indeed accept both altogether thus? Wilt Thou indeed let me be altogether hidden in this thing I have thought, in it and in Thee?"

Then from all the churches of the city rang forth the Easter bells.

And through the victorious peal of the Resurrection music, through the slow dawning of the newly-risen light, through the chirping and carolling of the waking birds, there came to the patient sufferer voices, and white visions of glory—white so as no fuller on earth can white them.

And the voices spoke thus into his heart:—

"Thine offering is altogether accepted. Thou and it. Thy work shall live on earth, faithfully fulfilled according to the thought of thine heart. Thy name shall be written in Heaven, in the Temple not made with hands.

"Thy work shall live where thou no longer art, to help men for ages, to be bread to the eater and seed to the sower of the generations to come. Thy name shall live where thou shalt be; among the great multitude which no man can number, yet each one of which is graven on One divine and human Heart.

"For ages to come, whilst thou art blessed and at rest, men and women, still toiling and struggling on this earth, and children, shall praise God in this beautiful place of thy building, with such praise as toiling, sinning, repenting, human creatures can give.

"The voice of the great River shall be heard no more beside it, for the ebb and flow of the great tide of human life which shall surge round it on every side.

"Day after day the sunbeams, ever new, shall come and go across its pillars, like a harp touched by an invisible hand, or be caught in its delicate traceries and entrapped down into the shadows.

"Easter after Easter, the Resurrection hymns of victory, ever new, shall echo from its vaulted roofs.

"Generation after generation shall worship there, and pass away, and rest beneath its shade.

"But thy name shall not be written there.

"Not there, among the dying and the sinning. Above; among the living and the holy. In the Book of Life. On the heart of the Holiest. For ever and for ever. Art thou content?"

Softly the light and music died away into heaven.

And the sufferer sighed.

"Content! Are the archangels content before the throne? Father, Redeemer, hast Thou indeed accepted my work thus? My offering and me—even me?"

And softly the humble and blessed spirit died away into the eternal light, into the hands of God, and was satisfied.

Only the Crypt.[2]

We are entering the Beautiful Temple of God, said the children, a brother and a sister, as they passed reverently under the arched doorway for the first time.

But the roof was low, and the light faint. A feeling of chill and depression crept over them.

The weight of the vaulted stone roof seemed to crush the spirit. Through the small, narrow windows, with their diamond panes, the sunbeams crept in thin silver threads, and soon seemed to grow dim in the damps that came up from below, or to lose their way among the massive pillars of the low arched aisles.

"Can this be the Cathedral?" whispered the brother to the sister; "the glorious House of God our fathers told us of, and we have dreamt of?"

"They said it was the Cathedral," said the sister; "therefore it must have glories. We may not doubt the Builder, or Him to whom it is built. Let us rather doubt ourselves. Our eyes will grow used to the light, and then we shall learn its beauty. Our mother used to say the eyes of little children had to get used to the light before they could understand this world."

"Used to the darkness!" murmured the boy.

At that moment a patient sunbeam made its way in through one of the larger windows and lit up patches of the pillars, falling at last in a golden glory on a brazen cross with an inscription round it, inlaid in the slab at the base of one of the pillars.

The children knelt down to read the letters. They were a tender record of the sorrow of parents for the loss of a child.

And as they examined further they found that every stone beneath their feet bore some similar memorial words.

"Can we be right?" said the boy with a shudder. "I thought we were coming to a house of worship. We seem to have come into a house of graves."

They sat down sad and perplexed on the base of one of the pillars.

As they sat there silent, hand in hand, the sound of soft music, happy, and of an overpowering sweetness, came to them they could not tell whence, faint, and yet not, it seemed, far off, more as if there were some barrier between them and it. It seemed around, above, everywhere; yet the ear could fix on no point to trace it to that they might follow it.

Soon it ceased. But then the strains were taken up by voices nearer at hand. This second music had not the delicious perfectness of the first. Individual voices could be distinctly heard, not blended into a perfect whole; and some of these were harsh, some were shrill, some tremulous and broken as if with tears, some too low with fear, some too high as if from eagerness to be heard; yet the tones were those of reverent worship, and something of the joy of the first music broke through them often, like the sunbeams through the dim, chill air.

"We will go near and try to join," said the children. As they went towards the sound they saw some lamps which had hitherto been hidden from them by the pillars. These lit up the forms of a kneeling company of worshippers.

The children came near, and knelt in adoration beside them. In the worship their hearts took wing and rose into the light, and for a time they forgot the chill and the gloom.

Yet, even as they knelt, they saw that the little company was not abiding. There was a continual movement and change in it. The voices changed. The sweetest and best trained were continually breaking off, in obedience to some summons the children could not hear; and others who, like themselves, had all their music to learn, were coming in their place.

An awe and trembling came again over the children; and the brother whispered,—

"Can we be right? Can this be the Cathedral? No one seems to stay! Whither can they go?"

And the sister answered in a soft whisper,—

"We will wait to see. Can they be going to the other music?"

Scarcely had the words died from her lips when a maiden who had been kneeling close beside them, from whose liquid voice and clear reverent utterance the children had been learning the words of the song, and from whose pale radiant face they had been drinking in its joyful meaning, suddenly ceased her singing, and looking up for a moment with an earnest listening gaze, she seemed to hear some welcome irresistible call, for she said,—

"For me? Can it be indeed for me?" And softly touching the children's forehead with a touch that seemed to them a blessing, she murmured, "You will be called too, by-and-by." Then noiselessly she rose and glided away through the shadow of the arches towards the east, and up a flight of steps the children had not observed before.

They followed her with eager, anxious gaze, and for a moment, ere she glided out of sight, there was the streaming of a flood of golden sunshine down the gloom, from an open door, and once more the sound of that perfect music they had heard at first.

At that moment there was a pause in the service, and a silver-haired old man came to the children and bid them welcome.

"You look sad and bewildered, my children," he said.

"Oh, father! tell us what it means," they whispered. "Can we be in the right place? We thought we were coming to a place of light and of heavenly singing, full of rejoicing worshippers who delighted to stay there. But this seems a place of gloom and of graves. Here the worshippers are a little broken band, and even these do not stay. All is changing and imperfect. What does it mean?"

The old man smiled. "Where do you think you are?" he said.

"In the Cathedral," they answered. "Are we not in the Cathedral?"

"You are, and you are not!" he said. "This is part of the Cathedral. But it is only the Crypt. The Church cemetery and the Cathedral school. The choir children are trained here. But the true Cathedral is above; and, of necessity, when the choristers are trained, they are called up to join the services there."

When the children heard this they understood it all.

Thankfully they went to learn their part in the Psalm with the choir children.

And knowing the Crypt to be only a crypt, its gloom was wonderfully brightened to them. Its stray sunbeams grew clear and golden, now that they were understood to be only earnests of the golden day above. Its broken hymns grew tenfold sweeter, now that they were felt to be but the learning of the anthems to be sung above.

Precious was every hard lesson of the singing, precious every thin silver thread of the light, for they were the foretaste or the preparation of the moment when the door of the true Temple should open, and the shadows flee away.

BURIED WITH CHRIST.

Moans of sharpest agony,

Faintly moaning ceaselessly,

"Earth is all one grave to me!"

Greenest fields but churchyard turf,

Sunniest seas but deadly surf;

Purest skies one vaulted tomb,

Death in all homes most at home.

Moans of sharpest agony!

Back from far they came to me,

Echoed from the crystal sea,

As a chant of victory;

From the sea's translucent verge

Back in triumph pealed the dirge:—

"Earth is all one grave to thee?

What besides could earth now be,

Since He died upon the tree,

Since He died on earth for thee?

Since beneath it He lay, dim,

Cold and still each tortured limb,

Buried are His own with Him,

Yet the dirge is all a hymn.

Wouldst thou take the crypt's chill damps,

And its few sepulchral lamps,

For His temple spaces high,

For His depths of starry sky?

Wouldest thou? Not so would they

Who one moment breathe His day,

Who for one brief moment's space

Have the vision of His face.

Earth has light for earth's great strife,—

Where He liveth, there is Life.

"Earth is all one grave to thee?

Yet lift up thine eyes and see!

For the stone is rolled away,

And He standeth there to-day;

Patiently by thee will stay

Till thy heart 'Rabboni' say!

(He will not forget the clay,

Thine, nor theirs, by night or day.)

That 'Rabboni!' faint through fears,

Sobbed in agony of tears,—

That alone thy heart can clear

Those far-off Amens to hear,

That alone can tune thy heart

In those songs to take her part.

"Then thy cry of agony:

'Earth is all one grave to me,'

Echoing shall come back to thee

In a chant of victory,

Echoed from the crystal sea,

From the living victors free,

Ransomed everlastingly."

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Partly suggested by a passage in Longfellow's "Hyperion."

The Sepulchre and the Shrine.

"Why seek ye the living among the dead?"

The great torrent of the First Crusade had been sweeping for weeks through the valley of the Danube. Along that "highway of nations" tribe after tribe had poured westward, leaving its deposit in castle and village, on dominant height and in sheltered hollow. And now the rush of men swept back eastward: no slowly advancing tide of emigration, but a wild torrent of enthusiasm, which would leave behind it nothing but graves and the bones of unburied thousands. And yet in that death were seeds of life.

Week after week the Lady of the Tannenburg had seen from the terrace of her castle the bands of peasants pass on their way,—men and women and little children, with the red-cross on the shoulder,—to the Tomb of Christ, to rescue the Holy Sepulchre from the infidel. Multitudes almost entirely composed of the poor: no plumed helmets or richly caparisoned war-horses. The red-cross, of common stuff, was fastened on the poor garments of the peasants. The only chariots were the rough cart drawn by oxen taken from the plough, carrying the mothers and the little ones, who were too feeble to walk.

Of geography they knew little more than the children, who cried out as each town came in sight, "Is that Jerusalem?" The patient oxen would suffice to carry them and theirs, they thought, to the Master's Grave!

The rich had loans to effect, lands to sell, affairs to arrange, stewards and agents to appoint, before they could commence the perilous journey with a fitting escort. Moreover, to them the Holy Land contained something more than the Sepulchre of Christ. It contained rich Moslem cities to be plundered, fertile lands to be possessed, fair provinces to be reigned over. To the poor it contained only the Master's Grave. And He who leadeth the blind by a way that they know not, led the people then as now.

The rich, for the most part, came back impoverished. The poor, for the most part, never came back at all: but from their graves sprang the first-fruits of freedom for Europe. The religious enthusiasm for which they died had begun the emancipation of their class. From chattels, attached to the soil like its crops and its stones, they had become men. The Master's Grave was theirs to die for, as much as it was their lords'; the Master's will was theirs to live for, as much as for the noblest.

Day by day the Lady of the Tannenburg had watched the pilgrim-bands passing slowly in irregular groups through the broad valley beneath her. Night by night she had seen the camp-fires gleaming through the pine-woods, and heard the "Dieu le veut" echo from crag to crag. Often she had sent her only child, young Rudolf, with a band of retainers, bearing bread and meat from her stores, fruit from her orchards, and wine from her vineyards, to be distributed among the pilgrims. And night by night, as the hosts passed by, they knew the Lady's castle by the one steadfast light from one arched window, which never failed to shed its faint glow over the castle wall.

It was well known among them that scarcely a year before, her husband, Sir Rudolf of the Tannenburg, had died. It was said that he had been on the eve of joining the Crusade; and many a vow was made to the young Rudolf that his father's name should be faithfully remembered at the Holy Sepulchre. The boy knew that the tears which came into his mother's eyes when he told her of those vows were tears that heal. But at last one evening, as he rose from his prayer at her knee, he looked up into her face, while a sudden light broke over his, and said,—

"Mother, are not all the people going to the same Holy Grave?"

"The same? Surely, my son," she said, bowing her head reverently. "The Grave of Christ, our Lord."

"We have our own holy grave, mother!" he replied—"thou and I. But have we no share in this Grave of Christ?"

"Surely; their Lord is ours," she said; "and His Holy Sepulchre is ours, in common with all Christendom."

"Then, mother! mother!" he exclaimed, gazing full into her eyes, "let us also go to the Grave, to weep there, with all His Christendom. Let us do what my father meant to do. Who will remember his name as we would there?"

For a few moments she made no reply. The casement stood open, although it was winter, and through the stillness of the frosty air echoed once more the solemn, "Dieu le veut."

"Out of the mouth of the babes who are Thine, out of the mouth of Thy poor, O Christ, Thou speakest. I listen—I obey. God wills it.—My boy," she said quietly, pressing him to her heart, "God has surely spoken by thee. My heart speaks by thee. We will go."

She sat beside the child till he slept, till the long lashes shaded the flushed cheek, and the half-open lips and the small clenched hand seemed to tell of some boyish dream of conflict with the infidel.

Kneeling beside her sleeping child, she made her first vow in the presence of all that made life living to her.

And then she went down to keep solitary vigil in the castle-chapel; to kindle those sepulchral lamps which were seen far across the valley, which she never suffered any hands but her own to trim or feed.

Her own room was bare and austere as any monastic cell. All her precious things were lavished on the mortuary chapel, which was her treasure-chamber, the resting-place she longed to share, the threshold of the Father's house. On the steps of that memorial altar, which was a tomb, and there only in the world, she felt at home.

The light of the flickering lamps, contending with the steadfast, silent moonbeams, wrought strange magical contrasts of glow and gloom on silver shrine, and polished marble pavement, and jewelled paten, and chalice, and gold-embroidered drapery; and beyond, on the rich Gothic sculpture, here and there relieving the shadows of the arched aisle.

And kneeling there once more, she renewed the vow, in the presence of what made life death to her, and death as the threshold of life.

"Dieu le veut," she said, pressing her forehead on the cold marble. "O Christ, I take the cross on me, for me and for him. Accept it for both, and shelter us both with Thine."

It was early spring.

Forth through the green Danube valley they went,—the mother and her son, Snorro the old castellan, and Gunhilda the nurse, with other faithful old servants of the house.

At night they slept under a tent, or in any lowly hut they could find.

In the morning they awoke with no stately walls between them and Nature.

To the boy, the journey amongst the forests and by the streams was one perpetual holiday.

And on the mother also soft dews of healing began to fall, from sunsets and sunrises, and the opening of leaves, and the songs of birds, and the life of all the humble happy creatures.

But most of all from this, that she had stepped down from the cold height of her solitary sorrow, and went forth as one bearing the common burden of humanity.

"We are going to the Holy Grave that belongs to us all!" she said to herself. "We go with Thy poor, Thou who wast poor Thyself! We go to Thy sepulchre, mortal, mourning human creatures, for Thou also wast mortal once. Thou also hast died and hast been buried!"

Thus, in stooping lowly, nearer her fellow-men, she grew nearer Him who stooped lowest of all.

"The whole earth is a sepulchre," she said; "for it was Thine! Not our beloved only; Thou also hast lain in the grave! When we and our beloved lie down in ours, it will be but where Thou hast lain before."

Meanwhile, all the time the earth was bearing her lowly witness to the resurrection in opening buds and nestling birds, and all the renewal of the spring. Yet the Lady thought only, "My love is dead. My Lord has died."

But one twilight, as they walked together in the sombre shadows of a pine-forest, the boy said to her,—

"Mother, I heard strange talk last night by the camp-fires. Old Snorro was talking to Gunhilda, and he said he could not make out all this wandering to the Sepulchre in the Morning Land. His mother, he said, used to tell him how, when they lived far away by the Northern Seas, the young men and maidens mourned for the death of Balder the Good and Beautiful, the sun-god, until one day a stranger priest came, with the Cross, from the south, and told them to mourn no longer for the slain god, for he brought them tidings of One good, and strong, and beautiful, the Light of all the worlds, who had wrestled with death and had not been overcome, but had broken through the grave and risen in immortal life to give life to men. If indeed He lived, Snorro said, why did all the people run away from the places He set them in, to His grave, where He was not, instead of praying to Him, and trying to please Him in the heaven where He is? And Gunhilda said Snorro must not talk of things he did not understand; that it was a good and holy work to wrest the Holy Grave from the infidel; the priest said so, and the Pope said so; and how should he know who had only been a Christian at all for two generations? Old Snorro did not seem satisfied. He said he only wanted to understand. And she said he ought not to want to understand; that was like Eve, and like the devil, and was the beginning of all wickedness. And so they were whispering on when I fell asleep.

"Mother, what did old Snorro mean?"

She took his hand, and they walked on some little time in silence.

"Was old Snorro quite wrong, mother?" the boy said at length.

"Not quite, my son," she said. "I think not altogether wrong. Our Lord is surely living. Nevertheless, it is surely right that we should reverence the Holy Grave, and seek to wrest it from the unbeliever."

But that night she had a strange dream. She thought the ancient spirits, with legends of whom her Northern land was full, were all awake, careering through the forest like winds, flickering like the flames of the dying camp-fires, flitting to and fro like shadows; water-spirits from the forest-pools, dwarfs from the mountains, gnomes from under the hills. And some were laughing, some were sighing; but all kept saying to each other,—

"It is the old funeral procession we remember so long ago; it is the old, old wail. The children of men are mourning once more their Good and their Beautiful slain, and buried, and lost. Once more they find their best and dearest in a grave. For a little while we thought the death-wail was interrupted, swallowed up in the New Song of Life and Victory. But it has come back. Balder the Beautiful, the Light of heaven, is slain. This new Light of Life, this new Hope of the children of men, is also slain. It is the old funeral train, and the old death-wail. We—the earth-born, spirits of the waters and the forests and the hills—live on, and send our echoes on from age to age. They—the heaven-born—die, and mourn, and pay vain worship to their dead. Once more the religion of the children of men is a pilgrimage to a grave."

All that day the wondering doubt of old Snorro the Norseman, and the moans and whispers of that strange dream, sent wild, bewildering echoes through the Lady's heart.

And that evening it chanced that the encampment lay amidst the ruins of some deserted dwellings on the outskirts of a walled city.

The Lady could not sleep; and as she lay awake in the silence, broken only now and then by the howling of wolves from the forest, and the baying of watch-dogs from the city, every now and then a low faint moaning fell on her ear, as if from a little distance.

At first she thought it was but some of those strange moanings which the winds make at night among the woods. She listened more intently, until she became sure that faint articulate sounds mingled with the moans, which she knew could only come from a human voice.

Softly she arose, and glided to where the sound seemed to be.

And there, in the angle of one of the charred and shattered walls, she found a young maiden stretched helplessly on a heap of dry leaves.

At the gentle tones of the Lady's voice, the maiden's eyes languidly opened.

After a time she consented to take a little food and wine from the Lady's hands: and then slowly she told how she was of the hated and hunted Hebrew race, and had lived with her people in this the Jewish Quarter, outside the city walls, until, two nights ago, a wild band of Crusaders had fallen on them at midnight, had set fire to their dwellings, and killed all who could not flee, calling them Infidels and Enemies of Christ; while she herself, long laid on a sick-bed, unable to move, had been strangely overlooked, and left there to die alone.

Many days the Lady sat beside her, and tenderly soothed and served her, refusing to abandon this destitute sufferer, even to pursue the way of the Holy Cross.

"For," she said, "I would not have Him say to me in that day, 'I was sick and a stranger, and ye visited Me not.'"

Thus the company of Crusaders went on their way; and the Lady and her son, with their retainers, were left by themselves among the ruined dwellings between the city and the forest.

At first the sick girl seemed to revive with the tender care lavished on her; and her heart opened freely to the motherly heart that had thus taken her to itself.

"It is very strange," she would say; "what does it all mean? He whom you worship was one of our people. A good man of your people told me once He loved our race; and forgave even those who were most cruel to Him; and wept over our sorrows, which He foresaw; and forbade any to think He did not love us. Such a lovely portrait the good man drew of your Christ, I thought if I had lived on earth when He did, I must have been a Christian. But His Christians hate our race, and never forgive, and hunt us to death."

"Not all," the Lady said tenderly. "It is He who bade me minister to you."

"If you are like Him, and all Christians were like you," the maiden said, "I might be a Christian even now. But all is so strange!" she went on. "Our people say your Christ is dead, and was buried long ago. But your Book says He rose again, and lives evermore. Yet all His Christians seem to think He has left nothing so precious behind, belonging to Him, as His grave. But if indeed He lay in it only those three days, what was it more than a sick-bed, from which one rises to new health and strength? It is strange. If He lives, has He left you nothing more precious than a grave?"

"Surely He lives!" the Lady said; "and I think He has left us much more precious and dearer to Him than His grave. Poor child," she said, her whole face radiant with the thought, "I think you are dearer, dearer to Him than His Holy Sepulchre. For you may be His living shrine. He said once in a parable, 'In that ye do it to one of the least of these, ye do it unto Me.'"

A heavenly light shone from the dark Oriental eyes of the dying girl.

"Did He say so?" she said. "Then your Christ was indeed different from those who call themselves by His name."

And soon afterwards she resumed,—

"Lady, it may be that I shall see Him soon—see your Christ. It may be I shall find He is our Christ. It may be I shall find He was born my Saviour also, and that He will receive even me among His brethren. It may be He will be pleased with what you have done for me."

And soon afterwards the large wistful eyes grew languid, and were closed in death.

The morning broke over the pine-tops, and over the towers of the city, and on the Lady watching beside her sleeping boy, and on the Jewish maiden sleeping the sleep of death.

And with the morning broke peals of bells from every tower in the city, and every lonely chapel scattered through the far-off glades of the forest.

Easter Bells.

The Passion Week had come and passed, unheeded, whilst the Lady sat and watched through her agony with the dying girl.

And now the Easter burst on her with a glad surprise, as if it had been the first; as if the tidings of Resurrection had now first burst on her from heaven.

The Lord has risen indeed.

It was true. His Sepulchre was empty. But heaven and earth were full of Him, and of His glory.

"Mother," said her boy, when they rose from their morning prayer together, "what do all these joy-bells mean? Is it a king's marriage, or a great victory? Can it be that they have rescued the Holy Sepulchre from the infidel at last?"

"They are indeed ringing for a Great Victory," she replied; "the greatest ever won. It is Easter Day, my son. This day our Lord left His grave for ever, and rose victorious over death, and opened the gate of everlasting life to all believers."

And still the bells pealed joyfully on, from the villages on the plains and hill-sides, from the rocky castled heights, from the depths of the forest—

"Io! revixit,

Sicuti dixit,

Pius illæsus,

Funere Jesus!"

Then, looking on the motionless form stretched in the shroud beside her, the echo of her own words came back to her,—

"The Lord is risen indeed, and liveth for evermore. Dearer than His empty grave to Him is every sufferer such as this. His Sepulchre is empty; suffering men and women are His shrine, where we may meet Himself."

And retracing her steps to her castle, beside it she built a hospice for the sick and the forsaken, from which she suffered none, Greek or Latin, Jew or Gentile, to be repelled—the only claim she admitted being need of succour.

And in thus ministering to His poor, she found indeed, in the depths of her own heart, that He was risen, living for evermore, and present every hour.

Through His Sepulchre, the grave of her beloved and her own had become to her but as an encampment for the night beside the Great Captain's, on the Battle-field.

In His life she learned that they also lived; and in living unto Him, once more she found she was living with them.

The Cathedral Chimes.

A LEGEND.

In a city whose history dates from the ages of silvery bells and stately buildings, there stood, and stands now for aught I know, a cathedral, rich in all the endless fancies of Gothic art. Inside, it was solemn with shade, and gorgeous with light which came in through the elaborate tracery of the stained windows, many-coloured, and broken as the sunbeams through a tropical forest. Outside, fretted pinnacles and carved bell-towers sprang upward, grand yet fairy-like, as if stone towers rose as easily and naturally towards heaven as oaks and pines. But the chief glory of this cathedral was its bells. They were the pride of the city, and the great attraction to strangers. Their history formed an important part of the civic chronicles.

A lady of a royal house had given them as a thank-offering for her lord's safe return from the Crusades. All her silver-plate and ornaments, with spoils of Saracens from the recovered Holy Land, had been poured into the mould when they were made, so that from their birth all tender and sacred memories had been fused into their very essence, and their first tones echoed far-off times and lands. A bishop who afterwards suffered martyrdom in the hands of African Moslems had blessed them. Their first peal had sounded in honour of a great victory. They had summoned the people through ages of conflict to defend their liberties. They had blended their life with the life of every home,—in family joys and family sorrows, at wedding, christening, and funeral. They had made Sundays and holidays glad with their joyous voices. And last, but not least, by aid of an elaborate mechanism of hammers, ropes, and pulleys, they had for centuries celebrated the departure of every hour with a chorale, and every half-hour with a strain like the versicle of a chant, and every quarter of an hour with a little sprinkle of sweet sound.

Imagine, then, the dismay of the citizens, when, one Monday morning, eight o'clock came, and no sound issued from the cathedral; half-past eight, silence; nine, not a note of warning! Their wonder was increased when the usual peal rung out, clear and full as ever, for the morning service, and by mid-day the whole city was in a commotion. It was plain something must be wrong with the machinery of the chimes.

Immediately the most skilful mechanics of the town, clock-makers, and bell-founders, with the men of science, and the whole corporation, in a state-procession, mounted the clock-tower. "We will soon set it right," they said to the agitated crowd as they entered the belfry-door. The ropes of the machinery were tested,—all were sound; not a flaw in the hammers; not a clog in the wheels; not a crack in the silvery metal. Microscopes were employed, conjectures were hazarded, experiments of all kinds were tried, but not a ray of light was thrown on the perplexity. The clever hands, and the wise heads, and the will of the authorities were all baffled; and the procession reappeared to the assembled multitudes with very crestfallen looks.

That afternoon little work was done in the workshops, few lessons were learned in the schools, all the routine of household habits was interrupted; and when it grew dark the Great Square was filled with people who were afraid to separate and go to bed without the sanction of the cathedral chimes. Many foreboded some terrible disaster to the city, and some thought the end of the world was come!

But when it was dark a sound very weird and strange, yet with a music like the old familiar tones, came from the church-tower, as it rose dim and grand against the starry sky. It was a voice, not human, yet with a strange likeness to a human voice, silvery as a stream, thrilling as a battle-trumpet, familiar to each listener as his own,—like the blended voices of a spirit and a bell.

"We have borne it too long," said the bell-voice. "We were set here on high for other purposes than men have put us to. Is not this a cathedral, a sanctuary, and a shrine, sacred with the dust of martyrs, and dedicated to the service of Heaven? Were not we christened like immortals? Were not we consecrated like priests? The touch of holy hands is on us, and shall we be debased to secular uses? Set apart like sacred ministers in a sacred dwelling, shall we be required to mingle in the common circumstances of your daily life? Raised on high to be near the heavens we serve, shall our saintly voices serve to tell you when to eat and sleep? We have borne it too long. We will still serve Heaven, and summon you on Sundays and Holydays. We will call you to the solemn services of the Church. We will, if necessary, sound a triumphant peal on days of national thanksgiving, in remembrance of the Victory which first awoke us into music. We will even condescend to ring at your weddings—because marriage is a sacrament—and at your baptisms. We will toll solemnly when your spirits pass from earth, and when your bodies are laid in the churchyard we have seen slowly raised with the dust of your dying generations. But henceforth expect us not to do work which your commonest house-clocks can do as well. Let your eight-day clocks—your gilded time-pieces—call you to work and eat, and rest. We are sacred things, set solemnly apart from all secular uses. Our business is with Eternity, and the Church, and Heaven. Call on us no more to commune with the things of the world, and earth, and time. We are your cathedral bells, but we will be your household clock-chimes no longer."

Then the voice died away on the night air. For a few minutes there was silence, but soon it was broken by sobs and lamentations, and all the people lifted up their voice as one man, and wept.

The house-father said, "Shall we never more hear your voices calling us to morning and evening prayer? Whenever you told us it was the hour, the mother came from her work, and the children from their play, and together we knelt a united family, and committed each other to God."

And the mother said, "Your voices are blended with every happy household time. Sweet bells! will you mingle with our family joys no more? In the morning you wakened us to begin another busy day, and the sun's beams and your voices came together to call us to serve God in our lowly calling; and both, we thought, came to us from Heaven; and both, we thought, were meek and lowly, and ready to minister to us in our daily lives, because both were sent from Him who came among us once, not to be ministered unto, but to minister; and both, we thought, had caught something of the light of the eyes which wept at Bethany, and of the tones of the voice which spoke at Cana and at Nain. At mid-day you told me it was time to send the dinner to my husband and my elder sons. At six your voice was welcome to us all, because we knew the father's step would soon be on the threshold. At eight you reminded me it was time to lay the little ones to rest, and many a time have you brought happy and holy thoughts to me in those psalms you sang to me whilst I hushed my babes to sleep; and all my every-day life seemed to be more linked with sacred things, and to become, as it were, a part of the service of God, because it moved to the music of your voices. And again at night your tones were welcome, as in the morning, when they told us the day's work was over, and, wearied, we lay down to peaceful rest; for through the night we knew your sacred voices would sound to Heaven above our sleeping city, like the voices of the angels, who rest not day nor night, saying, Holy, holy, holy. Sweet bells! will you never chime for us again?"

And the children said, in their clear, sweet, ringing voices, "Dear chimes! do not cease to play to us. You wake us to the happy day, you set us free from school, and send us home laughing and dancing for joy; you call our fathers home to us, at night you sing us to sleep, and your voices are blended with our mothers' in our happy dreams. Sweet chimes! you sang so many years to our fathers and mothers; and our grandfathers remember you when they were little children like us. Dear chimes! sing to us still."

And from the sick-chamber which looked into the cathedral square, where the windows were darkened all day, and sand was strewn before the door, that the din of the passing wheels might jar less roughly on the aching head within, came a low and plaintive voice:—"Sweet bells! your commonest tones are sacred to me. You are my church music,—the only church music I can ever hear. When I hear you chime the hour on Sundays and on the festivals, I feel myself among the multitude within your sacred walls; and your voice seems to bear their songs of praise to me, and I am no more alone, but one of the worshippers. But at night it is I prize you most. All through the hours of darkness, so often sleepless to me, your voice is the voice of a friend, familiar as my mother's, yet solemn as the chants of the choir. It helps me to measure off the hours of pain, and say, 'Thank God, an hour less of night, and an hour nearer morning.' And how often, when my suffering is great, you have come with the old psalm-tune, and every tone has brought its word to me, and spoken to me as if direct from God, and filled my heart with trust and peace! Your least sprinkles of sweet sound are precious to me. I fancy they are like the waters of time falling musically from stone to stone on their way to the great sea. I feel they are as the echoes of the footsteps of Him who is drawing nearer and nearer to me; and they draw my heart nearer to Him. Sweet bells! your commonest tones are sacred; for what is the World but that which becomes the Church when it learns how God has loved it, and turns from self to Him? and what is Earth but the floor of Heaven, which heavenly feet once trod? and what is Time but the little fragment of Eternity in which we live on earth? Sweet bells! make not my sleepless night lonely and silent, but sing to me, sing to us all, as of old. Make all our life sacred by linking every fragment of our life to God."

But still no responsive sound came from the cathedral tower, and the people waited on in the silence and the darkness. At last a young priest, an Augustinian friar, ventured a bold suggestion:—"Are not the devils proud, and the angels lowly? Did the angel think it beneath him to say to Elijah, 'Arise, and eat'? Did Gabriel hesitate to descend from the presence of God to bear to an aged priest the tidings of the birth of a child? Did that other angel deem it secular to say to Peter the apostle, 'Gird thyself, and bind on thy sandals, and cast thy garment about thee,' before he led him over the stony streets through the cold night air? And should our cathedral bells scorn to bid us 'rise and eat,' or to chime at our births, or to summon us to 'gird and clothe' ourselves for every day's work? Brethren, proud thoughts, and scorn of daily service, and voices which call our every-day life common and unclean, are not from Heaven. The bells are possessed by a proud and evil spirit. Let us exorcise them."

The suggestion at first startled the people as daring, and irreverent to the church bells, but in their despair they at length agreed to try it. A solemn procession of priests and holy men and women mounted the cathedral tower, and, in ancient formulas, with prayer and incense, and the music of holy hymns, they exorcised the fiend.

Then at once a tide of pent-up music flowed from the liberated bells! They conscientiously rang out all at once every hour and half-hour they had omitted, and then meekly and steadily resumed their wonted chimes, and continued them ever afterwards, like voices of happy and lowly angels calling men to wake and pray, to "rise and eat," to pray and rest; cheering the workman to his daily labour, and welcoming him from it; chanting to the mother as she lulled her babe; and in the sick-chamber soothing the lonely hours with melodious sound, and waking in the lonely heart sweet echoes of the psalms of praise.

Here the Legend ended. I heard, however, afterwards that the young priest, the Augustinian friar, lived to spread Glad Tidings through the city, but that he was at last burned in the cathedral square for preaching to men what he had said about the church bells. Yet in the flames, it was said, he looked up to the cathedral tower, and sang the words of a psalm of praise the old bells were chiming, till his voice was silenced in death. And ever since the chimes have taken up his message, and chant to those who will listen, hour by hour.

"Whether, therefore, ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God."

The Ruined Temple.

The Temple was in ruins, and the Priestess sat, a captive in chains, among its broken and scattered fragments. It had been a temple of the most ancient form, open to the sky, beautiful beyond any temple upon earth, beautiful and sacred; and some remnants of its beauty hung about it still—fragments of exquisite carvings and broken shafts of graceful columns. But everything was shattered and out of place: the window tracery shivered in a thousand fragments and strewn on the ground, columns prostrate, sacred vessels lying rusted among the weeds, the pure spring which had gushed from beneath the altar choked up and dry, and instruments of sacred music mute and broken on the ground.

On the walls in some places were the traces of violence, but it was remarkable that they seemed to have been assaulted only from within. Indeed, the temple had been a fortress, so impregnably situated and built that except from within not one stone could ever have been displaced.

This was, in fact, the saddest part of its history. The temple had been desecrated before it had been ruined, and in its ruin it was a temple still, but, alas! no longer sacred to Him in whose honour it had been reared. Many senseless or loathsome idol-images were carved on the walls, strangely contrasting, in their shapelessness or deformity, with the symmetry of every fragment of the original structure. On the broken altar in the centre stood an image of the Priestess herself. This was the earliest idol which had entered there, and with the entrance of this the ruin had begun. The Enemy who had, with subtle flatteries, introduced this idol had ever since had access to the temple, and step by step the Priestess had sunk beneath his power. He had led her into wild orgies, in which she herself had defaced the delicate tracery and torn down the walls; and when she awoke from the frenzy and wept, as sometimes she would, he silenced her tears with blows or with mocking threats of the vengeance of Him to whom the temple had been consecrated. Sometimes, however, she woke to a moment's full consciousness of the desolation around her, and then she would wail and lament until he seemed to fear some unseen Friend would hear; and at such seasons he grew more gentle, and renewed the old persuasions and flatteries by which he had misled her at first. He would even encourage her at times, when all other methods failed, to try and collect the scattered stones, and repair the breaches in the shattered walls, and restring the broken harp; for he knew well her puny efforts must fail, and that no hands but those of the Builder could ever restore the ruin she had wrought. So, after a few faint endeavours, she, as he expected, would give up in despair, and sit cowering hopelessly on the ground, afraid of him, afraid of Him whose priestess she was, afraid of her own voice.

In such bitter hours he would again grow bold, and mock her with the memory of the past, until the spirit of indignant resistance seemed roused within her, when, once more softening his tone, he would point her with flattering words to her own image on the broken altar. He would show her the beauty still lingering in its marred and weather-worn features, and help her to decorate it with gay colours and tinsel ornaments, placing in her hands the golden censer, with the sweet incense which had been made in happier days for far other uses; and she would wave the fragrant compound before the idol image of herself. But with the pure spices which made it sweet, the Enemy had mixed a narcotic poison, and as she languidly swung the censer to and fro, her brain would become intoxicated with the voluptuous sweetness, until in a dream of vain delight, she would fall asleep, and forget all her miseries; and ever, as she slept, he would rivet faster the chain which, unperceived by her, was being bound around her, every year making her range of action narrower and her movements less free.

Wild beasts, also, made their lair in the desolate temple-chambers, prowling in and out where formerly meek and heavenly beings had ministered, and making the shattered walls echo with their loud howls and sullen roarings, where once had sounded strains of pure and joyous music.

Thus day by day the ruin spread, and the desolation and desecration became more complete.

But it happened one spring that two little singing-birds came back from the sunny clime where they had wintered, and began building their nest above the ancient altar. There was something in the spring-time which often brought tears to the eyes of the fallen Priestess, she scarcely knew why. The world seemed then like one happy temple full of thankful songs; and as, day by day, the sun repaired the ruins of winter, and the choral services of the woods took a fuller tone, on her heart there fell the mournful sense of the ruins around her, which no spring-tide could restore. Yet something of a softer feeling, a melancholy which breathed of hope, stole over her, as she watched those two happy birds building their nest, and warbling as they worked.

At last the nest was finished, the happy mother-bird sat on her eggs, and the pair had much leisure for confidential conversation.

"How desolate this place is," said the mother-bird.

"And it was once so beautiful," replied her mate.

"Why is it not rebuilt?" she asked.

"None can rebuild but the Hand that built," was the mysterious reply.

"But would not the Architect come if asked? He is so good. Was it not He who taught us to build our nest; and I am sure nothing can be better done than that."

"That is the difficulty," was the reply. "The Priestess does not know He is so good, and is afraid to utter His name. If she only called Him, He would come."

"Is He near enough?"

"He is always near."

"Are you sure?" said the mother-bird. "What can we do to help her?"

"I do not know," replied the mate, "except it is to sing His praise. Perhaps she may listen, and understand one day how good He is."

So all the spring the little happy creatures chirped and sang, until the nestlings were fledged, and the whole family flew away.

But their songs had penetrated deep into the Priestess' heart. And one night, when the Enemy was absent, and the wild beasts prowling far away, she threw herself on the earth before her desecrated altar, and lamented and wept. But for the first time her lamentations, instead of solitary, hopeless wailings, echoing back from the ruined walls, became a broken cry for help.

"Thou, if Thou art indeed so good—if Thou art indeed near, come and help me," she sobbed; "repair my ruins, and save me."

And for the first time, as she wept and implored, she felt the weight of her fetters binding hand and foot; and, clasping her chained hands, she cried more earnestly, "Come and set me free!"

And before the day dawned a voice came softly through the silence—

"I will come."

But with the morning light how bitter was the sight which burst on her aching eyes! All, indeed, had been as desolate long before; but she had never seen it as she saw it now:—Noisome beasts, which prowled fearlessly around her; skulls and ghastly skeletons of their murdered prey strewn about; on the ground the broken, rusted harp; on her hands the heavy chain; and, worse than all, the door she had opened to the Enemy ever open, and inviting his approach!

Too surely he came. He mocked her hope until it appeared baseless as a dream; and nothing seemed real but the ruin to which he scornfully directed her gaze, and the chain which now, for the first time without concealment, he held up triumphantly, dragging her by it to every corner of the polluted and ruined temple, to show her how complete and hopeless the ruin was. Then drawing the links tighter than before, so that they galled and wounded her wrists, he led her to the image of herself, which he had adorned, and painted, and so often flattered. He dragged off the tinsel ornaments, and effaced the delusive colouring, and left her, at last, face to face with the defaced and broken idol, saying,—

"This is the worship you yourself have chosen. Pursue it still. There is no other for you."

She could not bear to gaze on it; and as he went she fell prostrate on the altar steps, and hid her face on the stones. Yet still, though with but a feeble hope, she sobbed out—

"If Thou art good—if Thou canst help me, come—oh, come, and set me free!"

Weariness at last brought sleep; and in her dreams she saw a lovely vision of the temple as it once had been. White columns gleamed, sweet and solemn music sounded, and she herself ministered in white robes at the altar, before a Radiant Form, on which she could scarcely for a moment gaze.

The awaking from this dream to the desolation around her was more terrible than all she had felt before. It must have bereft her of reason, but for the echo of three cheering words which seemed to have awakened her—"I will come."

The next day, with the light of that radiant vision on her heart, she dragged her fettered limbs to the altar, and strove with her feeble and trembling hands to tear that marred image from the shrine. But in vain. It was too firmly embedded there; and she could only turn her face from it, and weep, and cry for help. And before the next morning's dawn help came. In the night a heavenly visitant descended; and with human words, in a language she had not spoken for years, but every word of which melted her heart like the accents of her mother-tongue, He touched her chains, and they fell off; He spoke, and the wild beasts fled, howling; He touched her broken harp, and it was restrung and tuned; He touched the dry and choked-up channel of the sacred spring, and it welled forth pure and fresh from beneath the altar; He touched the idol on the shrine, and it fell, and in its stead shone that wondrous Radiance which she had seen in her dream; then He poured on her head the fragrant oil of consecration, and clothed her in a white vestal priestly garment, and placed the restrung harp in her hand, and rose again to heaven.

At first her joy knew no measure. She gazed on the sacred shrine, and in the glory above it at times she perceived the lineaments of the form of Him who had done all this for her. She touched her harp, and the sweet strings responded as if they knew her hand; she sang holy songs in that old, long-forgotten, yet familiar tongue, so heavenly and happy that the wild beasts would not venture near, and the morning birds were silent to listen. She bathed in the newly-opened fountain and drank of it; and as she drank, her strength and her youth came back.

For a time her joy was without cloud or measure; but as the daylight returned, the desolation of the ruined temple struck sadly on her heart. It was, indeed, a sacred place once more, and she its consecrated Priestess; but was this ruin never to be repaired?

She began to cleanse the sacred vessels and to sweep the earth of all the refuse and dry bones which had been gathered there; and then, with her renewed strength, she set herself to collect the broken fragments of the columns, and tried to piece together the shattered tracery and the delicate carvings of flower and foliage. But it was in vain. She could indeed bring the shattered fragments together, and see what they had been, but she could not join them, or replace one prostrate shaft or capital; and as she sat down mournfully before her shrine, tears dimmed her eyes, so that she could scarcely see the Radiance there, and, falling on her harp-strings, would have rusted them and marred their sweetness; whilst in the silence a voice, too long and bitterly familiar, was heard at the door. Turning round, she perceived the form of the Enemy there, whilst behind him glared fierce and hungry eyes; and in her terror the harp almost fell from her hands.

But she threw herself on her knees before the altar, pressed the harp convulsively to her heart, and cried, "Will these ruins never be repaired, these doors never closed against my enemy and Thine?" The pressure of her trembling fingers drew forth some plaintive strains, like the wind on Æolian strings; but low and plaintive as they were, the Enemy disappeared, and the wild beasts fled howling from them. Then she began to perceive the power of her harp, and drew from it a song of joy and triumph; and as she still gazed on the radiant shrine a veil seemed to be withdrawn from it; and she perceived that it was a window, so that the light streamed through it, not from it. Wondering she gazed, until, penetrating further and further through the light, she saw in the depths of heaven a Temple like her own, only perfect, glorious beyond comparison, and full—full of worshippers robed and singing like herself, and full of that wondrous radiance which streamed from the heavenly form she had seen. She laid her harp upon the shrine, and to her surprise the strings began to quiver of their own accord! An electric current united them to the harps in the heavenly temple, and they vibrated in exquisite harmonies the echo of the harmonies above.

And with the heavenly strains came a voice divine and human, mighty as the sound of many waters, yet soft and near as a whisper in her ear:—

"Here all ruins are repaired: the Enemy cannot enter here, but here thou shalt dwell for ever."

And softly floated down these other words:—

"For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God, an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

The Clock-Bell and the Alarm-Bell.

We have lived a long time here together," said the ponderous Alarm-bell to the little brisk bell in the clock-tower of the Orphan-house, "and a useful life yours has been! I have watched carefully, and never once during these hundred years that we have stood side by side have you failed to tell the hours and half-hours by day and night. I have plenty of leisure for thought; but it would be beyond my powers to calculate how often your voice has been heard in the service of man. I observe, too, how much attention is paid you by all, and with how much well-deserved respect you are regarded. Nothing is done in house or field without your sanction. At your early call this little busy hive begins to stir in the morning. At your mid-day invitation the boys gather from the fields where they have been working, and the girls from the laundries and work-rooms, to the noonday meal. At your evening summons the doors are closed at night, and not a sound is heard afterwards in house or field until your steady voice wakens our little world again. Yours is, indeed, a useful, honoured life; but as for me, who can tell what I was made for? Since I was placed here first, a hundred years ago, lifted up with enormous trouble and labour, and safely roofed in my belfry, not a creature has heard my voice, or been the better for my existence. I might as well have been lying still a lump of unsmelted ore in the depths of the mines. I feel so stiff and rusty, that I sometimes question if they could move me if they tried. For you, daily, hourly usefulness! for me, a hundred years of silence! And who can say how many more? I do not complain; but our destinies are very different. It must be wonderfully happy to be so useful, and to be looked on by every one with such attention and regard. Of course, I could not expect to be as serviceable as you—I, with my cumbrous, ponderous mass of heavy metal, and you, hung so lightly, so graceful in your shape, so brisk in all your movements, so cheery and pleasant in your voice. But I should like to be of some use once in my life, even if it were only to know for what purpose I was made, and set on high."

"Wait!" said the Clock-bell; "there must be some work for you. It would have taken a hundred such as I am to make one like you. Think of the trouble there must have been in getting a mould large enough for you,—of the labour it was to raise you so high. You must be set there for some end, although we do not yet know what. Wait!" said the Clock-bell cheerily, and struck nine.

Then there was a sound from within the house, as of many childish voices singing an evening hymn. A few minutes after, all was still, and ten o'clock echoed over the silent fields to the sleeping city near at hand.

But that night there was an unusual stir in the Orphan-house. Feet were heard rushing hither and thither; and from every window poured forth the cry, "Fire! fire!—the Orphan-house is on fire!" And, through the darkness, lurid smoke began to rise from an outhouse attached to the main building. Then came another cry:—"The Alarm-bell!—ring the Alarm-bell!" And feet were heard on the steps of the belfry-tower; and hands began pulling vigorously at the ropes, and in a moment, for the first time, the deep tones of the long-silent bell pealed heavily on the midnight air. They awoke the city. In a short time fire-engines were on the way. Streams of water played on the flames, and quenched them; and the children and the Orphan-house were saved.

The next morning all was silent again, as if nothing had happened; the outhouse lay in ashes, but the Orphan-house was uninjured. At eight the Clock-bell called the children to their morning prayer; whilst the Alarm-bell had relapsed into silence, perhaps for another century.

But the Clock-bell said, "You have done in an hour the service of a century. Had it not been for you, I should never have struck another hour."

And the grateful children often looked up as they passed beneath, and said, "Had it not been for our good Alarm-bell we might all have perished!"

So the Alarm-bell learned what it was made for, and was content to wait another hundred years, or more, before its voice was heard again.

The Black Ship.

They lived at the foot of the Pine Mountains, in the island of the King's Garden, the mother, with her little son and daughter. The boy's name was Hope, and the little girl's, May. The children loved each other dearly, and were never separated. They never had any quarrels, because Hope was the leader in all their expeditions and plays; and May firmly believed that everything which Hope planned and did, was better planned and better done than it would have been by any one else in the world—by which May meant the island. Hope, on his side, had always a tender consideration for little May in his schemes, such as kings should have for their subjects. May would never have dreamed of originating any scheme herself, or of questioning any which Hope planned. If you had taken away May from Hope, you would have taken away his kingdom, his army, his right hand; if you had taken away Hope from May, you would have robbed her of her leader, her king, her head, her sun. Bereaved of May, I think Hope would have been driven from his desolate home into the wide world; bereaved of Hope, I am sure May would never have left her home, but sat silent there until she pined away. But together, life was one holiday to them; work was a keener kind of play, and every day was too narrow for the happy occupations of which each hour was brimful. Their cottage was at the foot of the mountains, on the sea-shore. Indeed, every house and cottage in the island stood on the sea-shore, because the island was so long and narrow, that, from the top of the mountain-range which divided it, you could see the sea on both sides. If in any place the coast widened, little creeks ran in among the hills, and made the sea accessible from all points. The island consisted entirely of this one mountain-range; the higher peaks sometimes tipped with snow, with a strip of coast at their feet, sometimes narrowing to a little shingly beach, sometimes expanding to a fertile plain, where beautiful cities with fairy bell-towers and marble palaces gleamed like ivory carvings amidst the palms and thick green leaves.

But Hope and May knew nothing of the island beyond the little bay they lived in, and no one they had ever seen or heard of had scaled the mountain-range and looked on the other side; no one, either in the scattered fishermen's huts around them, or in the white town which perched like a sea-bird on the crags on the opposite side of the bay. Indeed, it was only from their mother's words that the children knew that their country was an island; and ever since they had heard this, the great subject of Hope's dreams, and the great object of his schemes, had been to scale the mountains and look on the other side. But this was quite a secret between Hope and May; the happy secret which formed the endless interest of their long talks and rambles, but which they could not speak of to their mother, because she was so tenderly timid about them, and because it was to be the great surprise which one day was to enchant her, when Hope was a man. He was to scale the mountains, penetrate to the wondrous land on the other side, and bring thence untold treasures and tales of marvels to May and his mother.

The children thought Hope would very soon be old enough to go; and they had a little cave in the rocks close to the sea where they treasured up dried fruits, and bits of iron to make tools of with which to chop away the tangled branches in the forests, and cut steps in the glaciers which Hope was to traverse. The lower hills the children knew well; and the ravine which wound up far among the hills they had nearly fixed on as the commencement of the journey.

So the days passed on with the children, rich in purposes and bright with happy work. For they were helpful to their mother. From their mountain expeditions they brought her fire-wood, and forest-honey, and eggs of wild-fowl, and various sweet wild-berries, and wholesome roots. They always noticed that their mother encouraged these mountain expeditions, and seemed much happier when they took that direction than when they kept by the sea.

Once Hope had said to her—

"Mother, how beautiful our country is! and I think it is so happy always to be in sight of the sea. How dull those lands must be you tell us of, which are so large that many people have to live out of hearing of the waves! I could not bear to live there; it must seem so narrow and close to be shut in on the land, with nothing beyond. But here we can never get out of sight of the sea. May and I always find, wherever we roam among the hills, we never lose the sea. When we wander far back from the shore, the beautiful blue waters seem to follow us as if they loved us; and in the inmost recesses of the mountains we always see beneath us some glimpse of bright water in the creeks which run up among the hills, or the rivers which come down to meet them. The sea seems to love every corner of our country, mother, and penetrate everywhere."

A cold shudder passed over the mother's frame, and tears gathered in her eyes.

"The sea is indeed everywhere, my children," she murmured; and then, with a burst of irresistible emotion, she clasped them to her heart, and added bitterly, "Happy the country which that sea cannot approach!"

May and Hope wondered greatly at her words; but there was something in her manner which awed them into silence. For some time after that, they often speculated together as to what her words could mean, and a vague terror seemed to murmur in the ripple of the waves. But gradually the impression wore off in the happy forgetfulness of childhood, and their old schemes were resumed with the same zest as before.

One evening, however, as they were busied with their treasures in the cave, the tide surprised them; and when they set out to return home they found the rocky point which separated them from their cottage surrounded with deep water. The sides of the cliff in the little cove where their cave lay were sheer precipices of smooth rock, too steep to climb, so that the children had to wait some hours before they could creep round the point. Eagerly they watched the declining sun and the retreating tide, until when the waves became only ankle-deep they bounded through them, and in a few minutes were at the cottage door. It was not yet dark, and the children were dancing into the cottage full of spirits at their adventure, when they were startled at the appearance of their mother. She was leaning, stony and motionless, with fixed eyes and clasped hands, against the door-post, and for a moment the sight of her darlings did not seem to rouse her. Then springing up with a cry of joy, she strained them to her heart, covered them with kisses, laughed a wild laugh, broken with convulsive sobs, and at last fell fainting on the floor.

The children knelt beside her, and gradually she revived, and fell into a sleep. But every now and then she started as if with some terrible dream, and murmured in her sleep, "The ship—the Black Ship: not now, not yet: take me, not them; or take us all—take us all!"

The terrified children could not sleep; and all the next day they clung close to their mother, and scarcely spoke a word. In the evening, however, she rallied, and tried to speak cheerfully, and account for her alarm.

"You were late, darlings, and I knew you were by the sea—the terrible sea."

But the children could not be comforted. They felt the weight of some vague apprehension; they could not be tempted to leave their mother; they crept noiselessly about, watching her movements, until at last one night they whispered together, and resolved to take courage and ask their mother what made her dread the sea; and then they consulted long as to the best way of introducing the forbidden subject.

The next evening, as they sat together by the fireside, Hope began, and forgetting all the speeches they had prepared, fixed his large eyes on his mother's and said abruptly, "Mother, what is there terrible in the sea?"

She paused a moment, her face grew deadly pale, and her lips trembled.

"Children, why should you wish to know? You will learn too soon, without my telling you."

"O mother, tell us," said May. "We can bear anything from you. Do not let any one else tell us."

A sudden thought seemed to flash across her, and she said, "Children, you are right."

Then folding one arm around Hope as he stood by her, and taking May on her knee, she said, "It is not the sea I dread; it is the Black Ship. That is the terrible secret; and it is, indeed, better you should learn it from my lips than learn it by losing me, and no one be left to tell you how. My children," she continued, making a great effort to speak calmly, "this is the one sorrow of our country. From time to time a Black Ship, without sails or oars, glides silently to our shores, and anchors there. A dark, Veiled Figure lands from it, and seizes any one of our people whom it chooses, without violence, without a sound, but with irresistible power, and quietly leads the victim away to the Ship, which immediately glides away again from our coasts as swiftly and noiselessly as it came; but no one ever sees those who are thus borne away any more."

"Whence does the Ship come, mother?" asked Hope, after a long silence, "and whither does it go?"

"No one knows, my child. That is the terrible thing about it. There is no sound nor voice. The agonized cries of those who are thus bereaved avail not to bring one word of reply from those lips, or to raise one fold of that dark veil. If we only knew, we could bear it."

"Have you ever seen it, mother?" asked Hope, determined bravely to plunge to the bottom of the terrible mystery, while May could only cling round her mother's neck and cry.

"I have seen it twice," she replied, speaking low and rapidly. "We did not always live here. Your father was rich, and a man of rank, and, loving us most dearly, he resolved to do all in his power to keep the terrible Form away. For this end he built that castle you have often seen above the white tower. It is far above the sea; the rocks are perpendicular; it is built of solid stone; the doors were of oak, studded with iron; the windows barred with iron. No one was ever to be permitted to cross the moat without being strictly scrutinized. The gates were always to be closed. When it was finished he made a feast; and after it, when the guests had left, and every bolt was drawn, we stood at the window of the room where you slept, and looked down triumphantly on the sea. A little sister of yours was sleeping in my arms. Suddenly, close beneath us, in the bay at our feet, we saw moored the Black Ship! Our eyes seemed fascinated to it, and we could not speak. We saw the Veiled Figure descend the side, and slowly scale the precipice beneath us, as if it had been a road made for it to tread. It walked over the water of the castle moat, which did not seem to wet its feet. There was no plunge or splash in the waves, no sound of footsteps on the rock; yet, in a moment, it stood on the balcony outside our window, and we could not stir. It passed through the iron bars. It laid its hand on my sleeping babe. Your father's strong arm was around us both, but before we could utter a cry, our darling had glided like a shadow from our embrace. The bright face of our baby was hidden from us under the folds of that impenetrable veil. We watched the terrible Form noiselessly descend the steep, re-enter the Ship, and not until the Black Ship was already gliding swiftly out of sight could we overcome the terrible fascination. Then my cries of agony awoke the household,—boats were manned in pursuit; but in vain, in vain—we felt it was in vain. We never saw the babe again." She spoke with the languor of a sorrow which had been overwhelmed by greater sorrows still.

"But our father?" asked Hope.

"He left the castle the next day," she answered. "We never returned to it. He said the strong walls only mocked our helplessness; and since then the castle has been empty. Birds build their nests in our chambers, wild beasts make their lair in our gardens, the iron bars rust on the open doors; and if the Veiled Figure enter again, it will find no prey."

"But where did you go?"

"We came here. Your father said he would dare the foe, and, since no fortification could keep it out, meet it on its own ground. So he built this cottage close to the sea, and here we have lived ever since. I was content to remain here because I thought we might avoid seeing any one, and keep the terrible secret from you.

"And here," she continued with the calmness of despair, "one morning we saw the Black Ship moored, and your father went to meet it. I wept and clung to him, to keep him back, but he said, 'It shall speak to me.'

"The Dark Form came up, a black shadow across the sunny beach. Your father encountered it boldly, and said, 'Where is my child?'

"There was no sound in reply. For a moment there seemed to be a struggle. I rushed towards them, but the terrible touch was on your father's hand. There seemed no violence, no chain was on his arm—only that paralyzing touch. He went from me silent and helpless as the babe.

"'Whither, whither?' I cried; 'only tell me where!'

"He looked back once, but he spoke to me no more. I rushed madly into the sea, but the Ship was gone in a minute; and your voices, your baby voices, called me back, and I came."

"Is there no help, mother?" said Hope at last. "Has no one ever tried? If I were but a man! Oh, surely some help could be found?"

"So thousands have thought, tried, and asked in vain. Fleets have scoured the seas, but none ever came on the Black Ship's track."

Hope was silenced, and the little family sat up together that night. They did not dare to separate, even to their beds; yet before long the children were asleep.

Sleep revived the brother and sister; and by the evening Hope's ardent heart had found another point to rest on.

"Mother," he said, "if we could only find out whence the Black Ship comes, we might be comforted. Perhaps it comes from a happy place. Can no one even guess?"

"There are some who profess to know something of it," she replied; "but your father never believed them."

"Who are they?" asked Hope.

"The amulet-makers. There is a band of men in the White Town who profess to know something of the country from which the Black Ship comes, and who sends it. But they talk very mysteriously, in learned words; and I do not understand them. Your father said it was all a deception; because some of them profess to make amulets or charms which keep the Veiled Form away; and your little sister had one round her neck when she was taken from us. You have each one, but I cannot trust it; and I never could find out that the amulet-makers had anything but guesses as to where the Ship came from; and your father said we could guess as well as they. There is one thing," she added with a faint smile, "which gives me more comfort than anything they ever said. When our baby was taken away from my arms—when she felt that terrible touch—she did not seem to be at all afraid. She looked up in my face, and then at the Veiled Form, and stretched out her baby arms from me to it and smiled. At first, I hated to think of that. It seemed as if some cruel charm was on her to win even her heart from me; but often in the night, in my dreams, that smile has come back to me, like a promise; and I have awaked, comforted—I hardly know why."

"Perhaps they are in a happy place, mother," said little May.

And Hope said, "Mother, I am going to question the amulet-makers in the White Town." And his mother suffered him to go.

In two days, Hope came back. But his step was spiritless and slow, and his face very sad.

"Mother," he said, "I think my father was right. I am afraid no one knows anything about the country from which the Black Ship comes. At first the amulet-makers promised to tell me a great deal. Some of them told me they believed it was a great king, an enemy of our race, who sent the Ship; but that if we kept certain rules, and put on a certain dress they would sell us, or give them certain treasures to throw into the sea when the Ship appeared, they would watch for us, and make the powers beyond the sea favourable to us. But when I came to the question—how they knew this to be true, or if they had ever had any message from beyond the sea, or seen any one who came thence, they grew silent, and sometimes angry, and told me I was a presumptuous child. There was one old man, however, who was kind to me; and he came and spoke to me alone, and said, 'My child, be happy to-day!—to be good is to be happy. What is beyond to-day, or beyond the sea, no one knows, or ever can know. Go back to your mother, and live as before.' So I came," concluded Hope. "But it can never, never be with us again as before we knew."

From that time the boy seemed to cease to be a child, or to take interest in any childish schemes. He was gentle and tender as his father would have been to his mother and to May, and seemed to take it on himself to watch over and protect them. He never left them out of sight; until, one day, as they came, in their ramble in search of shell-fish, on their old cave, and looked once more at their little stores, so joyously hoarded there, May suddenly exclaimed, "What if they should know on the other side of the mountains!"

The thought flashed on Hope like a breath of new life; and from that day his old schemes were resumed, but with an intensity and a purpose which could not be quenched. He would scale the mountains, to see if any tidings from beyond the sea had reached the land across the mountains!

His mother's consent was gained; and in a few days, spent in eager preparations, Hope was to start.

But before those days were ended, one evening a white-haired old man knocked at the cottage door. He was nearly exhausted with travel, his clothes were torn, and his feet bleeding.

They led him to the fire, bathed his feet, and set food before him. But before he would touch anything, the old man said,—

"I have tidings for you—glad tidings."

"Do you come from across the mountains?" exclaimed Hope, starting to his feet.

The old man bowed in assent.

"I come from across the mountains, and I bring you glad tidings from beyond the sea."

"Glad tidings!" they all exclaimed.

"Glad tidings, if you will obey them," he replied;—"if not, the saddest you ever heard. It is not an enemy who sends the Black Ship, but a Friend."

Not a question, scarcely a breath interrupted him and he continued, in brief, broken sentences,—

"It is our King. Our island belongs to Him. He gave it to us. But, long ago, our people rebelled against Him. They were seduced by a wicked prince, His deadly enemy, and, alas! ours. They sent the King a defiance; they defaced His statues, which were a type of all beauty; they broke His laws, which are the unfolding of all goodness. He sent ambassadors to reclaim them; He, who could have crushed the revolt, and destroyed our nation with one of His armies in a day, descended from His dignity, and stooped to entreat our deluded people to return to their allegiance. But they treated His condescension as weakness. They defied His ambassadors, and maltreated them, and drove them from the island. He had warned them against the usurper, and told them the consequences of revolting; and too surely they have been fulfilled. The Black Ship is the penalty inflicted by our offended Monarch; but those who return to His allegiance need not dread it."

"Some, then, have submitted to the King?" asked Hope.

"Every ambassador He sent has persuaded some to recognize the King."

"Why not all?" asked Hope. "If the King is good, and is our King, and will receive us, why not all return?"

"The usurper seduces them still," replied the old man. "Many hate the King's good laws; many take pride in what they call their independence; most will not listen, or will not believe. They mock the King's messengers, and declare that they are impostors, that their messages are a delusion; and some even persist in declaring that there is no King, and no country beyond the sea."

"But the Black Ship is not a delusion!" said Hope; "it must come from some land. What proof have these ambassadors given? Have they ever been in the land beyond the sea?"

"They gave many proofs; but I bring you better news than this. A few years since, the King's Son came Himself. Many of us have seen and spoken with Him. He stayed many days. He spoke words of such power, and in tones of such tenderness, as none who heard can ever forget. We could trace in His features the lineaments of the statues we had defaced. Some of the worst rebels among us were melted to repentance, and fell at His feet, and besought His pardon. I was one. He gave us not only His pardon, but His friendship. But His enemies prevailed. Especially the amulet-makers organized a conspiracy against Him; they feared for their trade, and secretly prepared to drive Him from the island. He had come alone, for He came not to compel, but to win. And He came for another purpose, which, until He was gone, we could not comprehend. The conspirators triumphed. One day they came in force and seized Him. Alas! a base panic seized us who loved Him, and we fled. They bound Him with thongs, they treated Him with the most barbarous cruelty and the basest indignity, and drove Him to the sea. We thought a fleet and an army would have appeared to avenge His insulted majesty and proclaim Him King with power, or bear Him in pomp away; but to our surprise and dismay nothing came for Him but the Black Ship, and the Dark Form bore Him from us, as if He had been a rebel like one of us. He had told us something of the probability of this before it happened, but we could not comprehend what He meant. Never were days of such sorrow as those which passed over us after His being taken from us. His enemies were in full triumph; they mocked our Prince's claims, they insulted us, they threatened us; but all they could say or do was nothing in comparison with the anguish in our hearts. For what could we think? He whom we had loved and trusted was gone, borne off in triumph by the very foe He came to deliver us from. We hid ourselves in caves and lonely places by the sea, and recalled to one another His precious words, and gazed out over the sea with a vague yearning, which was scarcely hope, and yet kept us lingering on the shore.

"On the third morning, in the gray light of early dawn, one of us saw Him on the shore; one who had owed Him everything, and loved Him most devotedly. She called us to come. One by one we gathered round Him. Some of us could scarcely believe our senses for joy. But it was Himself; the solid certainty of that unutterable joy grew stronger. And then He told us wonders: how He suffered all this for us; had borne this indignity and captivity in obedience to His Father's will, to set us free; had gone in the Black Ship itself to the heart of the Enemy's country, and alone trodden those terrible regions of lawless wickedness to which he seeks to drag his deluded victims, and alone vanquished him there. He stayed with us some days, and talked with us familiarly, as of old; but how glorious His commonest words were, how overpowering His forgiving looks, how inspiring His firm and tender tones, I can never tell. He could not remain with us then. He said we must be His messengers, and win back His rebels to allegiance; we must learn to be brave, to speak and suffer for Him, and to act as men; and He promised to come again one day with fleets and armies, and all the pomp of His Father's kingdom. But, meantime, He said the Black Ship should never more be a terror to any of us who loved Him; for He Himself would come in it each time. He would be veiled, so that none could see Him but the one He came for: but surely as the Black Ship came, instead of the Dark Form, He would come Himself for every one of us, and bear us home to His Father's house to abide with Him, and with Him hereafter to return."

There was a breathless silence, broken only by the mother's sobs.

She clasped her hands, and murmured,—

"Then it was He! It was surely He Himself who came and took my babe. No wonder my darling smiled, and was willing to go."

The mother and the children that very evening received from the stranger the medal which was worn by all those who returned to their allegiance. It was a Black Ship, surrounded with rays of glory, and behind it the towers of a city.

Never were a happier company than the four who gathered round the cottage table that evening. They were too happy, and had too much to ask, to sleep; and far into the night the questions and answers continued, every reply of the old man's only revealing some fresh endearing excellence in the King and the King's Son, until they longed for the Black Ship to come and fetch them home.

"If only," said little May, "it would fetch us all at once!"

"That the King will do when He comes with His armies in the day of His triumph. Till then, my child, this is the one only sorrow connected with the Black Ship, for those who love the King. We go one by one, and blessed as it is for the one who goes, it must be sad sometimes for those who are left."

"Why do not those who go to Him ask Him to come quickly?" asked Hope.

"They do," replied the old man. "'Come quickly' is the entreaty of all who love Him here and beyond the sea; but His time is best. And, meantime, have we forgotten the multitudes who are still deceived by the usurper, to whom the Black Ship is still a horrible end of all things, and the Veiled Form the King of Terrors?"

Hope rose and stood before the old man.

"Mother," he said, "it is for this we must live. Think of the desolate hearts in the homes around us. Think of the thousands who know not our blessed secret in the White Town."

The old man rose and laid his hand on Hope's head.

"My King!" he said, "when wilt Thou come for me? Is not my work done? Will not this youthful voice speak for Thee here as my quivering tones no longer can? Wilt Thou not come? I have many dear ones with Thee; but when Thou wilt is best."

Then he persuaded them all to lie down to rest, and he himself composed himself quietly to sleep.

But in the night a wondrous light filled the room; a wondrous light and fragrance. The mother woke, and the children, and they saw the old man standing, gazing towards the door, which was open. There stood a Veiled Form, dark to the mother's eyes as the dreaded form she knew too well; yet its presence filled the room with the light as of a rosy dawn, and the fragrance as of spring flowers. The old man's hair was silvery, and his form tottering as ever; but in his face there was the beauty of youth, and in his eyes the rapture of joy.

"Farewell, my friends," he said; "your day of joy will come like this of mine.—Thou art come for me at last; Thou Thyself! I see Thy face, I hear Thy voice: I come; it is Thou."

A hand was laid tenderly on his hand, and they walked away together into the night. But as the mother and children looked after him from the door, they saw the Black Ship; only at its prow was a star; and as it passed away, the mother, and Hope, and May thought it left a track of light upon the sea.

The three had henceforth enough to live and suffer for. To the lonely fishermen's huts went May and her mother, into the White Town went Hope; and everywhere they bore their tidings of joy. They had much to suffer, and many mocked; and against them also the amulet-makers combined, and would not listen. But some did listen, and believe, and love; and to such, as to the mother, and Hope, and May, the Black Ship, instead of a phantom of terror, became a messenger of surpassing joy.

The Island and the Main Land.

A SEQUEL TO "THE BLACK SHIP."

On the night when the old man, the messenger of glad tidings, was borne away, the mother and her children, turning sadly back, from watching him depart, to the blank his going left in the cottage, found that he had left with them a scroll. With trembling expectation they unrolled it, and read. It contained further revelations concerning the King's ship (they would call it the Black Ship no more), and the land to which it bore those for whom it was sent.

The Island was not a detached land set in the midst of a lonely sea. It was a fragment of a great Continent, broken off from the Main Land by some convulsion, long ago. And from this Continent it was divided, not by broad spaces of the heaving ocean, but by a mere strait, in some places narrowed to a chasm of seething waters, in others spreading into a calm lagoon, but everywhere, in itself, quite insignificant.

The Island lay in a land-locked Bay of the great Continent, encompassed on all sides by its Highlands. The little hills, which its inhabitants called mountains, were girt around by the magnificent mountain-ranges of the Main Land. Its colonial settlements, which the dwellers in them called cities, were commanded from the other side by the glorious cities of the kingdom. Its islanders, who called themselves "the world," were compassed about by the victorious ones now at home in the great true world across the waters.

Not only had the King's Son come and reconciled the islanders to the King; not only did He Himself come and receive each one who trusted Him to Himself, making the Black Ship, for all such, no more a phantom of terror, but the messenger of infinite joy; He had not withdrawn Himself to a distance. The mountains where He dwelt rose close above the Island where He had tarried and suffered and overcome, compassing it about on every side. From their heights every nook of the Island was visible to Him, every work of His faithful ones was watched. They were only concealed by a thin but opaque veil of mist, which brooded unceasingly over the strait. This mist was the great mystery of the Island, absolutely impenetrable to all its inhabitants, but from the other side altogether transparent. There were indeed moments when, to the eyes of those who watched some best-beloved borne away from them, this mist became translucent (though not transparent) even in the Island. But once beyond it, once on the other side; once within it, even, on the crossing, it was seen to be absolutely nothing.

Many a creek in the Island itself was wider and more difficult to cross than the strait which divided it from the Main Land. Only, no one could cross that strait at his own will, at his own time, or in his own way.

Not that the crossing was equally calm for all. Some passed over softly across the sunlit lagoon; some in the rush of the surf boiling through the narrow chasm. But, for all, the crossing was but a moment. And for those who, in that moment, on this side, for the first time met the eyes that had been watching them so long across the sea, who can utter what the revelations of that moment were!

The hills of the Fatherland stood round about the Island. The towers of the golden city were watch-towers; at the gates those who had entered in were waiting in joyful expectation,—at the pearly gates, open day and night, from which the songs of welcome had never time to die away, so constantly were the new citizens entering there.

All through the night the mother and sister listened with rapt attention as the brother read. Very much of the scroll contained simple every-day directions as to what was the King's will for the daily living of His subjects. But these, at that time, the three glanced hastily over, as interruptions to the great revelation of the things unseen.

The lifting of the veil had given them such a longing to see it lifted further! The Hand that had raised it had so evidently moved from within, and from above; the veil was so evidently rent from top to bottom; the glimpses were so manifestly glimpses of continuous depths of light, of a full world of wonders, all fully open to the eyes of Him that had given those glimpses, that who could say what else might be made known? Why not more? Why not all?

And as they read and listened, marvellous gleams came. Every now and then the curtain of mist seemed to rise. Fold behind fold the mountain landscape of the Better Country deepened beyond them; depth above depth they saw into its heavens of light. In a rapture of awe they seemed to stand on the threshold of the opening door of a Temple, as if at last all were about to become clear. But almost in the same instant the mist was there again, and the glorious vision vanished.

Marvellous, it seemed, to learn so much, compared with the blank before, and yet so little compared with what might have been revealed. So that first night of revelations passed, and the morning dawned. The three laid down the scroll and went out to the beach before the cottage.

How wonderfully everything had changed to them since the previous night!

As they had read and listened in eager expectation through the night, every now and then a disappointment had crept over them that so much should be left untold; but now as they stepped out over the familiar threshold on the familiar beach, for the first time they understood how much had been revealed, and how marvellously everything was transfigured to them. The world had grown so infinitely larger; the island so infinitely less!

The island, which had been their world, seemed to have shrunk and shrivelled to a mere rocky peak, where some shipwrecked company had found a transient refuge, and where they were merely awaiting the vessel which was to take them thence.

As the dawn flushed over what they had been used to call mountains, the vision of the glorious mountain-ranges beyond and above them seemed to dwarf them into sand-banks. When the dawn grew into practical day, and the busy hum of labour and traffic came from the White Town across the creek, and eager voices began to resound along the shore, the three looked at one another with smiles that said, "Why make they this ado?" And when, with much pomp and circumstance, the attendants of one of the Town authorities escorted him with trumpets and banners past the Cottage, and all the dwellers in the neighbouring cottages made obeisance as they passed, and eagerly gazed after the pageant,—to the three whose eyes were opened it seemed like some game of little children playing at being kings and princes.

At first, on the discovery of the true proportion between the Island and the Main Land, everything was swallowed up in the sense of that proportion; or rather, of that tremendous disproportion. The Island dwindled to a mere speck. It was as if they had fallen asleep on what they believed to be terra firma, and wakened up on a raft with nothing but a few planks between them and the fathomless depths on every side.

For one thing, both from the old man's words and from the scroll, was absolutely clear.

Everywhere, everywhere, above that brooding mist, on high, commanding all they did, were towering at that moment the Everlasting Hills.

Somewhere, somewhere, behind that impenetrable veil (impenetrable only to eyes on this side of it), were flashing the towers of the Golden City, were standing open the pearly gates, were echoing in the tones of dear familiar voices, the welcomes which never die away along those happy shores, as the echoes of the partings never die from these. Somewhere, not afar off, the eyes of the Deliverer and the King were watching them.

And no one in that region knew of it but those three, standing together alone by the cottage threshold.

Every one, indeed, knew of the Black Ship. That was but too obvious to all. But who entertains longer than can be helped the thought of an inevitable misery?

Once transmute this fact of sorrow into a revelation of joy, and surely every one would delight to keep it in view.

In the first fervent joy of the discovery of that great Continent of life lying close around them unseen, nothing seemed worth doing but either to tell every one of it, or themselves to watch if perchance some glimpses of it might be vouchsafed to their own eager gaze.

Hope chose the first part of the work. The mother and the maiden the second.

With a pilgrim's wallet hastily filled with such provision as was ready, and with his staff in his hand, Hope went joyously forth, while the mother and sister followed him with their eyes until he waved a farewell to them from the edge of a cliff and they turned back to the cottage.

Months passed by ere they met again. Meantime the mother and sister kept ceaseless watch by the shore. Every night they lingered, longing that the veil of daylight, whose withdrawing revealed to them the stars, and all the hidden world of night, might enable them to pierce that other veil which hid a world always there, and so much nearer, and so much more their own.

Every morning they rose with the earliest dawn, hoping that the morning winds might rend some little rift in the curtain of mist, and give if but one glimpse of the everlasting hills which were so surely rising at that very hour crowned with sunlight above. When a tempest swept across the sea they rejoiced; for in the scroll there were strange hints of a day when all at once, in the twinkling of an eye, the whole intervening volume of mist should be broken up and swept aside, and through the glorious break should come, not one dark, mysterious, solitary ship, for one solitary emigrant, but the whole array of the King's armies, and at their head the Prince, the Deliverer, and with Him all the beloved who had gone before to Him.

And who could say which thunders and lightnings might be the heralds of that liberating storm?

Nor did the mother and daughter remain always alone. The fire of that joy was one that could not burn in any heart without shining, and many a mourner gathered around the cottage threshold to listen to their tidings and to share their vigils. Together they looked towards the Fatherland. And as they gazed, their longings broke into song.

"Come," they sang, in low chants. "Come, O King! why tarriest Thou? Thou hast suffered and overcome! Thou hast won us back, and Thou wilt take us Home. Since we have heard of Thee, what can we do but long for Thee? Since we have learned of our home, what do we here any longer? Since we know where our beloved are gone, how can we bear this exile any more? Exiles on this broken fragment of thy Land, which is ours,—why dost Thou keep us here? All beautiful sights and sounds, henceforth, to us are but faint echoes of our home-music; and but fill us with home-sickness. The mountains of our home stand round about us, and we know it. How can we rest longer on these shores of exile? Exile is for those whose hearts are estranged from Thee. Our hearts are won back to Thee, Deliverer and King. When wilt Thou come for us and take us Home?"

Thus, gradually the songs which had begun as songs of triumph fell into a minor, and became songs of exile. The restlessness of unsatisfied longing crept over the joy of discovery. Many abandoned the common round of life. Tents arose on the hill-sides, whose inmates, forsaking the Island treasures which had become to them such baubles, and the pursuit of those Island ambitions which had become to them so childish, lived only to gaze towards that mountain-range of their home which was encircling them unseen, and to watch for the breaking of the mist.

These the mother and sister might have joined, but for their waiting for the brother's return.

At last, in the twilight of a winter's evening, he came back, weary and worn.

The three sat together once more around the cottage hearth. A chill of unconfessed disappointment brooded over them all, like the mist itself which brooded around their Island; and they sat silent.

Weary and worn the mother and sister had expected to see him, footsore with travel, with cheeks hollow with scanty food, and perchance a form wasted by hard usage; for should the servant be greater than his lord? But in his eyes there was a look of unrest and despondency that scarcely fitted a messenger of glad tidings.

"My son," said the mother at length, laying her hand on the hand with which he had covered his brow, "we could not hope that all would welcome the great news. All did not listen even to Him!"

"It is not that," he answered, "that disquiets me. I want to be sure we are doing what He meant. Hundreds have listened. In some cities whole streets are unpeopled by the news I brought; workmen have left the workshops, judges the judgment-seat, merchants their bales, women their homes.

"'Why toil any more,' they say, 'for the low ambitions of this mere peak of rock? Why heap up its cockle-shells of wealth? Around us is the Continent, the Main Land of our true life; before us is our Home. For the moment we are poised here, like birds of passage on a sea-girt rock; what is there to do but to take a moment's rest, or a moment's refreshment, and plume our wings for flight?'

"Thus, where my message was believed, cities have been unpeopled, homes have been broken up, every-day pursuits have grown aimless and insipid, and have been abandoned, until some, not of the scoffers, but of the soberer sort, have said,—

"If your tidings are true, let them be true. The hour will come which discovers them to all. We will go on our quiet way, and find them true when our hour comes. And, we trow, the King, if he come, will be as well pleased to find us at our work as you at your watching."

"Mother," concluded the son, "I feel as if we had made some mistake; as if there must be more to learn. And I have come home to search and see."

Then once more, as on that first night of the old man's departure, Hope unrolled the scroll he had left behind, and the three sat into the night and drank in the enlightening words.

And now they learned the second half of the tidings. The passages over which, in the first joy of the discovery of the New World, they had passed hastily as mere trite and familiar truths, now shone out on them as the very directions they needed.

They learned how for thirty years the King's Son had lived quietly in the Island, doing its ordinary work, before for those three years He went about proclaiming why He came.

Of those precious years which He had sojourned among them, tenfold more time had been spent in doing what every man must do, than in doing what He seemed to have come especially to do.

In the word He had left to guide His own, tenfold more space was given to directions how to do His will in this land of exile than to revealing the glories of the abiding Home.

From the Everlasting Hills, and the Golden City, and the many mansions, the veil was lifted but for rare glimpses. On every step of the daily path shone for those who sought it a full daylight, in which no one need go astray.

Thus once more as they read, the Island, which had dwindled to a peak of sea-washed rock, expanded into a beauty and significance greater than ever.

For the Island was not merely a fragment broken off from the Continent.

It was an integral part of the Kingdom. The laws of the Royal City were its laws. The lowliest right work of its inhabitants was the King's work.

And when morning dawned, and they went out once more on the shore together, the very beach under their feet seemed to have grown a sacred place; the very drawing of water from the old familiar spring a royal service.

They had learned, not only the proportion between the Island and the Main Land, which made the Island dwindle to a fragment of rock, but the connection, which made it wide and grand, as the entrance to a boundless world. Only in itself, disconnected from the Kingdom to which it belonged, was it narrow and poor. Only its ambitions limited to itself, only its treasures, so used as to be left behind in it, were really worthless. Its paths, so broken and bounded in themselves, were infinite, as each the beginning of the radius of an infinite circle. Its hills, so low when compared with the mountain-ranges of the Main Land, were infused with a new inward glory like the light enshrined in gems, when looked at as but the lower slopes of those Everlasting Hills.

The lowliest loving works, done faithfully on His Island, were as much done under the King's eye as the loftiest in His palace chambers; and they might be done as much to His praise.

The service of the King on the Island and on the Main Land was indeed all one, though done in very different degrees of perfection, and on very different levels.

Not only in gazing towards their lofty Dwelling Place, but in following their lowly footsteps, were they drawing nearer those who had gone before.

The best waiting was obeying; the best Island lessons were not so much learning the wonders of that higher world, as learning the obedience which makes it the glorious, harmonious world it is.

And many a time, thenceforth, as the mother and her children went about their daily tasks, rendering such services as they could to all around, gleams of wonderful light which they had watched for in vain, and strains of inimitable music which all their listening had not caught, surprised them along their every-day paths. Every day, and all day long, the presence of the mountains of the Main Land brooded over them.

And one day, also by their every-day paths, the Messenger Ship will surprise them with its summons to the Land of welcome. The step into it will be but one of their every-day steps on the King's errands. But what the step out of it will be, who can utter?

For the Everlasting Hills do indeed stand round about the Island; and the gates of the Golden City are open towards it night and day, and the mist which veils the Glorious Land is altogether transparent on the other side.

RISEN WITH CHRIST.

Not alone the victors free,

Standing by the crystal sea,

Sing the song of victory,

"Risen are Thine own with Thee,"—

We may chant it; even we.

One our life with those above,

One our service, one our love.

Not at death that life begins,

Though a fuller strength it wins;

Freed from all that cramps its might,

Freed from all that bounds its flight,

Freed from all that dims its light.

We upon these lower slopes,

Dim with fears and fitful hopes;

They upon the eternal heights,

Glorious in undying lights,

Radiant in the cloudless Sun;

Yet their life and ours is one.

E'en on us their Sun hath shone,

And for us their Day begun.

And the lowly paths we tread

Are the same where they were led;

Very sacred grown and sweet,

Printed by immortal feet;

Trodden once, long years before,

By His feet whom they adore.

And each service kind and true,

Which to any here we do,

Linked in one immortal chain,

Makes their service live again;

Draws us to the service nigh

Which they render now on high:

For the highest heavens above

Nothing higher know than love.

Hidden are our best with Thee,

Hidden too our life must be;

Since e'en Thou, our Life and Light,

Hidden art from mortal sight:

Yet for us has Life begun,

E'en on us their day hath shone,

Still with theirs our life is one.

The Jewel of the Order of the King's Own.

Once, on the sea-shore, in a land a long way off, I met an old man dressed as a galley-slave, and toiling at convicts' work, with a heavy chain around one of his arms; but his face and bearing were stamped with the truest nobility. I felt sure he must be a victim of some political cabal, and not a criminal; for not a trace of crime or remorse debased that calm brow, and those clear, honest eyes. This might not have struck me as remarkable, since such unmerited sufferings were but too common in that country. What arrested my attention was the expression of unfeigned and lofty joy which irradiated his aged countenance.

In the interval of noonday rest allowed him, as well as the other convicts, I sat down beside him and entered into conversation with him. I found he was an old soldier; and at length I was encouraged by his frankness to inquire the cause of the strange contrast between his expression and his circumstances.

The veteran lifted his cap, and said mysteriously, "The King shall enjoy His own again. The spring will come, and with it the violets."

The thought struck me that some harmless and happy insanity had risen, like a soft mist, to veil from him his miserable lot; and following his train of thought, I said, "You wait for a king, and hope cheers you. Yet you must have waited long; and hope deferred maketh the heart sick."

"The uncertainty of hope," he replied, "often makes the heart sick with fear of disappointment; but my hope is sure, and every day of delay certainly brings me nearer to it. Every night, as I look out from my convict's cell over the sea, before I lie down to sleep, I think that before to-morrow the white sails of His fleet may stud the blue waters—for He will not return alone; and when morning dawns gray across the bare horizon, I am not cast down, because I know the morning we wait for will surely come at last."

"But," I said reverently, and half hesitating to disturb his happy dream, "when that morning dawns will you still be here?"

"Here or there," he answered solemnly. "Either with the few who look for Him here, or with the countless multitudes who will accompany Him thence."

Knowing how such legends of the return of exiled princes linger in the hearts of a nation, and wondering whether the old man spoke from the delusion of his own peculiar madness or of a tradition current among his people, I said, "Your words are strange to me. Tell me the history."

"After the great battle," the old soldier replied, a smile bright as a child's, yet tender as tears, lighting up his whole countenance,—"after the last great battle the King, the true King, our own King, has never been seen publicly in our country. They wounded Him, and left Him for dead on the field—they had wounded His heart to the core. Traitors were amongst them; it was not only an open enemy that did Him this dishonour. But they were mistaken; He is not dead. We who loved Him know. We bore Him secretly from the field. He lingered a few days amongst us after His wounds had healed, in disguise; but although His royal state was hidden for a time, we who knew His voice could tell Him blindfold from a million; and since He left us, His faithful adherents, who before His departure could be counted by tens, have increased to thousands."

"An unusual fortune," I remarked, "for a cause whose last effort seems generally to have been considered a defeat, and whose leader has apparently abandoned it."

"There are many reasons," said the old man, "why it should be so; and among the chief of these is this one. When our Prince left us, He gave to each of His adherents a precious gift as a token of His love, and a sign by which we may know each other."

As he spoke he drew aside his poor garment, and on his breast there sparkled a gem more brilliant than any star or decoration I had ever seen!

"This is the star of the King's Own Order," he said; and as I looked at it a wonderful transformation seemed to have taken place in the old man's dress. His poor convict's garb seemed metamorphosed into the richest robes, such as princes wore in that southern land, of the costliest materials, and all of a glistening white, at once royal and bridal, whilst his chain glittered like a jewelled bracelet. The veteran smiled at my surprise, and unclasping his jewel, bound it on his brow. Instantly the same magical change passed over his face. Noble as it was before, his countenance now shone as if it had been the face of an angel. Every trace of care and age was effaced; the eyes shone under the calm, unfurrowed brow with the sparkle of early youth, and nothing was left to indicate age but a depth in the glance and a history in the expression, which youth cannot have.

"But," I said, "surely your enemies must seek to rob you of such a treasure?"

"Try," he replied, "if you can take it from me."

I endeavoured gently to detach the jewel from his brow, but my fingers had scarcely touched it when it sprang up like glittering drops from a fountain, and was gone, yet leaving the glory on the old man's face.

He smiled, and observed quietly, "Our jewel no man taketh from us."

Then again unclasping the fillet which had bound it round his brow, the magic gem reappeared in his hand.

It was mid-day, and the usual fare of the convicts was brought to him—scanty and coarse fare, with bad water. He humbly and thankfully partook of the poor food, but poured out the contents of the cup on the ground.

"The water of this land is bad," he said. "The people render it palatable by mixing it with a fiery stimulant, which, alas! only increases their thirst, so that they ever thirst again. But we do not need this."

Then gently laying his finger on the gem, it expanded, like a lily-bell in the sun, into a crystal vase, and in it bubbled up a miniature fountain of pure, sparkling water.

"In us a well of water springing up," he murmured, as if to himself, as he drank and was refreshed; and touching the vase again, it folded up, like a convolvulus going to sleep when the sun sets.

I wondered he had not had the courtesy to offer me a draught. He read my thoughts, and said, "This water is untransferable. Each of us must have his own jewel."

"Then," I replied, "if your Prince left those jewels to you at His departure, and has not returned since, how can His followers have increased, if this token is essential to them, and, indeed, as you intimated, an inducement to many to enlist under His banner?"

"It is free to all, and yet a secret," he replied. "Whenever any one desires to enlist in our Prince's service, he must repair alone, before daybreak, to a lonely beach on our shores, and wait there for what the King will send. There, when the sun rises—not always the first morning, or the second, or the third, but always at last—his first rays gleam on a new jewel, exactly like the others, sparkling among the shells and pebbles. The young soldier takes it up, presses it to his lips, murmurs the name written on it, binds it on his heart, and it is his own, and he is the King's for ever. None ever saw it come, though some fancy they have seen a streak of light on the sea when it first appears, as of the track of an illumination out on the waters."

"What name is engraved on it?" I asked.

"The King's name," he replied, bowing his head reverently.

"May I see it?" I said.

"You could not," he replied gravely. "None of us can read that name, except on our own jewels."

I was silent for a moment. He continued,—

"But I have a greater wonder yet to tell you of our jewel—the greatest wonder of all; and this you must take at my word. The light and glory of this gem is entirely reflected from a jewel of the same kind, but infinitely more glorious, which sparkles on the King's own heart. When I raise this gem to my eyes, and look through it," he added, in a tone which thrilled with the deepest emotion, raising it at the same time like a telescope to his eyes, "this country vanishes from me altogether, and I see wonders."

"What do you see?" I asked, half trembling.

"I see the King in His beauty," he replied. "I see the land which is very far off. I see a city which has no need of the sun. I see a palace where His servants serve Him. I see a throne which is as jasper, and, above it, a rainbow like an emerald; and, above all I see, I see Him, with the jewel on His heart: but His jewel is no mere gem, no reflection—it is a star, it is light itself; and in its glory the city, the palace, and the throne, and the happy faces of His servants round Him, glow and shine."

And as he spoke, I looked at the old man's jewel, and his countenance itself grew so glorious, that I could not gaze any longer, but cast down my dazzled eyes, and was silent. At length, after a pause of some moments, my eagerness to hear more constrained me to resume the conversation; and when I looked up, the jewel was again hidden in the old man's breast, his appearance had taken its soberer beauty, and the presence of that marvellous treasure was only betrayed by the strange calm and peace which had first attracted me in the veteran's face.

"But," I asked, "if such a possession indeed is yours, the wonder now seems to me to be, how the King's enemies can have a follower left. Have your opponents any similar guerdon to offer?"

"Similar things," he replied, "they at one time often tried to make, but the same they could never have; and even to imitate the outside beauty of it they found so difficult, that the soberest men of the party have, for the most part, given it up in despair, and say it is all a cheat."

"But why, at least, does not each one try for himself," I asked, "and see if it is true or not?"

"There are many reasons," he replied sorrowfully, "which keep the land from returning nationally to its allegiance. The usurper is still in power, and gives away the offices of state as he pleases; bonds and imprisonment often await us, as you see is the case with me; and many prefer the possession of lands and houses, or even less, to the reversion of a city, and the service of a Prince they have never seen."

"I understand," I replied.

"Besides," he added, "there are strict rules binding our order. The people of the usurper do each what is right in his own eyes; but we are subject to our Prince's laws, which, though most blessed to those who keep them, seem to those who are outside, and live lawlessly, severe and strict. We are subject to our Prince, and to one another for His sake; and only those who have proved the joy of that subjection and service know how much happier it is than the tyranny of their lawlessness and self-will."

"What are those counterfeit jewels you alluded to?" I asked.

"They are of various construction," he replied. "Some try to imitate one quality of our jewel, and some another. Some of the court jewellers of the usurper make a paste or tinsel jewel, which, when the sun shines, has a lustre a little like that of ours. The young courtiers often wear this; but when the sun is clouded or sets, it ceases to shine: so that even its outward resemblance is very imperfect, and it does not even pretend to imitate the secret of the fountain or the magic glass. And, moreover, it can be stolen or broken. Often, even in the courtly revels, it is broken—often it is stolen or dropped; and even if it is retained, in a few years the lustre fades away, and can never be restored. Then," he continued, "some make a bold effort to imitate our jewel in its form of the crystal vase, but the crystal itself is dim; and for the living fountain they have never been able to substitute anything but a fiery liquid, needing constantly to be replenished, and, in reality, only increasing the thirst it professes to still, until it becomes a burning, consuming inward fever. But as they have never tasted of our water, the wretched deluded ones persist in saying theirs is the true."

"And the telescope?" I inquired—"the magic glass?"

"The telescope," he replied, with a smile, which had no mockery, but much sadness in it—"the magic-glass they have never even attempted to imitate; and, therefore, as none can ever look through it but its possessor, they say it is a lie and a cheat; and our persisting in declaring what it really is, is the source of many of our sufferings. For this we are thrown into madhouses and prisons, and led to the scaffold and the stake."

After a brief pause, he resumed—

"The wise men and statesmen of the usurper's party now, however, for the most part, take an entirely different method. They discourage all these counterfeits, which they say are paying a most undeserved compliment to us. They say our jewels are mere sham and tinsel; that the light they shed exists only in the fancy of the spectators; that the living water is nothing but a mirage; and that the visions we see through the telescope are simply a lie. They affect to despise us too much to punish us; and if they persecute us at all, it is simply by contemptuously shutting us up in asylums as enthusiasts—harmless, unless we mislead others. It is only a few of the most inveterate, such as myself, who may succeed in bringing over too many to the side of our King, that they occasionally make examples of to sober the rest. But it is all entirely useless," he added, very joyfully; "the King's followers increase, His cause is gaining ground, and," he added, with a subdued voice, "the King Himself is coming."

"Is it really true," I asked, after a time, "that nothing, or no man, can rob you of this treasure?"

"Our treasure no man taketh from us," he replied. "This He gave us, this He left with us: not as the world giveth, gave He unto us."

"But can nothing you yourselves do, or omit to do, spoil or dim your jewel?" I resumed.

His brow saddened.

"Alas! there and there only have our enemies any real strength against us," he replied. "Sorrows only add to its lustre; in the loss of everything else it only shines the brighter; hunger and thirst but prove the unfailing nature of the fountain in the crystal vase; destitution and darkness, dungeons and tortures, only make the bright visions of our telescope more glorious: but we, we ourselves may indeed dim its lustre, or, if we will, yield it up altogether."

"All this is natural and comprehensible," I said. "The dungeon must make the jewel brighter; the drought, the unfailing spring more precious; the narrowing of all prospects here, enhance the visions of that magic glass; the cruelties of the usurper, endear the sight of the Prince you serve."

"This the wisest of our enemies have found out," the old man replied. "They find that nothing they can do harms us, but only what they can make us do ourselves; and to this they direct their efforts."

"In what way?" I inquired.

"In many ways," he answered sadly. "The jewel, which nothing external can dim, is sensitive to the least change in us. Any infringement of our King's laws, or, especially, any unfaithfulness to our King, dims its lustre at once; any drinking of those forbidden cups of intoxication dries up the crystal fountain; any yielding to the usurper's service blots out from our magic glass its glorious visions, and the sight of our King in His beauty."

"Are there any other dangers?" I inquired.

"Countless dangers," he replied. "Especially three devices have been found too successful against us. Our jewel only keeps bright with use, and in three ways our enemies endeavour to deter us from using it. The timid they threaten, and induce to hide it from fear: and the cowardly concealing of our treasure inflicts on us two evils; it prevents our winning by it fresh followers to our Prince; and in concealment the jewel itself invariably grows dim. The young and careless they engage in the ambitious pursuits or the gay amusements of the court, until they forget to use the precious gem; and in ceasing to use it they necessarily cease to shine with its light, and grow like any of the usurper's train. And again, there are some poor, and distrusting, and fearful ones, whom our enemies persuade that it is a daring presumption for such as they to pretend they have had especial communication with the King, and even at times torment them into thinking the King's own jewel tinsel; so that, in looking and looking to see if it is a true jewel, they forget to clasp it on their hearts, or drink the living water, or look through the magic glass."

"That is a strange delusion," I remarked.

"Yes," he said; "but it is easily cured, if once we can persuade them to look through the jewel instead of looking at it; for then they see the King with the jewel on His breast, and the smile in His eyes, and their doubts melt away in floods of happy tears. This I know," he added, "for I was once one of these. I had neglected to use my jewel; and then an enemy, in the guise of a friend, persuaded me to question its genuineness; but I ventured to look through it once again, and since then I do not look at my jewel, but gaze through it to the King's heart; and from that day my jewel has not grown dim."

"But you spoke of some who lost it altogether," I said.

"They are those," he said, solemnly, "who have deliberately yielded it up to enter the service of the usurper; or those who, in base timidity, have cast it away in denying our King."

"And for such can it ever be recovered?" I said.

"For one such, as disloyal as any, it was," he answered. "He went out and wept bitterly; the King forgave him, and in time the treasure was restored to him, and he became one of our most glorious veterans."

"How is the jewel to be recovered if lost?" I asked.

"By going to the place where first it was found," he replied. "There, on the lonely beach, before daybreak, it must be sought, morning after morning, until the sun's first rays reveal it once more glittering among the shingle as at first. But the waiting is often longer than it was at first."

"Will you wear your jewel," I asked, "when the King comes, or when you go to join Him beyond the sea?"

"There," he replied, with an expression of rapturous joy, "we shall see the jewel on the King's heart. There we shall have no need of the hidden fountain, for the river of living waters flows there, bright as crystal; and no need of the magic glass, for the King is near; but the jewel will shine in that happy place on brow and breast for ever and ever."

And as I left the sea-shore and the old man, these words floated through my heart, as if they were echoes of his history, or his story an echo of them:—

"Be not ye, as the hypocrites, of a sad countenance.

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you."

"Rejoice in the Lord alway: and again I say, Rejoice."

"Your joy no man taketh from you."

The Acorn.

When will my training begin?" said the acorn to itself, as it unfolded its delicately-carved cup and saucer on the branch of an old oak on the edge of a forest. "I understand I am to be an oak one day, like my father. All the acorns say that is what we are to be, but there certainly seems little chance of it at present. I have been sitting here for no one knows how many days, and I feel no change, except that I look less pretty than I did when I was young and green, and begin to feel rather dry, and shrivelled, and old. At this rate, I do not see much chance of my becoming an oak, or anything else but an old, dry acorn. When will my training begin?"

As it meditated thus, a strong breeze sighed mournfully through the autumn woods, and shook down many brown leaves from the old oak, and with them the acorn.

"This will hinder my progress again," thought the acorn; "for it is evident such a downfall as this can have nothing to do with my education. When will my training begin?"

A day or two afterwards a drove of hogs was turned into the forest, and they began grunting and grubbing among the dead leaves for acorns. Many of its brethren did our acorn see ruthlessly hurried into those voracious snouts. It kept very quiet under the dead leaves to avoid a similar fate, but it thought—"This is a sad delay. It is too plain that being trampled on and tossed about in this way can teach no one anything. When will my training begin?"

Meanwhile, the swine rummaged among the dead leaves, and trod them under foot, and tossed the decaying mould hither and thither with their snouts and feet, until one of them by accident rolled our acorn down a little hill, where it lay buried under some stray leaves many yards from the edge of the forest, in the outskirts of a park. There it lay unobserved all the rest of the winter. Even this was a pleasant change after having been tossed about and trodden under foot so long; but in its fall its shrivelled brown skin had cracked, and the acorn thought—"This is a sad disaster. How ever am I to grow into an oak when I am so crushed and cracked that scarcely any one would recognize me for an acorn? When will my training begin?"

All the winter the rain pattered on it, and sank it deeper and deeper under the dead leaves and under the earth-clods, until all its acorn beauty was marred and crushed out of it, and it fell asleep in the dark, under the cold, damp earth; and the snows came and folded it in under their white eider-down pillows. At last, the warm touch, that comes to all sleeping nature in the spring, came softly on it, and it awoke.

"What a pity," it said, "I should have lost so much time by falling asleep! I can scarcely make out what I am like, or where I am. What a sad waste of time! It is clear no one can go on with his education in sleep. When will my training begin?"

With these thoughts, it stretched out two little green things on each side of it, which felt like wings; and tried to peep out of its hole, and, to its delight, it succeeded, and, with a few more efforts, even contrived to keep its head steadily above ground, and look around it.

"There is my father, the old oak," it said. "He looks quite green again. But I am a long way off from him, and how very small and close to the ground! When shall I begin to be like him?"

But meantime it was very happy. It felt so full of life, although so small; and the sun shone so graciously on it, and all the showers and dews seemed so full of kindly desires to help and nourish it; and more and more little green leaves expanded from its sides, and more and more little busy roots shot down into the earth; and the leaves breathed and drank in the sunshine, and the roots were great chemists and cooks, and concocted a perpetual feast for it out of the earth and stones. But it thought sometimes, "This is all exceedingly pleasant, and I am very happy; but, of course, this is not education; it is only enjoying myself. When will my training begin?"

The next spring the early frosts had much more power over it, in its detached, exposed situation, than over the saplings in the shelter of the forest, and it saw the trees in the wood growing green, and tempting the song-birds beneath their leafy tents, whilst the sap still flowed feebly upward through its tiny cells, and its twigs and leaf-buds were still brown and hard.

"This must be a great hindrance to me," it thought—"this, no doubt, will retard my education considerably. What a pity I stand here so detached and unprotected! When will my training begin?"

But in the late spring came some days of bitter east wind and black frost, and it saw the more forward leaves in the wood turn pale and shrivel before they unfolded, and then fall off, nipped and lifeless, to join the old dead leaves of the past autumn, whilst its own little buds lay safe within their hard and glossy casings, protected by one enemy against a worse. And when the east wind and the black frosts were gone, the little sapling shot up freely. In that summer, and the next, and the next, it made great progress; but in the fourth autumn a great disappointment awaited it. The owner of the park in which it grew came by, and stood beside it, and said to his forester,—

"That sapling is worth preserving, it is so vigorous and healthy; and, standing in this detached position, it will break the line of the wood, and look well from my house. We will watch it, and set a fence around it to guard it from the cattle. But it has thrown out a false leader. Take your knife and cut this straggling shoot away, and next year, I have no doubt, it will grow well."

Then the forester applied his knife carefully to the false leader, and cut it off. But the sapling, not having understood the master's words, nor observed with what care and design the knife was applied, felt wounded to the core.

"My best and strongest shoot," it sighed to itself. "It was a cruel cut. It will take me a long time to repair that loss. I am afraid it has lost me at least a year. When will my training begin?"

But the next year the master's words were fulfilled.

Thus years passed on. And slowly, twig by twig, and shoot by shoot, the sapling grew. Sunbeams expanded its leaves; rains nourished its roots; frosts, checking its early buds, hardened its wood; winds swaying it hither and thither, as if they were determined to level it, only rooted it more firmly. And year by year the top grew a little higher, and the wood a little firmer, and the trunk a little thicker, and the roots a little deeper; but so slowly, that summer by summer it said,—

"This is very pleasant; but it is only breathing, and being happy. It certainly cannot be the discipline which forms the great oaks. When will my training begin?"

And autumn by autumn, as the sap flowed downward, and the buds ceased to expand, and the branches grew leafless and dry, it thought,—

"This is a sad loss of time. Now I am falling into torpor again, and shall make not an inch of progress for six long months. When will my training begin?"

And winter by winter, as the winds bent it to and fro, and made its branches creak, and threatened its very existence, and the heavy snows sometimes broke its boughs,—

"These are sore trials. I may be thankful if I barely struggle through them! In days like these existence is an effort, and endurance the utmost one can attain. When will my training begin?"

And in the spring, when the frosts nipped its finest buds,—

"These little nips and checks are very annoying; but one must bear them patiently. They are certainly hindrances; and it is disheartening, when one does one's best, to be continually thrown back by these trifling checks. When will my training begin?"

But, one summer day, a little girl and an old man came and seated themselves under its shade. By this time it had seen some generations of men, and had learned something of human language.

The old man said—"I remember, when I was a very little boy, my grandfather telling me how, when he was young, he had marked this tree, then a mere sapling, and pruned it of a false shoot, which would have spoiled its beauty, and had it fenced and preserved. And now my little grand-daughter and I sit under its shade! The fence has long since decayed; but it is not needed. The cattle come and lie under its shadow, as we do. It is a noble oak-tree now, and gives shelter instead of needing it."

Then the oak rustled above them; and the old man and the child thought it was a summer breeze stirring the branches. But in reality it was the oak laughing to itself, as it thought,—

"Then I am really a tree! and, whilst I was wondering when my training would begin, it has been finished, and I am an oak after all!"

Passages from the Life of a Fern.

My life has been one of such extraordinary vicissitudes as might have made many almost doubt their own identity. But it is only to-day that I have learned its real purpose. To-day, for the first time, I am content. A light has dawned on me which makes all the dark passages of my former life clear and luminous, and unites the whole into one harmonious picture. I will narrate a few of my adventures to you while I am full of this happy discovery.

The first thing I can remember is being in a world over-flowing with life in every form. It was a tropical forest. Gigantic palms rose above me so high that I could not see their feathery crowns. From one erect stem to another hung tangled festoons of parasites and climbing plants, broad, rich, green leaves, which fell into stately crowns with their own weight, enormous gorgeous flowers, delicate wreaths of intertwined many-coloured blossoms and many-shaped foliage; so that when I looked up I could scarcely see one point of the deep blue sky, except when a strong wind made rifts in my fretted roof. Scarcely one ray of light fell on me pure, but broken, and green, and tremulous, softly shaded, or tinted like a rainbow through the flowers. The animals which lived in our forest depths I cannot distinctly recall. I have not seen any like them for so many thousand years. But all were gigantic, and many would seem misshapen monsters to us now. Yet then it was quite natural, and an every-day thing, to hear the great tree-eaters tramping each like an army through the forest shades, cropping the tops of the highest trees, and devouring branches as our animals crop the herbage. Trees crackled under them like brambles. We dreaded much, we smaller creatures, to see these approach, for they trampled down a generation of us under the tread of their ponderous feet. There were lizards whose scales glittered like the waves of the sea in the sunshine, each scale a massive prismatic metallic plate. And from the lower reaches of the forest, where the hot mist steamed up from the marshy hollows, monstrous creatures, half fish, half forest-climbers, occasionally strayed among us.

I cannot recall if there was music in the forest; yet I think I hear across these countless years the dim echoes of strange voices, which have been silenced for ages on the earth, a confusion of wild calls and cries in the mornings and evenings,—weird bell-notes tolling through the sultry noonday silences, and a confused whir, and buzzing, and croaking, and whizzing, and rustling of countless smaller animals which have perished and left no trace of their existence behind.

But the creatures which impressed the restless character on my being, which only to-day the sun has smiled away, were some near relations of my own. For, although I was but a little fern, many of my race were among the lords of the forest. Their roots spread into magnificent curved pedestals; their stems rose, decorated, and erect as the palms, to the height of the tallest trees; and their fronds expanded into ribbed and fretted roofs, beneath which hundreds like me could find shade and shelter, yet every frond as delicately fringed and edged as any of ours.

I thought—"These are my elder sisters. One day I shall grow like them." Thus my own daily life seemed empty and shadowy to me, because of the strong yearning that possessed me to be great like them. It did not make me discontented or desponding, but filled me with a wild and feverish expectation which made the present appear nothing to me. I stretched out my little fronds, and caught every sunbeam and rain-drop I could; and when a shower came, and the life-giving waters circulated through my veins, I throbbed with vague desire, and thought, "Now I am to be something."

But with all my efforts I never could grow to be anything but a little fern! So the summer passed, and then I felt myself growing shrivelled and old. My limbs contracted, my fronds curled up and turned dry and brown, and in a few weeks I was scarcely visible. But the spring revived me and my yearnings, and I grew certainly very handsome and tall for one of my branch of our family; but still only a little fern!

The forest decayed, I know not how. The marsh extended, and instead of the world of varied exuberant life, we lay a long time a mass of steaming, mouldering decay. And then, through millenniums more, we stiffened and hardened, and grew black and shapeless, and were buried in the dark, no one can say how long, for to us, throughout those changeless ages, there were no days and no seasons to measure time.

At last a light came to us, not the sun, but a little trembling light, in the hand of a living creature, such as we had never seen. I know now it was a man. Then followed a time of stir and noise and knocking about, such as I shall never forget. We were hewn with pick-axes, and tossed into buckets, and at last lifted into the real old sunlight we had not seen for countless ages. The sun was the same as ever, as young and bright, it seemed, as he had been thousands of years before; but we did not bask long in his beams.

A period followed of darkness and cold and silence, in which all the world seemed to have forgotten my existence, although I had been dragged out of my native bed, and stored in this den with so much pains. But they remembered us at last. One evening, after passing through a great deal of commotion, I found myself in an open place, with many of my brethren. A light like that we had first seen after our ages of darkness in the heart of the earth was applied to us, and then the strangest transformation passed over me. Just as the water had streamed through my green veins in the forest of old, a new element began to course through all my black and stony heart. That light ran through and through me, until I became, not a receiver, but actually a giver of light. Instead of my green fronds, delicate pencils of red and golden flame streamed from me, until I became one glowing substance; and, in my own light, I actually saw living faces looking thankfully at me, and human hands stretched out to feel my warmth, just as of old I had spread my fronds in the rays of the sun. But I was too full of my old vague longings to enjoy or observe any of those things much; for I thought, with glowing confidence, "Now, I am to be something great at last!"

It was the last glimmer of that vague ambition in me. My light faded, I grew cold, and, which was worse, I fell to pieces, became mere dust, and was wafted about by the slightest breath, so that I had the greatest difficulty in preserving my own identity. I was even ignominiously swept away by the very hands which had spread so gratefully in my light only a few hours before, and tossed contemptuously out into a rubbish-heap behind the house. But there, happily for me, I was once more in the sunshine; and the sun and all heavenly creatures think scorn of no one. They smiled on me, a poor heap of ashes, as if I had been a tree-fern; and the gentle dews descended on me, as if I had been a flower; and the birds and winds scattered seeds amongst us, until I began to feel once more something like the stirrings of life within me. I had blended my being with a little seed, and in the spring green tufts of life burst out from my shrivelled heart. I grew, and spread, and drank in rain and sunshine, until at length I waved and expanded in the summer breeze—a little fern!

Then a bright, transforming thought flashed through me. In the tropical forest, in the black coal-beds, on the glowing hearth, I had not been an imperfect likeness and a vague promise of something else, but myself, in my little degree, pleasant and serviceable; exactly the best thing it was possible for me to be, filling up my tiny measure of service in the world, so that the world would have been the poorer for that tiny measure of pleasure and good without me. How happy I might have been always if I had known this before! How happy I am to know it now!

I begin life again, but I have learned my lesson. I am something; not something great, but something I was meant to be—a little green happy fern. At this moment I tremble with joy in the soft breezes, I thrill with life, I drink the rain-drops; and the next moment and to-morrow will bring each its store of work and joy for me; and I shall be the highest thing I could wish to be—the thing I was made to be. And now I am here near the tall trees, and among the many-coloured flowers, a little happy, lowly fern.

Thorns and Spines.[3]

In a garden there once grew a beautiful, blossoming thorn. When the spring came, for a fortnight it was always clothed with a robe of white blossoms. They seemed at once relics of winter and promises of summer. It was as if Winter, in departing from the earth, had left behind a fragment of his snowy vestments; and Spring, touching them with her magic wand, had transformed them from snow-wreaths into wreaths of snowy blossoms. They were beautiful even in fading; and for many days after the whiteness had gone, they glowed into a delicate pink, and strewed the earth with silky petals when they fell. On this thorn, one spring, a little brown leaf-bud formed, at the foot of a green twig, the cradle of the green twigs of the next spring. But it happened that, as this brown leaf-bud watched the beauty of the flowers, it grew discontented with its destiny.

"Why am not I a flower-bud?" it murmured, inside its little brown casing. "That would be worth living for!—to fill the air with delicate fragrance, to be sung to by the birds, to be gathered by human hands as a treasure; or even to live unnoticed by any one, but only to be a flower!—a beautiful, fragrant creature, with a coat of many colours, and a crown of golden stamens, and with promise in its heart;—that would be worth living for! But to be a leaf-bud,—a brown, dark, hard leaf-bud!—it would be better to die at once."

And a discontented shiver ran through its veins; and all that summer it never cared to drink in sun or rain, but sat and shivered, and shrivelled on its stem, while all around it meek and happy buds were growing strong and full of life, nourished by the same rain and sunshine. And in the spring, when the white shower of snowy flowers came again on the thorn-tree, and the other leaf-buds had expanded into green twigs, waving and whispering in the breeze, with each a new bud at its feet, the envious and discontented bud had shrivelled and narrowed itself into a thorn, which pierced the hand of the child, as it reached up to gather the spray of fair white blossom.

In a field near this garden there grew a green shrub which at the top expanded into luxuriant branches, giving shade at mid-day to man and beast. But from the lower branches, instead of broad green leaves, grew long sharp spines. One summer day, these spines said to each other, in their short and broken speech, for they could not wave and rustle in the wind like the leaves,—

"We are not worthy to live on the same tree with the beautiful forest leaves which wave in the fresh air above us. We can make no refreshing sound as they do; we give no shade as they do to any creature; and we only prick any one that tries to touch us. But it is very pleasant to us to be allowed to grow from the same trunk as they; and it is very kind of the sweet leaves to sing to us as if we belonged to them, and not to be ashamed of us. We are certainly most happily situated; so far beyond what we have any right to expect!"

But all the leaves rustled in a joyous chorus, and said, "You are our elder sisters, meek and useful spines! If it had not been for you, we should never have come into life at all, and man and beast would have had no shade from us. The hungry cattle would have eaten us before we unfolded, and our parent-tree would never have grown to what it is, had it not been for you, our faithful and patient guardians. If you had rebelled against the gracious hand that moulds us all, and which prevented your expanding into leaves, we should all have perished together long ago. We owe our life to you!" murmured the leaves.

And the rough spines quivered through all their faithful hearts at the words of the leaves.

Then the master passed by, and he said: "Well done, my faithful spines! you have done your work, and guarded my treasures well. But for you my trees would have had no leaves, and my fields no shade."

And the spines wondered, and rejoiced greatly; for they had never thought that, in meekly and contentedly bearing their rough lot, and being what they were meant to be, they were serving the master, and doing such good work for others.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Thorns are abortive leaf-buds. Spines are the lower leaves of plants metamorphosed into bristles, to guard the young tree from the attacks of cattle. This little parable was suggested by a passage in "Modern Painters."

Parables in Household Things.

The sick girl lay in her shaded room, in the street of a great city, and thought, "If I could only leave this prison of mine, and look at the beautiful world, I know I should grow happier and holier with every breath I drew. The thorny buds on the brown branches in spring would give me promise of resurrection; every butterfly would tell me of life through death; every flower would lift my heart to Him who cares for our little pleasures; every bubbling spring would murmur to me of the living water; every corn-field and garden would repeat the sacred parables. But here I can see nothing of God's making but the sky, and that is too high and far. I want some steps to take my feeble thoughts gently up to heaven. But around me are only manufactured things, which speak to me only of earth, and time, and man."

She leant back listlessly on her couch. Twilight came over the room, the glowing coals stirred quietly as they burned away, and then it seemed as if an angel's hand touched her ears and opened them, for the dark and silent room became full of soft and soothing harmonies. All the mute and inanimate things about her found voices and spoke comfort to her heart.

Together they said,—"It is true we are only manufactured things; but do not despise us for that! We came originally, as much as you yourself, or the flowers, and the trees, and the sunbeams, from one Divine Hand. It is only that we have been trained and moulded by human hands to be what we are. And just so are you; God creates you, but life moulds you. Your trial and your training come like ours, mostly through human hands, although you are destined for higher places and more blessed services. Listen to us, for we have messages for you, each one of us."

Then the stones from the wall said,—"We come from the mountains far away, from the sides of the craggy hills. Fire and water worked on us for ages, but only made us crags. Human hands have made us into a dwelling where the children of your immortal race are born, and suffer, and rejoice, and find rest and shelter, and learn the lessons set them by our Maker and yours. But we have passed through much to fit us for this. Gunpowder has rent our very heart; pick-axes have cleaved and broken us, it seemed to us often without design or meaning, as we lay misshapen stones in the quarry; but gradually we were cut into blocks, and some of us were chiselled with finer instruments to a sharper edge. But we are complete now, and are in our places, and are of service. You are in the quarry still, and not complete, and therefore to you, as once to us, much is inexplicable. But you are destined for a higher building, and one day you will be placed in it by hands not human; a living stone in a heavenly temple."

Then the glass water-beaker said,—"I was hard flint and waste sand on the desolate sea-shore once; but human hands gathered me, and fused me in furnaces heated seven times, and took me out to let me cool, and cast me in again, and shaped and cut me, till at last I carry your water from the spring, and am pressed with many a thankful glance to your parched lips. I am complete. But you, when you have passed through your fires, will be a vessel of living water in a better hand, and bear many a draught of refreshment to weary and thirsty hearts."

"I also have been in many furnaces," said the china flower-vase. "The colours you so often admire in me have been burnt in slowly, stage by stage, every fresh colour requiring a fresh fusing in the furnace. But you, when your trial is over, shall carry flowers of Paradise and leaves from the tree of life for the healing of the nations."

"And I," said the clock, "am scarcely an individual being. I am a little world in myself—a wondrous combination of mechanism. Each of my wheels and springs, with my unwearied pendulum, has its own history of fires, and blows, and ruthless instruments. None of us could form the slightest idea, as we lay dismembered in our various workshops, what we were designed for. Only in combination with every other part, has any part of us any meaning. You are not a little world like me, but a fragment of a great world. When all that belong to you are gathered together, you will understand it all as we do now. And your voice will mark with joyous music the flight of blessed ages, which only lead to others more and more blessed throughout eternity."

"And I," said the bronze pastil-burner, "came from ages of darkness in the depths of the earth. Human hands brought me to the light, moulded and sculptured me, and set me here to burn sweet perfumes, and diffuse fragrance around me. But you will be an incense-bearer in a Temple by-and-by, and from you shall stream a fragrance of love and praise acceptable to God."

"The quarries were my birth-place also," said the alabaster night-lamp; "but you shall be a light-bearer, when your training is complete, of a light which is life, and which has no need of night, like my dim flame, to make it visible."

"I," sang the guitar, with the wooden frame and metallic strings, "am a twofold being. I lived and waved in the forest once; and then the woodman's axe was laid on me, and I fell—I fell, and the life departed from me; and from a living, life-bearing tree, I became mere inanimate timber. More blows, more tearing with saws, more sharp cutting with knife and chisel, and I became melodious again, simply from being united with these metallic strings, which never had life, but lay silent in mines, till the hand of man woke them into music. And thus together we respond to your gentle touch, and soothe for you many a lonely hour. Life from death, music through fires of trial: this is also your destiny. Hereafter every nerve of your tried and perfected being shall respond to the slightest touch of the Hand you love, filling heaven with happy music."

"As for me," said the pages of the hymn-book, "my discipline has, perhaps, been the severest of all. Once rustling in the flax-field, rejoicing in the dews and sunshine, I was torn, racked, twisted, and woven by many iron hands into linen. Then, for a time, treated carefully, decorated and treasured, and washed and perfumed, I was afterwards thrown scornfully away. Yet, even in that low estate, I found comfort. Even as a rag I bound up the wounds of suffering soldiers in a military hospital. But I was to sink lower yet. I was thrown into a mill, and pounded, crushed, and torn, till I was a mere shapeless pulp. Yet from those depths my true life began. Process after process succeeded, till here, at last, I am to speak to you undying words of hope and love. And you also, one day, shall shine forth a living epistle, proclaiming to angels and to men for ever and for ever such words as speak to you from my pages now!"

The sick girl smiled, and was comforted. "Yet," she said, "the fires are fierce, the blows are heavy, the trial is long. The end is, indeed, well worth them all; but sometimes the end seems distant."

"Yes," responded the hymn-book; "my history resembles yours in one happy feature more than that of any of us besides. For even in your days of training you are of service. You may clothe cold limbs, and bind up many wounds even now, as I did when I was a poor linen-rag. And, more than that, even now, in your time of trial, the ministries you are destined for at last may be begun. Even now you may be a living epistle, a book wherein many may read lessons of hope and patience, and sing praises, as they look on you, as you do when you look on me."

"Yes," responded the stones; "even now you are a living stone. The temple you are to form is building even now."

And the pastil-burner:—"Even now your prayers and praises may rise like sweet incense."

And the water-glass:—"Many a draught of living water may you carry, even now, in the dry and thirsty land, to hearts that need it."

And the night-lamp:—"Even now in the night, thou, child of the day, sheddest light around thee—a little light, it may be, in a narrow circle, yet though, thou mayest not know it, cheering and guiding not a few, even now."

And the guitar:—"Many a strain of thankful song has come from the depths of your heart, even now, in these your days of trial, to blend with my harmonies, and to soar to regions which my poor metallic music can never reach!"

And all the mute things sang together—"We are complete, and rejoice to serve you, vessels meet for your using. One day you also shall be perfected, a vessel meet for the Master's use. And then He will take you into His house, unto the temple which is a home, and your home for ever. Like us, when you are perfected, you shall serve; but, unlike us, even whilst you are being perfected, you may serve!"

Then the sufferer turned over the leaves of another Book, and saw how the Master had written His parables, not in streams and corn-fields, and birds and flowers, and fruitful earth, and starry sky alone, but in common household things, and common human ties. And henceforth, not nature only, but every-day cares, and duties, and relationships, and all things around her, became for her illuminated with the lessons of His love.

"Things Using Us."

It was my first visit from a home full of children, and not too full of Things, to a house where there were no children, and where the Things were in the greatest abundance and the completest preservation. Gardens and hot-houses without a broken stem; flowers evidently never gathered except by strictly authorized hands. Rooms studded fearlessly with ornaments from all ends of the earth and all kingdoms of nature; stuffed birds in domed glass sepulchres, wonderful to me, and unlife-like as the Tomb cities of Egypt; delicate fragile porcelain, and exquisite statuettes, evidently needing no protection from little investigating fingers; carpets needing no protection from little stirring feet. Gradually there settled down on me an awe-stricken sense of being perpetually watched with anxious solicitude, and of having to walk mentally, morally, and corporeally quite upright in the middle of all clear spaces, so as not to interfere with any of the sacred Things wherewith I was surrounded; until, finally, came the retiring to rest on an ancient damask-curtained bed, in a stately, solemn chamber, with a heavy consciousness of being like an insignificant, and, at the same time, rather dangerous fly in a world constructed with no reference to flies,—a crushing conviction of having nothing, and consequently being nothing in a universe of Things,—a mingled feeling of responsibility and insignificance culminating in a depressed apprehension of accountability to the lords and possessors of this universe of possessions, who thus graciously suffered an extraneous atom endowed with a perilous power of motion to enter it.

All this came to a climax when the housekeeper, who had herself, in some dim traditional past, watched over the slumbers of children now developed into the guardians of similar shrines, "tucked me up" and left me alone with the Things.

Ah, the mockery of that "tucking up" in the vast spaces of a bed which reckoned its chronology by centuries! She might as well have talked of "tucking up" a mouse under the dome of St. Paul's.

Visions of a cozy crib at home, flanked by sundry other cribs and cradles, and soothed by a dim murmur of nurses' voices through the half-open door, came tenderly over me, with a wonder how it looked that evening to the two loving faces which bent over it every night. But the very thought of those faces broke the icy spell which had been freezing me, and seemed to fold me up to sleep.

Then, all at once, from all corners of the antique room, came the strangest chucklings and gurglings of half-suppressed laughter; and the fire in the vast old chimney began to make the most uncouth caperings and flickerings, as if it were dancing to some wild elfish music.

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the little Dresden china Cupids around the toilet-glass (and that they should laugh might not seem so strange); but the solemn old bed itself chuckled a fat "Ho! ho! ho!" until its heavy draperies shook again; the very tongs held its sides for laughing; and the little modern poker, which did all the work, screamed a plebeian "He! he! he!" in response.

"We shall never recover it!" they all laughed in chorus. "This child is making the old mistake! She thinks we belong to the people of the house! She thinks it is they who use us, instead of their belonging to us, and our using them!"

"As if we had not sheltered generation after generation of them," creaked the bed.

"As if we had not seen face after face change and grow wrinkled," smiled the Cupids, "while we keep our bloom and smoothness undiminished."

"As if only last week," said the steel tongs, "a young woman had not been dismissed for leaving a spot of rust on me."

So they went on, until really I could stand it no longer. It seemed to me so very unbecoming and treasonable in these possessions to speak in so sarcastic and disrespectful a way of their possessors, that at length, with a great effort, I sat up in bed and remonstrated.

"I cannot let you talk so," I said, in a voice trembling at once with indignation and awe. "You are forgetting yourselves altogether. You are nothing but Things, any of you. And we are Persons. It says so in the Grammar. We are Persons, the least of us, even a little child like me! What would become of any of you, I should like to know, if some of us did not take care of you?"

"Things and Persons indeed!" they all said, in a very unpleasant and satirical tone. "We know nothing of such philosophical distinctions. But who ever said you or your kind were Things? We paid you no such honour. Who ever said we could get on unless you took care of us? You are not Things indeed! You are servants of Things. We possess you, use you, and outlast you. Who stays in the house—the owner, or the servants? If you were the owners, you would stay. But it is we who stay. We outstay you, generation after generation. Doubtless, therefore, this is our world, and you are merely our slaves—sojourning here for our service, and at our pleasure."

It was useless arguing any further with such obstinate, impenetrable Things. But when, on my return home, I told my mother what they had said, to my surprise she said they were not altogether wrong.

"For," said she, "if we do not use and distribute our possessions, we do not merely sink to their level, but below it. If we are not truly the masters of our Things, we become their slaves."

This set me thinking of my own tiny hoard of treasures, and it occurred to me how disagreeable it would be if at that moment they were talking in any such sarcastic and disrespectful way of me!

How was I to show myself truly the possessor and mistress of those cherished Things of my own?

At last I propounded the question to my mother.

"I know no way," she said, "but to get Love to be lord and possessor of you and of them. For while Selfishness sinks us below the very Things we are supposed to possess, making us fade, and rust, and perish like them, Love lifts these very perishing things themselves into our higher world, transfiguring them into ladders on which angels go up and down, and into keys of the kingdom of heaven."

Sunshine, Daylight, and the Rock.

Sunshine and Daylight had one day a serious difference of opinion about a rocky waste, over which their course led them.

"I am not severe," said Daylight, fixing her clear, generalizing gray eyes on the Rock. "If I cannot, like some people, see nothing but what I wish to see, no one ever accused me of blackening any one's character. I have known that old Rock more years than I care to mention; not a jagged edge nor a whimsical cranny but I am intimately acquainted with; and I do not hesitate to say, that a more barren, unmitigated rock I seldom meet with. I do not slander it. I only say, it is nothing more or less than a rock."

Sunshine said nothing, but peeped round the shoulder of her cousin's gray cloak, until the smile of her soft eye met the eye of a little blue violet, which, by dint of hard living, had contrived to obtain a secure footing in a crevice of the old rock; and a flutter of joy passed through the blossoms and leaves of the violet, and communicated itself to a tuft of dry short grass, which had ensconced itself behind. The red and gray cups of some tiny moss and lichens, which had crept into corners here and there, next drank in her kind glances, and fancied themselves wine-cups at a feast. Here and there specks of colour and points of life revealed themselves, and, as they looked, expanded.

By this time Sunshine had folded Daylight to sleep on her warm breast. Many weeks had passed, when, one quiet afternoon, Daylight again came that way, and glancing critically around, she murmured to Sunshine, "Where is the old gray Rock you were so sanguine about?"

Sunshine was silent; her motto being, "Not in word, neither in tongue, but in deed and in truth;" and at length Daylight's quiet eyes awoke to the fact, that the grassy knoll where flowers—tiny rock-plants indeed, but still flowers—and mosses lay dozing, unawakened by her sober tread, was none other than the Rock she had known of old. And she said meekly, "Truly I find that one way to create beauty is to perceive it."

Then an angel, who was hovering near, on his way back from some message of mercy (for the angels never linger till their messages are given), sang softly, "Love veileth a multitude of sins." And the old Rock answered in a chorus, through its moss-threads, and lichen-cups, and leaves, and blossoms, "And under the warm veil spring a multitude of flowers."

Wanderers and Pilgrims.

A large tract of country lay spread before me; upland and lowland, hill and plain. The whole land seemed stirring with perpetual movement, all in one direction;—from the bright hills at its commencement, to the dark mountains at the end. Earth and sky seemed moving, as when an enormous flight of migratory birds is passing by; but earth and sky were really stationary. This movement was one constant tide of human life, ceaselessly streaming across the land.

It began on a range of wooded hills, with their sunny southern slopes, forests and flowery banks, and grassy and golden fields. Down these slopes joyous bands ran fast. As I looked closer, I saw the movement was not incessant in the case of each individual; only the ceaseless passing of the great tide of life made it seem so. Merry groups paused on the hill-sides, and made fairy gardens, and twined leafy tents where they would sit a little while and sing and dance. But only a little while! No hand seemed driving them on; it appeared only an inward irresistible instinct. Yet soon the bright groups were scattered, and moved down again over the hills, often never joining more.

"Why do you hasten away from these sunny slopes?" I said. "There seems nothing so pleasant in all the land besides."

"Perhaps not," the travellers replied, with a slight sigh; but it ended in a snatch of song as they danced gaily on. "Perhaps not, but we are a race of Wanderers! We cannot stay; and perhaps better things await us in the plain."

"Whither are you going?" I asked.

"We know not," was the answer; "only onwards, onwards!"

In the plain were buildings of more solid construction, houses and cities. And here I observed many of the travellers would have gladly lingered, but it could not be. Homesteads, and corn-fields, and vineyards, all had to be left; and still the tide of life streamed on and on.

"Why?" I asked.

"It is the doom of our race," they said, sorrowfully; "we are a people of Wanderers."

"Whither?" I inquired.

"We do not know," was the reply; "only onwards and onwards, to the dark mountains!"

Slower and slower grew the footsteps of the Wanderers, more and more regretful the glances they cast behind. Slower, yet with fewer pauses. The strange restless impulse drove them steadily on, until, wearied and tottering, they began the ascent of the dark mountains.

"What is on the other side?" I asked.

"The sea," they said, "the Great Sea."

"How will you cross it? And what is beyond?"

"We know not," they said, with bitter tears. "But we are a doomed race of Wanderers—onwards, onwards; we may not stay!"

Then first I perceived that, among these multitudes of aimless Wanderers, there was one band who kept close together, and moved with a freedom and a purpose, as if they journeyed on not from a blind, irresistible impulse, but from choice. Their looks were seldom turned regretfully behind them, or only on the dark mountains. They looked to something higher.

I asked them—"Why are you thus hastening on?"

"We are Pilgrims," they replied; "we would not linger here."

"Whither are you going?" I inquired.

"Home!" they answered joyfully—"to a Holy City which is our Home."

"But how do you know the way?" I asked; for no barriers seemed to limit their path, so that any of the Wanderers might join it at any point.

"We know it by two marks," they answered;—"by the footsteps of One who trod it once, and left indelible footprints wherever He stepped; and we know it also by the goal to which it tends!"

Then looking up, I saw resting on the mountains where this path ended, a bridge like a rainbow, and beyond it, in the sky, a range of towers and walls, pearl and opal, ruby and golden, such as in a summer evening is sometimes faintly pictured on the clouds, when the setting sun shines through them. And the little band chanted as they went, "The doom of our race is reversed for us. We are not Wanderers; we are Pilgrims. We would not linger here; this is not our rest. Onwards, upwards, to the City!—to the Home!"

The Ark and the Fortress.

One day, I had been thinking about the terrors of the Great Flood, when it seemed to me that I saw back through the long ages to that distant day, as you look with a night-glass through the night to an illuminated planet. I saw an old man, venerable with the centuries by which we count the lives of nations, not of men, yet vigorous with the vitality of one who had still centuries to live. He stood on an inland plain, far from any sea; yet above him rose the sides of a large ship. It had been finished that day. Once more the old man warned the laughing crowds around of the waters which would surely come and float the vessel high above the submerged world. He had told them the same truth for a hundred and twenty years. There had been no indefiniteness about his prophecy. As, since then, men have been warned by the uncertainty of a doom which may come at any moment; then, they were warned by the certainty of a period definitely fixed. Every fall of the leaf had brought it precisely a year nearer. And now the last evening of the last year had come, and once more the patient preacher of righteousness stood and warned them to forsake the sin which must bring the doom.

But in vain. There was no persecution; perhaps some mockery, as they pointed to the cloudless sky, and the fields and forests growing daily greener in the spring-tide sunshine; but for the most part simply unbelief and indifference. "They ate, they drank, they married, they were given in marriage." And so the last warning was finished, and the last evening closed.

But one little group seemed to me to detach itself from the rest with a bolder confidence. They pointed to a fortress on the highest summit of the mountain-range above them, and said: "If what you say is true, surely we shall be safer there than in a floating ark like yours. In the rushing of the great water-floods you speak of, and the beating of the storms, our mountain fortress will serve us better, at least, than your wooden walls. We shall look down from our height on your waters, and, perchance, see the wreck of your vessel drifted to our feet!"

The patriarch and his family were shut in the ark. Before the next morning, the day of doom had set in. Not a break in the pitiless roof of clouds. Steadily the torrents poured from the opened flood-gates of heaven, whilst the waters from beneath broke their barriers, and the reservoirs under the hills burst forth in sudden rivers.

The flood had begun. The valleys became lakes, the plains seas; but the builders of the mountain fortress had fled to it, and looked triumphantly down on the waves.

Higher and higher they rose. The lower hills were covered. The mountain range was isolated. But the dwellers in the fortress thought, "We are well provisioned. This cannot last for ever!"

The waters rose. Peak after peak became an island. And at last, the highest peak, on which the fortress stood, looked out alone upon the waste of waters, and the floating ark buoyed up securely on them.

They looked still down on the waters, but with trembling hearts. The wild waves dashed furiously against this one remaining obstacle. The firmest human masonry cannot stand like the everlasting rocks. The strong foundations gave way, and with a crash, and a wail of anguish, the fortress fell, and nothing rose above the waters but the floating ark. For nothing that is founded on earth can escape the doom of earth. But

"Planted Paradise was not so firm

As was, and is, Thy floating ark; whose stay

And anchor Thou art only."

The Three Dreams.

I had once three dreams in close succession, which I will relate to you.

In the first, I saw a magnificent palace, a little world of gardens and buildings, a city in itself. All was enclosed within a high wall, so that from outside you could see nothing of it except the fairy white minarets pencilled delicately against the blue sky, some lofty battlemented watch-towers, and several graceful campaniles, with the tops of a few of the highest trees. But a delicious blending of the fragrance of a thousand flowers came thence in summer evenings; and every night, bell-tower, watch-tower, spire, and dome, and minaret were illuminated with innumerable starry lamps, as if every day within the palace were a festival.

Around the palace were the lanes and alleys of the city—scenes of poverty and squalor—which contrasted strangely with it; and wretched, half-starved-looking creatures, with tattered garments and faces worn with deep marks of want and woe, lingered round the gates. Outside the gates!—and this was one strange incongruity of my dream, for on the gates were emblazoned in golden letters, which were illuminated into transparencies at night, the words—

"KNOCK, AND IT SHALL BE OPENED UNTO YOU."

The gates were solid, and enormously massive, like blocks of black marble. No violence could have forced them. There was no crevice at which any one could get a glimpse of what was within. But the golden knocker, underneath those golden words, was so low as to be within reach of the youngest children. Indeed, I noticed that none tried it so often as little children; and whenever any one knocked with the very feeblest sound, in time, and often immediately, the stately portals opened from within, turning on their massive hinges with a sound like the music of many choirs, and the applicant was quietly drawn inside. Then I saw that the inside of the gates was of translucent pearl. A stream of light and fragrance for a moment came through, and induced others afterwards to knock. But immediately the gates were closed, and stood a wall of impenetrable marble as before.

I awoke, and whilst meditating on my dream fell asleep again.

In my second dream, I saw the same palace as in my first, but the massive doors were gone, and in their place stood the form of One whom, although I had never seen Him, I had heard so often described, and so faithfully, by those who had seen Him, that I knew Him at once. The same wretched beings were cowering round; but the massive barriers were gone, and in their place He stood, and said, in tones that every one could hear—"I am the Door. By Me if any man enter he shall be saved."

One wretched and woe-worn woman gave a trembling glance at His face, and then listening again to those tones, not welcoming merely, but pleading and persuasively tender, she ventured close to Him, and fell on her knees to kiss the hem of His garment. But He stooped, and stretched out His hand, and took her hand, and led her in. Then I understood what His words had meant;—that by saying, "I am the door," He must have meant that there was no barrier, no impenetrable gate, but that in the doorway, where the door had been, He stood, and, instead of the lifeless knocker, stretched out His living hands to aid and welcome all who came.

And I awoke from my second dream.

Before long I fell asleep again, and then again I saw the same palace, with the massive portals flung open wide, but that gracious princely form stood in them no more. Among the most wretched of that crowd He went—among the maimed, the halt, and the blind. They thronged around Him, yet many of them scarcely seemed to heed, they were so intent on their own sordid pursuits. Some were crowding with sharp, eager faces round a rag merchant, bargaining with the most absorbing passion for his wretched wares, and then separating to quarrel and fight over their purchases, or bartering their rags again as eagerly for a draught of the intoxicating drinks which had made so many of them the lost creatures they were. Not a rag or a burning drop was to be had except for money, and often for a price which to them was life itself. And He came to them from the palace, and offered them the palace freely; yet few listened! But with that strange absence of the sense of incongruity and the emotion of surprise characteristic of dreams, I did not wonder. Patiently He went in and out among them, pleading with one and another, often encountering rough words and blows; yet still His words were—"I come to seek and save that which was lost." And some even of the most wretched listened, and returned with Him, and were welcomed inside.

As if "Knock, and it shall be opened!" were not free enough, the gates were thrown open wide, and He stood there, the outstretched hand, instead of the door; the living friend, instead of the written words of welcome. And as if that were not enough, instead of saying, "Come to Me!" He came Himself—He "came to seek and to save that which was lost."

THE FOLD AND THE PALACE.

THE FOLD.

There is a Fold, once dearly bought,

But opened now to all,

Reaching from regions high as thought,

Low as our race can fall.

Far up among the sunny hills,

Where breaks the earliest day;

Down where the deepest shadow chills

The wanderer's downward way;—

There some have seen a Shepherd stand

Who guards it day and night;

Mightier than all His gentle hand,

His eyes the source of light.

I know the feeblest that have e'er

Entered those precincts blest,

Find everlasting safety there,

Freedom and life and rest.

But I have wandered far astray,

Blinded, and wearied sore;

How can I find the plainest way,

Or reach the nearest door?

The silence with a Voice is fraught!

When did I hear that tone?—

Awful as thunder, soft as thought,

Familiar as my own.

"I am the Door," those words begin—

I press towards that Voice,

And, ere I know it, am within,

And all within rejoice.

THE PALACE.

There is a Palace vast and bright,

Athwart the night's cold gloom

Stream its soft music and warm light—

A Palace, yet a Home.

The guests who are invited there

Are called therein to dwell:

"Laden with sin, oppressed with care,"

The calling suits me well.

They say none ever knocked in vain;

Yet I have often tried,

And scarce have strength to try again.

Will one then be denied?

Again that Voice my spirit thrills,

So strange, yet so well known,

Divine as when it rent the hills,

Yet human as my own.

The golden portals softly melt,

Like clouds around the sun,

And where they stood, and where I knelt,

Behold that matchless One!

He pleads for me, He pleads with me,

He hears ere I can call;

Jesus! my first step is to Thee,

And Thy first gift is all!

Thou and I[4]

In a room in a stately mansion, a little babe lay in its mother's arms. All kinds of beautiful things were around, and many people passed in and out. Pictures by the first masters were on the walls; the rarest exotics filled the air with choice perfumes. The chair in which the mother sat was gilded and tapestried; the carpet her feet rested on was soft as mossy turf, and delicate as embroidery. Jewels sparkled on her dress. The windows opened on a magnificent landscape of park and lake, woodland and distant hills. But the little babe saw nothing but its mother's smile—understood nothing but that it was on its mother's knee. Its only consciousness was, "Thou and I!" and love.

The railway train was entering a long tunnel. The babe was still on its mother's knee. The darkness grew deeper. The heavy train thundered through the hollow earth. Another met it, and rushed past with a deafening din. An older child in the carriage screamed with terror. Many of the passengers felt uneasy, and were impatient to see the light again. But the babe cared nothing for the noise or the darkness. It looked in the dim lamp-light into its mother's face, and saw her smile, and smiled again. It knew nothing of the world but "Thou and I!" and love.

The ship was tossing fearfully on the stormy sea. Every timber strained, every wave seemed as if it must engulf the vessel. The weak and timid cried out in an agony of fear. The brave and loving moved about with white, compressed lips, and contracted brows, striving now and then to say some brief re-assuring words to those for whose safety they feared. But the babe lay tranquil and happy in its mother's arms. Her breast was to it a shelter against the world. It knew nothing of danger or fear. Its world was, "Thou and I!" and love.

Years passed away, and the babe grew into a child, and the child into a man. His life was one of many vicissitudes, of passionate hopes, and bitter sorrows, and wild ambition. He worshipped the world in many forms, and wandered further and further from the Father's house, until the world which first had beguiled him with its choicest things came to feed him on its husks; and a long way off he thought of the Father and the home, and rose to return. His steps were doubtful and slow, but the heart which met him had no hesitation and no upbraidings. Then the wanderer understood the love with which he had been watched and pitied all those desolate years, the love with which he was welcomed now. The earth, and sky, and human life grew sacred and beautiful to him as they had never been, because through them all a living Presence was around him, a living heart met him; and, as of old on his mother's knee, once more, as he looked up to God his Father, his world became only "Thou and I!" and love.

His life moved rapidly on to its dark goal. He had to leave the sunshine of earth, its pleasant fields and cherished homes, and all familiar things, for ever. The light grew dimmer, and the darkness deepened. But he had no fear. In the darkness, and the bewildering rush of new experience, he was again as the babe on the mother's knee. To him there was no darkness, no confusion. He looked into his Father's face, and smiled. Life and death and earth, all he left, and all he went to, were as nothing to him then. He had nothing but that one living, loving Presence; but it was enough. Again it was "Thou and I!" and love.

And death found that childlike and angelic smile upon his lips, and left it there.

A day will come of storm, and fire, and tempest, and convulsion, when earth and heaven shall mingle and be rolled up as a scroll and pass away. But in that day what will such have to fear? Amidst all the convulsed worlds the redeemed will rest tranquil as the infant in the storm on its mother's breast. For amidst it all their eyes will rest on the Face which was bowed in death to save them, and will know no fear. It will be, "Thou and I, and Thou art love!" for ever.

Autumn was on the earth

When Summer came to me,

The Summer in the soul,

And set the life-springs free.

Darkness was on my life,

A heavy weight of night,

When the Sun arose within,

And filled my heart with light.

Ice lay upon my heart,

Ice-fetters still and strong,

When the living spring gushed forth

And filled my soul with song.

That Summer shall not fade,

That Sun it setteth never;

The Fountain in my heart

Springs full and fresh for ever.

Since I have learned Thy love,

My Summer, Lord, Thou art;

Summer to me, and Day,

And life springs in my heart.

Since I have learned THOU ART,

thou livest

, and art Love,

Art Love, and lovest me—

Fearless I look above!

Thy blood can cleanse from sin,

Thy love casts out my fear;

Heaven is no longer far,

Since Thou, its Sun, art near.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Suggested by a passage in Sartorius' "Lehre von der heiligen Liebe," contrasting the world, "Ich und Nicht Ich," with the Christian's world, "Ich und Du."

What Makes Things Musical?

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

The Sun!" said the Forest. "In the night I am still and voiceless. A weight of silence lies upon my heart. If you pass through me, the sound of your own footstep echoes fearfully, like the foot-fall of a ghost. If you speak to break the spell, the silence closes in on your words, like the ocean on a pebble you throw into it. The wind sighs far off among the branches, as if he were hushing his breath to listen. If a little bird chirps uneasily in its nest, it is silenced before you can find out whence the sound came. But the dawn breaks. Before a gray streak can be seen, my trees feel it, and quiver through every old trunk and tiny twig with joy; my birds feel it, and stir dreamily in their nests, as if they were just murmuring to each other, 'How comfortable we are!' Then the wind awakes, and tunes my trees for the concert, striking his hand across one and another, until all their varied harmonies are astir; whilst the soft, liquid rustlings of my oaks and beeches make the rich treble to the deep, plaintive tones of my pines. Then my early birds awake one by one, and answer each other in sweet responses, until the SUN rises, and the whole joyous chorus bursts into song to the organ and flute accompaniments of my evergreens and summer leaves; and in the pauses countless happy insects chirp, and buzz, and whirl with contented murmuring among my ferns and flower-bells. The SUN makes me musical," said the Forest.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Storms!" said the Sea. "In calm weather I lie still and sleep, or, now and then, say a few quiet words to the beaches I ripple on, or the boats which glide through my waters. But in the tempest you learn what my voice is, when all my slumbering powers awake, and I thunder through the caverns, and rush with all my battle-music on the rocks; whilst, between the grand artillery of my breakers, the wind peals its wild trumpet-peals, and the waters rush back to my breast from the cliffs they have scaled, in torrents and cascades, like the voices of a thousand rivers. My music is battle-music. STORMS make me musical," said the Sea.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Action!" said the Stream. "I lay still in my mountain-cradle for a long while. It is very silent up there. Occasionally the shadow of an eagle swept across me with a wild cry; but generally, from morning till night, I knew no change save the shadows of my rocky cradle, which went round steadily with the sun; and the shadows of the clouds, which glided across me, without my ever knowing whence or whither. But the rocks and clouds are very silent. The singing-birds did not venture so high; and the insects had nothing to tempt them near me, because no honeyed flower-bells bent over me there—nothing but little mosses and gray lichens, and these, though very lovely, are quiet creatures, and make no stir. I used to find it monotonous sometimes, and longed to have power to wake the hills; and I should have found it more so, had I not felt I was growing, and should flow forth to bless the fields by-and-by. Every drop that fell into my rocky basin I welcomed; and then the spring rains came, and all my rocks sent me down little rills on every side, and the snows melted into my cup; and, at last, I rose beyond the rim of my dwelling, and was free. Then I danced down over the hills, and sang as I went, till all the lonely places were glad with my voice; and I tinkled over the stones like bells, and crept among my cresses like fairy flutes, and dashed over the rocks and plunged into the pools with all my endless harmonies. ACTION makes me musical," said the Stream.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Suffering!" said the Harp-strings. "We were dull lumps of silver and copper ore in the mines; and no silence on the living, sunny earth is like the blank of voiceless ages in those dead and sunless depths. But, since then, we have passed through many fires. The hidden earth-fires underneath the mountains first moulded us, millenniums since, to ore; and then, in these last years, human hands have finished the training which makes us what we are. We have been smelted in furnaces heated seven times, till all our dross was gone; and then we have been drawn out on the rack, and hammered and fused, and, at last, stretched on these wooden frames, and drawn tighter and tighter, until we wonder at ourselves, and at the gentle hand which strikes such rich and wondrous chords and melodies from us—from us, who were once silent lumps of ore in the silent mines. Fires and blows have done it for us. SUFFERING has made us musical," said the Harp-strings.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Union!" said the Rocks. "What could be less musical than we, as we rose in bare crags from the hill-tops, or lay strewn about in huge isolated boulders in the valleys? The trees which sprang from our crevices had each its voice; the forests which clothed our sides had all these voices blended in richest harmonies when the wind touched them; the streams which gushed from our stony hearts sang joyous carols to us all day and all night long; the grasses and wild-flowers which clasped their tiny fingers round us had each some sweet murmur of delight as the breezes played with them; but we, who ever thought there was music in us? Yet now a human hand has gathered us from moor and mountain and lonely fell, and side by side we lie and give out music to the hand that strikes us. Thus we, who had lain for centuries unconscious that there was a note of music in our hearts, answer one another in melodious tones, and combine in rich chords, just because we have been brought together. UNION makes us musical," said the Rocks.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Life!" said the Oak-beam in the good ship. "I know it by its loss. Once I quivered in the forest at the touch of every breeze. Every living leaf of mine had melody, and all together made a stream of many-voiced music; whilst around me were countless living trees like myself, who woke at every dawn to a chorus in the morning breeze. But since the axe was laid at our roots, all the music has gone from our branches. We are useful still, they say, in the gallant ship, and our country mentions us with honour even in death; but the music has gone from us with life for ever, and we can only groan and creak in the storms. LIFE made us musical," said the Oak-beam.

WHAT MAKES CREATURES MUSICAL?

"Joy!" laughed the Children, and their happy laughter pealed through the sweet fresh air as they bounded over the fields, as if it had caught the most musical tones of everything musical in nature—the ripple of waves, the tinkling of brooks, the morning songs of birds. "JOY makes creatures musical," said the Children.

WHAT MAKES THINGS MUSICAL?

"Love!" said the little Thrush, as he warbled to his mate on the spring morning; and the Mother, as she sang soft lullabies to her babe. And all the Creatures said—

"Amen! LOVE makes us musical. In Storms and Sunshine, Suffering and Joy, Action, Union, Life, LOVE is the music at the heart of all. LOVE makes us musical," said all the Creatures.

And from the multitude before the throne, who, through fires of Tribulation and Storms of conflict, had learned the new song, and from depths of Darkness and the silence of Isolation had been brought together in the Light of Life to sing it, floated down a soft "Amen, for GOD is LOVE."

The Song without Words.

LEAVES FROM A VERY OLD BOOK.

PART I.—THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS.

CHAPTER I.

The waves were plashing against the foot of the rocks, but the cave in which the little Child lived was far above their reach; and he lay still on his little bed of dry leaves and moss, in his soft warm clothing, and kept his eyes closed. One little hand lay on his bosom, and the other was stretched out and folded close over a tiny shell; and he lay quietly, with the last soft kisses of Slumber still sealing his eyelids, and talked in his heart to the waves.

"You are awake," he murmured. "You are always awake: night and day you sing, and dance, and roll over one another in play. You do not know what it is to sleep and to dream, nor what the joy of waking is. You sing by my bed all night, and in the morning I go and thank you. But it is not you who call me to rise from my bed." And as he spoke, a sunbeam darted across the tops of the waves, and gently crept from ledge to ledge of the old gray rocks until it pressed through the leaves which drooped over the mouth of the cave, and touched the Child's eyelids. Then he sprang joyfully up, for he knew the sun was awake and was smiling on him, and had sent him this sweet morning kiss to call him.

Meantime, the little cave had burst into an illumination: long crystals like icicles glistened on the roof, and the fine sand on the floor sparkled with a thousand gems; and the Child's heart was glad, for he knew all this was to welcome him and the sun. It was all the rocks and stones could do, and the Child looked gratefully round on the clean bright sand and the rock spars.

But his eyes rested with a different feeling on the little delicate lichens which held up their tiny cups towards him in the shade, and the soft mosses which crept in as far as they could feel the sunshine, and the leaves of the trees which grew outside. For these had each a life of its own; and each tiny threadlet of moss, and each little gray lichen cup, and every one of the green leaves of the trees, trembled and fluttered with a separate joy as the sunbeams smiled on them, the dews kissed them, or the eyes of the Child rested on them.

So he left the cave, to take his morning meal on the mossy bank outside, among the trees and wild-flowers.

The cave was at an angle of the cliffs. On one side a little shingly path sloped from it to the beach where the waves broke; whilst on the other, the path lay through shrubs and grassy slopes into a valley. The trees grew thicker and thicker as the path led farther up the valley; but the Child had never wandered far on that side: he loved the open beach and the sunny waves, and every day brought so many pleasures, that the sun was sinking on the other side of the sea before his day's work was done. Often on his little bed he planned a ramble up the valley, and in his dreams wandered along beneath the thick shade; but the morning always led his steps again to the shore.

On this morning he sat on his bank. The little stream which trickled by the cave, and then leaped over the edge of the cliff into the sea, filled the pure white cockle shell, which was his breakfast cup; the nuts and fruits which made his little feast were spread on limpet and pearly mussel shells; and as he sat and enjoyed his simple meal, his heart thanked the trees which fed him, and the joyous little stream which gave him drink, and the sea creatures whose empty dwellings made him such dainty plates and cups, and the sun which ripened and smiled on them all. The harebells trembled on their fragile stems around him, and the violets and many other sweet flowers peeped up at him from their soft nests of leaves; and he said to the flowers, "You and I are like each other; every one has some gift and joy for us, and we have nothing to give them back but our love and our smiles; yet they are content, for we all give each other all we can."

Then the harebells trembled faster than ever, for joy to hear the Child speak, and the violets gazed into his happy eyes. They could none of them speak,—that the Child knew; but they were still, and listened, and he could interpret their looks: so they understood each other, and were all the best friends.

CHAPTER II.

But the Child was eager to reach his friends and playfellows on the sea-shore. Much as he loved the trees, and flowers, and delicate mosses, and well as he understood their meek, kind, listening looks, he would soon have grown weary of their mute, quiet ways: he longed for other voices besides his own, and the rich varieties of higher life.

"Do you never wish to wander, and never long for change?" he said to them one day. "I wish I could take you with me to see some of the wonderful things there are in the world. It must be monotonous always to look on the same patch of sky and the same stems and leaves! You must not be grieved if I go."

But as he spoke a breeze shook the branches of the tree above him, and gently parting them, let in a whole train of sunbeams on the mossy bank. And the young fern leaves, and the tender green mosses, and the violets, and all the flowers with the dew-drops on them, sparkled in the sunshine, and waved to and fro in the breeze, and seemed to grow even as he looked at them. Then the Child comprehended that every creature had its own measure of gladness full, and tripped joyfully away. His little white feet made music on the shingly path as he danced down the hill. But when he reached the gleaming strip of sunny sand at the foot of the rocks, he stepped more slowly and carefully, for all around him were his playfellows, and he often found some of them in want of his help.

This morning the shore was strewn with many well known to him, and some strange to him; for in the night the winds and waves had played rough gambols together, and had greatly disturbed many of the peaceable little dwellers in the deep.

The first thing he met was a Sea-anemone, stranded high on the beach, folding all its pretty flower-leaves into itself, and making itself look as ugly as it could. But the Child knew it well; and he gently laid his hand on it to carry it into a safer place. The little red and green and orange ball resented his interference, rolled itself a little on one side, and tried to bury itself in the sand. The Child spoke to it in its own language, and asked how it came there. The anemone replied by a little grunt. The family were not remarkable for clear articulation, and the Child could never get much out of them; but he met with no further resistance as he placed his hand beneath it and gently carried it to a favourite pool of his among the rocks. There he laid it down near the edge, where the water was shallow, and in a few minutes it shot out all its pretty feelers and rooted itself on the rock and expanded into a floral crown—very petal striped with rose and fawn, every petal like a little busy finger, tossing to and fro in search of food and in the enjoyment of life. Thus the anemone thanked the Child, and from all its sensitive points and its rayed lips came to him a soft chorus of sweet vibrations of pleasure.

He could not listen long, but tripped back over the rocks to the beach, treading softly over the leaves of the large brown sea-weeds, whilst their air-bladders crackled cheerily under his feet; and on his way in crossing a channel of sand, drifted up among the low rocks, he came across a little crab, whose shy spasmodic movements so amused him that he sat down on a large stone and laughed till the rocks rang again.

All the creatures always looked very grave and puzzled when the Child laughed, and the small crab did not seem at all to like it, keeping his large projecting eyes fixed on him, and trying to hide himself, as he went, under the brown leaves, but still glaring from his retreat with an expression of wounded dignity.

At length the Child recovered his speech and said, "Are you in difficulties? Can I help you?"

The crab crept out of his hiding-place on being thus courteously addressed, and planting his two fore legs round a pebble, looked up at the Child, and opened his lips so wide that all his body seemed a mouth. Then clearing his voice gravely, he said, "There is no living in the sea in these times: the winds and waves are so inconsiderate and violent, I don't know what will be the end of it. Yesterday morning I had found a most convenient apartment, well plastered and furnished, so as to suit me to perfection. I had spent hours in hunting for such an eligible lodging, and congratulated myself on being at length settled for life: when in an instant a large wave broke over me and dashed my house to pieces on the shore. I hardly escaped with my life, and my nerves are so shaken that I can scarcely think calmly—a most harassing position for a crab of my standing."

"But," said the Child, "what do you mean by finding your house?—most of my friends here build their own."

"That is not my profession," said the crab rather conceitedly; "none of our family were brought up to anything of the kind. Of course it is necessary that some people should be masons and carpenters, but we have all our work done for us."

"What do you do then?" asked the Child.

The crab looked a little embarrassed, but he was too well bred for this to last, so he replied rather evasively, "We eat, and drink, and observe the world; we travel, and occasionally fight, and criticise what other people do. I assure you it is no idle life: so few people understand their own business."

The Child did not altogether like the tone of the crab's conversation, and he replied rather warmly,—

"I don't know what you mean. All my friends, the cockles, the whelks, and the limpets, do their work a great deal better than I could; and I love to watch them."

"Very likely," said the crab, in a cool tone, for he was accustomed to good society; "the whelk family do indeed put their work out of hand in a masterly way; in fact we generally employ them."

"What do they do for you?" asked the Child.

"They build very commodious little residences, quite suitable for people who travel as much as we do, and then leave them to us."

"You live in empty whelk shells, then!" said the Child.

"We migrate from one such residence to another," replied the crab. "When we outgrow one, we abandon it and hunt for another; and occasionally, when we find a convenient one still tenanted, and cannot make the creature within understand our wants, especially if he begins to talk any nonsense about the rights of property and the claims of labour, we turn him out."

"That is stealing," said the Child indignantly.

"Excuse me," said the crab, "we call it conquest. We are soldiers on our own account—free companions. But I must be on my travels again. To-morrow, if you will call, we shall no doubt be able to renew our acquaintance under more agreeable circumstances."

And the Soldier-crab withdrew his long legs from the pebble, and marched away with a braggadocio air among the sea-weeds.

"I do not call you a soldier," said the Child; "you fight for no one but yourself. I call you a housebreaker and a thief;" and he rose with a flushed face slowly, and went on his way, lost in thought until he reached the little beach at the foot of the rocks. The sea had retreated whilst he had been away, and the Child soon forgot his conversation with the crab in watching the waves, dipping his feet in one, and then running away from the next.

So he played until he was tired, and then looking round he saw a lump of jelly stranded just beyond the reach of the tide.

It was clear as crystal, except a little purple colouring in rings at the edge. When the Child touched it with his foot it made a slight plaintive moan, and murmured, "I am alive; be gentle to me."

"How could I know that?" said the Child; "I would not hurt you for the world; I thought you were only a bit of something."

"If you had only seen me last evening," sighed the Medusa. "We were sailing, a fleet of us, far out in the deep sea; we thought it was to be calm, and we came up from the dark depths, to bask in the sunshine. And now I am separated from all my companions, and left to die here."

"How did you come here?" said the Child kindly; "may you not return by the same way?"

"How can I tell how I came here?" sighed the Medusa; "there was darkness, and thunder, and confusion,—waves hurling one another about, until sea and sky were all mixed, and the surface was as dark as the caves below. And I was like a bubble on the breakers, until one dashed me in beyond the reach of the others, and I am left here to die."

"You shall not die," said the Child. And gently taking up the shapeless mass in both his little hands, he carried it to the edge of a rock, which rose perpendicularly out of a deep creek, and there he threw it into the sea.

The Medusa stretched her crystal body joyously,—the receding waves bore her out to sea before she could thank the Child; but he rejoiced in her happiness, and turned back with a light heart to rest in his own little dwelling. For the sun was approaching the west, and crimson rays began to tint the upper surfaces of the waves, while their shadows became blue and dark. And as he climbed the little path, and rested on his little bed that night, he thought, "How glorious it must be far out in the deep sea!"

CHAPTER III.

The next morning, when the Child came down on the beach, the sea lay calm and bright, as if the world were opening her blue eyes, and gazing full into the heavens and drinking in their smiles.

The Child found little to set right; all the creatures were so busy at their various employments that none but the waves had time to play with him; and even they crept lazily in, as if they were half asleep, and hardly took the trouble to chase him when he ran from them. So the sunshine and the quiet stole also into the merry heart of the Child, and he seated himself beside the transparent rock-pool to watch and listen.

The first thing that attracted his attention was his friend the Sea-anemone, expanding its flowery disk like a sun-flower in the crystal water, with three companions rooted to the rock beside it. They all seemed to feel the presence of the Child, and spread themselves like flowers in the sunshine as he smiled on them. And clinging to a rock beside them a tiny star expanded itself with long petals like a daisy, silently stirring its delicate rays to and fro.

"Why are you never still?" said the Child.

"Because every movement is pleasure," it replied, "and every breath I draw is a feast. My little fingers are always making little whirlpools and drawing food into my lips."

"Are you always eating and drinking?" said the Child.

"Very often," said the sea-daisy, or anemone, not in the least abashed; "it is so pleasant." And all the anemones echoed her words.

"Sometimes we rest," she added.

"You sleep," said the Child; "then do you dream?"

"I do not exactly know what you mean," said the snaky-locked anemone, "but it is all very pleasant."

The Child was silent and watched them, and as he listened he caught the sound of a low sweet song, which issued from their lips; but not only from theirs—it was vibrating all around him, the whole air and the crystal water seemed full of soft music. And the Child sat still and listened.

As he listened and looked, wonder after wonder opened before him, as if veil after veil were removed from his eyes. He was not often so long still.

Just below where he sat a little solid sand-bridge spanned the pool. It was full of small holes; and as he looked he perceived that each hole was the entrance to a tube, and the whole bridge was built of these tubes, carefully fitted into one another and glued together.

"Who built this?" he asked.

Instantly a hundred little heads came peeping out of the entrances of the tubes. Each little head was encircled with a delicate ruffle, made not of lace but of exquisite white feathers; and from each little head, as it waved its two little feelers to and fro, came the answer—

"We built the bridge, and we live in it."

Then the Child saw that the pretty sand-bridge was also a city, and was hollowed all through into chambers—each with its beautiful happy little tenant; and he could have watched them all day, the delicate fringed heads peeping out on the clear water-world, each from its own little dwelling built by itself, whilst underneath the arch young shrimps and tiny fishes flashed to and fro.

"Do you build anything besides bridges?" he asked at length.

"Look around you," answered the hundred little busy heads in chorus. And as he looked he saw that the sides of the pool were in many places covered with similar sand-chambers. Here ran out a pier far into the crystal water, dividing it into tiny bays and creeks; there rose a toy citadel, and near it a miniature cliff with peaks; and everywhere, from tiny cliffs, and citadels, and piers, and moles, and bridges, peeped out hundreds of the same delicate little ruffled heads, like courtiers of the olden time.

The Child clapped his hands for pleasure, and longed to see the soldier-crab and make him ashamed of himself.

"But what do you do when the tide is low, and your little cities are left dry?" he asked.

"We each fill up the doorway of our chamber with a drop of water, and retire into the darkness until the next tide," replied the little courtiers.

"I like you so much," said the Child; "tell me more."

"We have many relations who dress much more magnificently than we do. Some of them have ruffs of rose-colour and crimson, and we are quite dwarfs beside them."

"Do they build cities like you?"

"They do not live in cities," was the reply. "They make their houses more like the cockles and whelks, and live apart: some fix their shelly houses flat on the rocks, some raise them high in the water so as to look around them, some build on oyster-shells far down in the deep sea; and these are the most beautiful of our race."

"I should like to see the deep sea," said the Child; "how beautiful it must be there! How can you go there?"

"We do not know," replied the heads; "we are dwellers in cities, and we are quite content where we are."

Then all the little heads vibrated joyously about, and the Child was silent and heard the sweet music again floating around him in chorus from the hundred little feathered heads.

As he sat still, a hairy little creature came sidling towards him over the rocks. Its head and legs and back were covered with hair; it looked like a miniature trunk of an old tree overgrown with moss, and the Child could not help laughing to see it waddling towards him. It was not until it came quite close that he saw it was a crab, and that what had seemed hairs were sea-weeds and plant-animals growing on its shell.

"What can you carry all that on your back for?" asked the Child, as soon as he could speak for laughing.

"I do not care in the least for it," said the crab good-naturedly. "I suppose they all enjoy it; and it makes very little difference to me as long as they do not come before my eyes."

And the hairy crab jerked itself merrily on, with the tiny forest on its back. The merry laughter of the Child rang again among the rocks, and it was some minutes before he began to look and listen again. Then he gently drew back a quantity of brown sea-weeds, which were shading his side of the pool, that he might see further into it.

Underneath the heavy brown leaves grew a tiny forest of crimson corallines, fringing the pool all around, and throwing out their delicate branches on all sides. These were motionless in the still water—a fairy forest, motionless and beautiful, as if it had been enchanted into stone. But beneath them and among them darted and flashed countless tiny living creatures, enjoying every breath of their lives;—little shell-fish opened and shut their shells to breathe and eat; at the bottom, through the transparent water, many beautiful anemones expanded their crowns of flowers; sea-snails thrust their horns out of their pretty shells, and browsed on the green sea-herbage; star-fish spread their pointed rays, beaded with orange, and clung with their hundred little cushioned fingers to the rocks; whilst all around, from the sides, peeped the tiny heads of the dwellers in the sand cities. The little crystal pool was a world of happy living beings of many races, each race having its own work and enjoyments; and from them all floated around the Child the sweet soft song, like a sweet hymn. But there were no words.

"What are you always singing?" asked the Child.

"We do not know the words," they answered. "We wait for you to sing them to us, and then the song will be complete."

"Where can I learn them?" said the Child.

"We do not know," they answered; and the sweet music floated on, rising and falling like a joyous, solemn hymn.

"I wonder if they know the words far out in the deep sea," thought the Child.

And he went silently home to his cave.

CHAPTER IV.

That night the Child dreamed that he was floating in the star-light, far out on the deep sea, and strange creatures came up from the sea-caves, and looked, and looked at him, and sang of their homes among the pearls and corals, whilst he lay floating in a dream, until the moon arose and the moonbeams embraced him, and carried him softly back by a pathway of light to his own little bed in the cave. When he awoke, the moon was looking on him from her place far up in the depths of heaven, yet touching his cheek with her silver sceptre, and the Child longed exceedingly that his dream might come true.

He soon fell asleep again; but in the morning he was full of schemes how he might sail out into the deep sea.

He knew it was of no use speaking of it to the quiet flowers; so he went down as quickly as he could to the beach to consult his friends there.

They could none of them help him. The crabs took no interest at all in the subject, and the limpets and mussels evidently thought it a very wild idea. The whelks entered a little more into it; and he could not help hoping he might fall in with another medusa. But at length, after many fruitless inquiries, the Child seated himself, rather despondingly, on his old station by the rock-pool.

There his eyes lighted on a stone covered with a number of delicate little cups, like alabaster vases, each fastened to the rock by its stem. He was beginning to move one when a small whelk shell near made a slight rattling on the rocks, and two little horns, with two black eyes at their roots, peeped out to see what was the matter.

"Take care," said the whelk, "you are disturbing my nursery."

Then the Child saw that each of the white vases was a little egg-cup carefully fastened to the rock, and he begged the whelk's pardon.

"Do you go out to sea?" he asked.

"Some of my relations do," replied the whelk; "and I myself have occasionally floated among the great waves; but it is rather dangerous."

"I would not mind the danger," said the Child, "if you would teach me how."

The whelk had no idea how to teach any one, so the subject dropped.

In a few minutes, as the Child was gazing idly over the rocks, he observed on the top of one of them a number of little shells opening and shutting under the shallow water, whilst through the openings little feathery heads kept darting in and out.

"Are you limpets?" he asked.

"No connection," was the reply.

"Oh, I thought you were limpet shells broken and mended," said the Child. "Are you related to the builders of the sand-bridges?"

"Not at all," answered the feathery heads. "We are Balanuses. In our youth we were great voyagers, and floated about on the waves. But now we have grown wiser. We have thrown off our legs and eyes, and built ourselves these little chambers with folding-doors, and are settled down respectably for life."

The Child could scarcely help laughing at the idea of any one finding it a comfort to throw away his legs and eyes; but he thought it would not be respectful towards elderly gentlemen, who had seen so much of the world, so he said, as gravely as he could, "Was it not pleasant dancing about among the great waves?"

"Very well for young people," was the answer, "or for those who cannot provide for themselves otherwise; but to have a drawing-room with folding-doors, and stay at home when it is dry, or feel about when it is wet, just as one likes, is quite a different thing."

And the little heads swayed about so happily, making tiny whirlpools to suck in their food, that the Child had no doubt they were as happy as they could be, and wisely resolved to be the same.

So the thin cloud of discontent was blown away, though not the desire to see the far-off wonders; and as he sat and watched in happy silence, the soft music of the living creatures again broke on his ear. And as he looked and listened, new wonders burst on him, new doors of beauty kept springing open in the fairy palace of the rock-pool. Hairy stems of the large brown sea-weeds blossomed, as he looked, into a thousand little living stars, vibrating their sensitive rays to and fro in the crystal water. The scales which spotted them proved to be a honeycomb of countless cells, every one of which had its little living busy tenant; and a tiny withered-looking stalk, with knobs at the end of the branches, suddenly shot out from each little knob numbers of busy little fingers, feeling in all directions for food,—whilst through all flowed the sweet solemn song, so that the Child lingered in happy wonder until the little creeks grew invisible in the shade and the water plashed with a cold sound. The little rock-borers kindled their bluish-white lamps, in the depths of their tiny caves, to light him home; and when he reached the mossy bank, the glow-worms were awaiting him with their rows of coloured lamps, illuminating the mossy bank as for a festival; and the rock-pools shone like steel mirrors, with a cold gray light, among the dark rocks. Then he returned to his cave.

But still the longing grew within him to learn the words of the Song, and he thought, "I wonder if they could teach it me far out on the deep sea?"

His friends and playfellows on the shore saw his thoughtful looks, for they all looked to him and loved him as their joy and crown, their darling and their little King; and they often consulted together how they could give him his wish.

CHAPTER V.

One calm bright morning, when the Child had been busy rendering services to many of his sea friends, who had lost their way or had been roughly treated by the waves, he came to rest himself by the rock-pool. There a great surprise and delight awaited him. A large volute, nearly related to some of his friends the whelks, had entangled his shell among some long fronds of floating sea-weed: with him were swimming two creatures, very beautiful, but strangers to the Child, and the whole formed a little fairy raft, ready to take him out to the deep sea!

He understood it at once; his face flushed crimson with pleasure and gratitude, and for a moment his voice was choked so that he could not speak, for he thought, "Now I shall learn the words of the Song."

Then he clapped his hands and laughed aloud for joy, and thanked all the creatures, and seated himself on the sea-weed, buoyed up by its air-bladders, with one hand clasped round the volute, and the other laid on the strange spiral shell.

Thousands of the sand-borers of the sabella family thrust out their feathered heads to see him start, the hairy crab and many of his brothers glared after him with their eager eyes, and even the rock-borers—the hard-working pholases—crept out to the mouth of their dens to watch him.

"I shall soon come back to you," said the Child; "and then we will sing the Song together."

So the shell-fish plied their oars, and the other transparent creature spread its sail, and they and the Child floated away together.

The Child wished to know something of his new companions before he lost sight of all his old friends, so he politely asked them who they were.

One of them had a crystal body spotted with dark blue, from which many little fingers shot down into the water and played about like oars, whilst above rose a lovely little transparent sail, catching the breeze.

"Are you a medusa?" asked the Child.

"That is my family name," said the little boatman; "my own name is Velella."

"And you?" said the Child, turning to the other stranger, whose head came far out of his sculptured spiral shell, whilst a hundred delicate feelers played around it in the waves, "I never saw any one like you before."

"I am a nautilus," said the beautiful stranger. "Our family is one of the oldest in the world. We are nearly the last of our race. The days of our glory are well-nigh over, and we sail about here and there, a feeble and dwarfish race, where our ancestors reigned supreme and unrivalled."

The Child wondered at these words, and could scarcely make out their meaning; he had not dreamt about any world but the one he lived in, or any days before those which rose and set on him; all around him seemed so infinite and inexhaustible. And now the stranger, beautiful creature! spoke to him from the entrance of a dim and wonderful world, of which he knew nothing. So the Child sat silent, with endless wonder in his earnest blue eyes, and looked for the first time on the vision of the Past.

Then the Nautilus went on:—

"There was, they say, a time, before the mountains were uncovered, or one of the trees you know had blossomed, when there was nothing more beautiful or wiser than we in the world; and we dived into the sea caves, and floated about in the boundless waste of waters beneath the sun, and the moon, and the stars. Some of our race, who lived and reigned then, have perished for ever, and their burial-places form the foundation of your earth. If you wander inland among the hills, it is said, you find everywhere the tombs of our ancestors carved in imperishable stone."

"Are you unhappy," asked the Child, "since your family are so fallen?"

"I have lost nothing," said the nautilus. "We have all of us our cup of life filled to the brim with happiness."

"Who fills it?" said the Child with a look of awe.

"We do not know," said the nautilus; "but it is always full."

The Child pressed his hand on his eyebrows,—it seemed too great and difficult for him to understand; and then the thought crossed him that the nautilus might have learned the words of the Song from his ancestors who lived so very long ago, and he sat still and listened.

So they floated out of sight of land into the deep sea, and, mingled with the quiet plash of the waves, came from around and beneath the old sweet solemn Song. But it was always without words.

It was delightful to float about thus over the deep sea,—to be rocked up and down on the great waves. There were no breakers, no foam—only the constant heaving and rocking of the blue waves, with their emerald lights and purple shadows. And the Child shut his eyes and listened, with one hand round a horn of the volute shell, and the other laid on the Nautilus, whilst the Velella unfurled her sail before them in the sunshine; and he thought his dream had come true.

When he looked around again, numbers of strange and beautiful creatures were floating around him, just below the surface of the water. Among them was a large crystal umbrella fringed with delicate fringes, with a quatre-foil of crimson in the centre, and numbers of small feelers flashing to and fro in the clear sea underneath.

"Do you not know me?" it said. "I am the medusa you saved when wrecked on your shore; and these are some of my relations gathered to welcome you amongst us." And as she spoke, the little fleet formed in order around him to do him honour; and they sang, "Stay with us, and be our little King!"

Some spread their fairy transparent canopies, and shook all their delicate fringes for joy; some flashed about little streamers—golden, and rose, and opal-green—like flags on a festival; some spread sunny sails, like the Velella; some tiny crystal globes darted in and out among the rest, near the surface; and farther down in the clear water, as far as the child's eyes could penetrate, the same living crystal globes, and canopies, and balloons, flashed to and fro.

One little creature, however, delighted the Child beyond all the rest. It was a tiny crystal globe, not larger than a hazel-nut, divided by eight exquisite ribs. Each rib was formed of countless crystal plates like the plates of a paddle-wheel, and each tiny plate was incessantly vibrating up and down, carrying the restless little creature hither and thither as it pleased, and making it flash with their ceaseless movement like a balloon of sunbeams; while from underneath shot two delicate threads fringed with many branching fibres, which were for ever curving and waving about.

"What is your name?" asked the Child. "Why are you never still?"

"I am the Beroe," said the little balloon; "and those threads are my fishing lines."

Thus the day wore away: the sweet hymn floated through the silence until the Child was nearly wearied out with pleasure; and the Nautilus, and the Velella, and the Volute turned their course homeward.

The gold, and emerald, and rose had faded from the sea before the little party reached the shore; but then in the darkness began the greatest sight of the day.

It was a festival on the sea; and everywhere, as far as the Child's sight could reach, the waters were one illumination. Every one of the little crystal fleet of medusæ who had shone by day in the sunlight now lighted its own tiny sun. All around the Child floated canopies, and balloons, and globes, and boats of living fire, lamps of all forms and colours flashing, gleaming, shining steadily with a soft radiance, lighting the sea fathoms down; opal, and ruby, and emerald, and amber, falling around the fairy raft in foam-flakes of fire as they glided silently through the waves. And everywhere through the silence and the night the happy living creatures sang as they shone that old sweet solemn Song. So they reached the little creek by the rock-pool, and the Child's old friends were many of them awake to welcome him home; but he was wearied out with enjoyment, and tripped as fast as he could up to his little bed in the cave. There he lay down and fell asleep with his heart full of love and gratitude to all the creatures; but he had not yet learned the words of the Song.

CHAPTER VI.

Sunbeam after sunbeam peeped into the cave the next morning, but could not wake the Child, until at length they poured in in a flood, and the little sleeper's eyes unclosed to see every nook and corner of his dwelling lighted up, and every projecting ledge, and point, and stalactite flashing back the rays. Then he rubbed his eyes, and rose, and went out to take his breakfast on the mossy bank, feeling still half in a dream. The birds had finished their morning songs; the flowers had drunk in their breakfast of dew-drops, and were standing upright in the full daylight; everything seemed so busy and wide awake that the Child would have had to take his breakfast alone had it not been for a sober bee, which kept buzzing in and out of the blossoms, and a blue butterfly which fluttered silently around them, now and then poising on the open disk of a flower which scarcely bent beneath its weight.

The Child sat watching them in silence, until, through the silvery tinkling of the stream and the rustling of the wind, he caught for the first time near his cave the sound of soft familiar music floating around. It was the sweet solemn Song to which he had listened in the rock-pools and far out on the deep sea. Then he thought, "I wonder if they know the words far away in the depths of the wood."

He turned from the sea, and followed the stream with his eyes until the sparkling waters were lost in the shade of the trees and the long grass. Along the green glade which bordered the brook the sunshine lay in broad patches, so that the wood looked less dim and dark, and more inviting than he had ever seen it before: and he said to the butterfly, "Where do you live?"

The blue fairy creature drew its tube out of the nectar-cup of the flower it was sipping from, and fluttering its brilliant wings, said, "My home is everywhere where the flowers grow and the sun shines; and at night I fold my wings together and go to roost on some flower-cup which has feasted me in the day. I do not think whence I come or whither I go: I knew enough once of what it was to stay at home, in those dark days when I crept along the cold earth and was entombed in my hard mummy-case; now I am free of air and sky—a citizen of the heavens, and every breath is a joy, and every sunbeam a home."

"Then you cannot guide me into the wood," said the Child; and the butterfly fluttered and soared away till it lost itself in a sunbeam.

"But I can," said the busy sober bee, seated on a flower, which rocked to and fro beneath the weight of his little solid body; "I shall soon be going home to our village, and you can follow me."

The Child waited patiently until his new friend had filled his little basket with bread, made of the yellow flower-dust, and then joyfully obeyed the busy little workman's signal, and followed him into the wood.

As they went, the bee chatted in a grave and pleasant way about his relations and acquaintances,—about his cousin the carpenter who carved her nest in wood, and lined it with rose leaves; and his cousin the mason, who built her little dwelling with many chambers, of grains of sand cemented together and plastered over. He had also many wonderful stories about that part of their race who lived in cities and villages, each city with its queen and royal family, its busy labourers, confectioners, bakers, builders, nurses of the royal children, and body-guard of the queen. And they were constantly meeting friends and acquaintances, with whom the bee would stop and buzz a little politics, or discuss the last news from court.

The Child was greatly delighted with all he heard of this busy happy people; and when at length the bee stopped at his native village, he gladly accepted the invitation of the hospitable little negro inhabitants, who thronged around him, to share their mid-day meal. For here also he was no stranger,—every creature welcomed him, and was eager to render loving homage to their little king.

Thus the hours passed swiftly on. Squirrels darted up the trees, and there sat waving their long bushy tails, cracking nuts between their paws, and peeping at the Child with their quick twinkling eyes. Field-mice crept out of their holes in the mossy banks, and gazed on him with their grave whiskered faces; tiny ants bustled to and fro, too busy to attend to anything but housing their winter stores; butterflies in their rich brocades, and insects with lustrous wings, fluttered joyously around him; whilst all the flowers laid their crowns at his feet in their silent love. But more than all, the Child delighted in the birds. They perched around him, hidden among the leafy branches, and poured forth their happy songs; they hopped about on the grass close to him, turning their pretty heads from side to side, and looking up at him with their bright eyes full of trust.

At length, as he was rambling among the thick trees, feeling his way through the long grass, his hand unexpectedly rested on something soft and downy, from which issued a low plaintive chirp. Instantly he drew back, and held aside the grass to see what it could be. There, couching among the thick stems, he descried a little bird sitting patiently on her nest, spreading her wings over her brood. She looked up timidly in his face, but did not stir.

"Were you not afraid I might hurt you?" said the Child. "Why do you sit still?"

"If I flew away, who would take care of my little ones?" said the mother.

Then the Child's heart comprehended something of what is meant by a mother's love, and he stooped down and tenderly stroked the soft head and breast of the mother-bird; but the tears gathered in his eyes as he looked at her, and a strange feeling of loneliness and want crept over him.

It was too late for him to return to his little cave that evening, so he gathered some dry leaves, and laid himself down by the side of the mother-bird and her brood.

As he lay there, the birds were finishing their evening song, and all around arose a flood of soft melody, filling the air, and wandering in and out among the trees, and ferns, and flowers. Sometimes it seemed to the Child as if the beautiful music were forming itself into a Name; but he listened and listened until he fell asleep, and still the Song was without words.

CHAPTER VII.

Before the night passed away the Child awoke, and started up on his feet, to convince himself he was not still dreaming. Whenever he awoke in his own little cave, the waves were heaving and breaking against the rocks far below; he felt there was something awake beside himself, and he was not alone; and so, after listening a few minutes to the ceaseless song, he fell peacefully asleep again. But here in the wood all was so still. The bees were fast asleep hanging to their combs; not a field-mouse nor a squirrel was stirring near him; even the winds seemed to have fallen asleep among the branches, and the birds rested in their warm nests. Only now and then a little bird gave a slight dreamy stir and chirp, as if it were talking in its sleep; or a large moth would whiz past him, and be out of hearing in a moment. The Child could not bear to feel so silent and alone amidst the multitude of living creatures, and yet he shrank from the sound of his own voice; so he crept noiselessly on to where the moonbeams broke through an opening in the trees. When he reached the clear space, he found the trees there began to be scattered thinly about, whilst the little stream flowed silently through the open glade among the silvery ferns. It was pleasant to stand again under the open sky; and as he stood still, he caught the sound of waters falling in the distance. It reminded him of his own home by the sea, only the rush was constant,—not rising and falling like the organ-swell of the waves. The Child followed the sound, till he reached a waterfall gleaming like a white robe in the moonlight. He watched it a long time with wondering delight, to see the silvery waters ever the same, yet ever new; always leaping after each other with such a startled joy over the edge of the rocks, and always sinking with such content into the deep dark pool beneath, again to set out on a new journey among the sand and pebbles.

The Child knew the way they would have to go among the thick trees into the wood, and he thought of the surprise and delight it would be to them to lose themselves among their companions in the boundless sea, and be changed into waves, the homes of countless happy living creatures.

So the Child's heart followed the little stream until his feet followed his heart, and he climbed in the moonlight up the rocks by the side of the waterfall. Many tough old ferns and young saplings held out their hands to help him up, and so he reached the top and stood on the open plain above. There, as far as he could see, the little stream gleamed and sparkled in the moonbeams, until it was lost in the shadow of the great hills beyond. Above those hills rose mountains with snowy brows open to the moon; and when the Child looked on the other side, his eye was lost in the thick shadows of the wood, where so many living creatures were quietly sleeping.

The song of the earth was hushed; but as the Child looked up into the heavens, the same song seemed to flow down to him from above. And as he listened, the moon went down behind the mountains, and the silvery veil of moonbeams grew so dim that star after star began to peep through it on the Child. These grew brighter and brighter as they and the Child looked into each other's eyes; and more and more came forth, till the heavens were full of millions of happy stars. Every moment the firmament seemed to become deeper and fuller, and the Child's heart grew fuller of joy. For from every star came a separate tone of music, and once more the music seemed almost to form itself into a Name. But the Child could not catch what it was; and he clasped his hands, and, looking up, said to the stars, "You are so far off, I cannot hear what you are singing, but I am sure you know the words of the Song. Bend down to me, happy stars, and tell me the words, that I may sing with you."

The stars answered the Child by a richer and deeper peal of music. But still there were no words, till they hid themselves again in the gray of morning.

Then the child seated himself among the ferns; his fair head sank on his bosom, and he fell asleep.

But in his sleep he was still looking up into the heavens; and there, where the stars had been, he saw white robes floating like moonlit clouds, and human faces like his own looking down on him with tender love, and he heard them sing with human voices the old sweet solemn Song; but it had new tones in it, sweeter than any he had ever heard before, and there were words: but the words were in a language the Child did not know, and in his dream he wept bitterly to hear such sweet songs, so full of love and joy, and not to know what they meant.

But from above the singers came a Voice sweeter and more tender than any of theirs, yet mighty as the sound of many waters, and it said to him, "Weep not: thou also shalt learn the Song."

Then he remembered the mother bird on her nest, and it seemed to him as if something like a mother's love were brooding over him in the heavens. So the Child awoke with a new joy in his heart. He was sure that Voice must have spoken the truth, and with a light and buoyant heart he retraced his steps through the wood beside the stream till he reached his own little cave and the sea-shore. There all his old friends were in a flutter of delight to see him back again. The flowers looked so glad that they almost spoke; the cockles dived into the sand and up again as if they were playing at hide-and-seek; the sand-borers fluttered their feathered heads, and the anemones spread all their living petals; the crabs performed all sorts of ridiculous gambols; the little shrimps darted in and out among the crimson copses of coralline and the tufts of glittering green sea-weed; tiny silver fish shot under the sand arches, their black silver-rimmed eyes watching the Child. Corynes stretched out their little fingers, plant animals rang their delicate bells of glass-thread, and even the sleepy brown and crimson sponges were more active than usual in making their tiny whirlpools.

And the Child said to all of them, "I do not know the Song yet, but I shall know it by-and-by, and then we will sing it together."

CHAPTER VIII.

After this the Child would often stand gazing out over the sea or into the heavens. He felt as if he were always on the point of finding something, yet all his seeking was full of hope and without disquiet; for after that dream he never doubted that one day he should learn the words of the Song.

One morning, as he was looking out over the sea, watching the dimpling and sparkling of the laughing waves, and dreaming about his dream, he descried something dark rising and falling on the waters. As he watched it, it came nearer, and he perceived that it was a little round wooden box; and to his great delight he saw that the advancing tide would soon lay it at his feet. He could not wait until it reached the dry beach, but plashed through the waves, caught it in his arms, and carried it in triumph to the shingly ridge above the sands. There he seated himself to examine his treasure: he could not help in some way connecting it with his dream; he thought the sweet Singers must have sent it him from the sky. The little box had something of the shape of the shells of his friends of the sabella family, and it sounded hollow, but it was closed at both ends with a flat piece of wood. At first he could find no way of opening it; so he began to admire the beautiful flowers and fruits and leaves which were carved in wreaths and garlands round the tube. The fruits and flowers were strange to the Child, and he wondered if they were like those which grew in the home of the sweet Singers.

At length as he turned the tube over and over a little muffled voice came to him from inside and said, "Put me into the sea again until to-morrow morning, and I will open the box for you."

"Who are you?" asked the Child.

"I am a teredo," replied the little muffled voice. "I have been very busy for some days boring through the hinge of this strange box, and in a few hours I shall quite have finished my work, if you will throw me into the sea, so that I may have something to drink; for I can assure you people who work as hard as I do get very thirsty."

So the Child took the box to his rock-pool, and laid it on a ledge beneath the water, where he thought it would be safe from being washed away by the next tide. He could not bear to lose sight of his new treasure; he did not know what might be inside.

Whilst he was waiting he found the teredo a very amusing companion.

"What do you look like?" he asked.

"My own house is not so large as one of your finger-nails," replied the teredo; "but I have a long winding passage leading from it to the sea outside, and through this, however deep I am buried, I keep myself provided with air and water by means of a long trunk which I possess."

"Do you often bury yourself very deep?" asked the Child.

"We are seldom engaged on such a trifling affair as this," replied the teredo; "we eat through ships and piers, and piles made of the hard trunks of oaks."

The Child had no idea of what ships and piers were, and the little busy creature was quite ready to tell him all she knew; so all day he sat listening to her stories, which to him were wonderful fairy tales. And when the darkness came, he tripped joyously up to his cave to sleep away as fast as he could the night which was to bring the morning when the strange box would fly open.

But on his little bed he kept wondering what was inside. Was it a beautiful little living being which was to be his companion? was it a tiny ship like the great ones the teredo had been talking about, only made to sail in the air, and to carry him up to where the sweet Singers lived? So he fell asleep full of happy visions.

The next morning he could scarcely eat his breakfast or say a word to the flowers, he was so eager to reach the place where his treasure lay, and see if it were safe. But the sea was still covering the beach, and it was some time before the waves were curbed in, and ceased to dash into the rock-pool.

At length the tide drew back, and the Child clambered over the wet rocks to the pool.

There, safe on the ledge where he had placed it, lay the little carved tube. He took it carefully out of the water: the little teredo had done her work well, and in an instant the cover flew open. His heart fluttered fast as he watched to see what would happen next.

But no living creature sprang out; only a roll of parchments, marked all over with strange twisted black lines, fell on the rocks. The Child thrust in his little hand and felt all through the tube, but there was nothing more within, and he was so disappointed he had scarcely heart to thank the teredo.

Tears of vexation would fall fast over his face, and at length he hid his face in his hands and sobbed aloud. His hopes had soared so high! Soon his sobs subsided into quiet weeping. All the creatures tried to comfort him; he felt grateful to them, but still they could not dry his tears.

At length they gave up speaking to him, and through the silence came on his ear the sound of the old sweet solemn Song. Then the Child thought of his dream, of the Singers in heaven, and of the loving Voice, and he looked up on the sparkling sea and the sunny blue sky, and smiled through his tears. He felt ashamed of having been so cast down, and quietly took up the roll of parchments from the rocks.

It was traced all over with black figures, delicately and carefully drawn; but the Child could not see in them anything more than the delicate traceries he had often observed on the shells and flowers; and turn it over and gaze on it as he would, he could find nothing in it but a roll of dead leaves.

Nevertheless he took it with him to his cave (leaving the cover to the teredo as an acknowledgment of her kindness), and carefully replaced it in the wooden tube. At all events the little carved basket was beautiful, and still he could not help linking it with his dream, and with the heavenly Singers who knew the words of the Song.

PART II.—THE WORDS OF THE SONG.

CHAPTER I.

That night there was a great storm on the sea. The Child could not sleep for the tumult. There were thunders and lightnings, and all the winds seemed drawn up in battle, so that he could not distinguish the thunder of the clouds from the roar of the winds or the sullen plunges of the waves as they dashed into the hollows of the rocks, undermining the cliffs. Yet all this was not half so terrible to the Child as the sound of human voices like his own, which came to him wailing through the storm. He rose and stood at the entrance of his cave with his arms clinging to the trunk of an old tree, and looked out over the sea. Not a star was to be seen; and if he tried to speak he could scarcely hear his own voice. Yet through all the roar of the sea and the thunder and the wild raging of the winds, ever and anon came those plaintive human cries straight to the Child's heart. Now and then also he caught the gleam of a light twinkling far out on the waters, but it was extinguished in an instant, and the darkness looked darker than before. At length the wailing voices died away, and the gray morning broke over the foaming waves, and the storm began to lull.

When the day came up, all the sky was calm and bright as if nothing had happened; but the flowers lay exhausted on the mossy bank; the path into the wood was strewn with many branches torn from the trees; all the creatures seemed frightened and cowed by the storm; and the Child sat at his breakfast in silence and alone. He was half afraid to venture to the beach: the sea had not forgotten its last night's battles, and as far out as the Child's eyes could reach, angry waves were tossing their plumed crests, whilst on the shore they curved their proud necks, and foamed as if they would have swallowed the earth, dashing their spray over the tallest cliffs. And to the Child there was something terrible in the calm sunshine, which smiled down so peacefully on all this tumult.

Yet there was a kind of wild joy to him in watching the mighty waves. He stood as close to them as he could, and enjoyed the spray they flung in his face. He felt they were not at play this morning, but he wondered and rejoiced to see his old playfellows in this their hour of strength and daring; his spirit seemed to grow as he looked at them, and he began to feel a new sense of power and a longing to exercise it. So he clambered on among the rocks, breasting the wind, and fronting the waves, till he came to a quiet sandy bay at some little distance from his home. His sea friends, for the most part, kept themselves at home, the sand-borers in their sand-chambers, the fish in their shells, the crabs under the thick sea-weeds,—not yet feeling any confidence in the weather; so that he was more alone than usual.

And as he stood on the rocks which enclosed the bay, on the other side he caught sight of something white gleaming among the rocks. As fast as his little feet could carry him he hastened across the bay to discover what this could be, skirting the waves which curved towards the shore, and in his haste often plunging into them.

But when he reached the point to which he was hastening, surprise and awe nearly took away his breath, and he stood with parted lips and a sudden paleness in his cheeks. Lashed to a plank lay a little creature like himself,—a little maiden with her eyes closed as if she were asleep, and her lips and face as white as her dress.

The Child watched her in silence a minute to see if she would speak. He felt sure the sweet Singers had sent her to him from the heavens, and he feared to disturb her till she awoke. But at length he ventured to whisper, and then to speak louder and louder, asking her to wake. Still the white lips did not close, nor the pale eyelids open. Then a cold awe crept over the Child, and at last he burst into tears. Was it to be another disappointment, like the silent roll of dead leaves? and should he never find any who would understand him or speak to him? In his tears he forgot all his awe, and stooping down he took one little cold hand in both his warm ones, and said gently, "Speak to me—only one word. Indeed I would understand you, and I would love you so dearly."

Then, as still no answer came, he threw both his arms around the little maiden's neck, and pressed his warm breast to hers, and laid his cheek to hers, and prayed her only to wake, even if she would not speak; until, as he folded her thus, so tight and warm, in his little soft arms, he felt something faintly beating against his heart, and a quiver passed through the pale lips, and the Child sobbed aloud, "You hear me! you are waking! you will speak to me!"

And his tears fell faster than ever for joy.

Then the pale-veined eyelids slowly opened, and two eyes looked into his, as blue as the violets. But they were not flowers; they were sweet human eyes. They looked at him with a strange, bewildered, questioning look, and at length a faint voice murmured, "Is it a dream?—are we in heaven?"

It was the first human voice the Child remembered to have heard, but it did not surprise him. It seemed familiar, as if he had heard it long ago, he knew not where; and he said, "No, we are not in heaven, and it is not a dream; but the sweet Singers in heaven have sent you to me."

Then the Child unfastened the cords which bound the little maiden to the plank, and she sat upright and looked around her. The sun poured down his warmest rays, and soon dried her dress. And when she was able, he led her gently over the rocks to his cave, and laid her on his own warm little bed, and gave her honey and fruits, and sat by her and watched her till she fell asleep. In her sleep she still clung to his hand, and if he moved she would stir uneasily and murmur in her sleep; so the Child made up his mind to sit beside her all night, and not once close his eyes. It was such a joy to feel that she could not do without him.

But he was more tired than he knew, with the storm of last night and the great delight of the day; and before he thought of it, sleep had crept into his eyes and shut them fast; and the little weary head sank down beside the maiden, and he dreamt of the sweet Singers carrying her in their arms through the winds and waves to him.

CHAPTER II.

When the Child opened his eyes he was very much ashamed to find the little maiden awake before him, and gliding quietly about the cave, making herself quite at home. Yet he could not help lying still, and watching what she would do while she thought he was asleep.

And first he saw her kneel down on the white sand, and clasp her hands, and look up, and speak softly to some One. He followed her eyes, but he could see no one; and he wondered to whom she could be speaking. He was sure it must be One who listened, for the little maiden's eyes filled with tears; and yet when she rose she looked so happy.

Then as she was moving silently about, she seemed to see something which gave her great joy, for she clasped her hands, and looked up again, while the tears streamed over her cheeks. And, to the Child's surprise, she took up the little carved wooden tube, and drew out the parchments, and kissed them, and pressed them to her heart. But the Child's surprise increased when he saw her seat herself on the ground, and spread the roll on her knee, and trace her finger along the twisted lines, and smile and sigh, as if the roll of dead leaves were talking to her. And as she sat, every now and then her eyes were lifted up as when she had been kneeling, and the Child felt sure there must be One listening to her. So he rose and went outside the cave, but he could see no one; and then he came back, and sat down by the little girl, and said, "I cannot find any one. Whom are you talking to?"

"Do not you speak to GOD?" said the maiden with a look of wonder and sorrow.

The Child gazed earnestly into her face for some moments, and then said in a soft whisper, "Is that the Name?"

"What Name?" asked the maiden.

"The Name they are always trying to speak on the shore, and on the sea, and in the wood, and among the stars!"

"Yes; it must be God!" she replied. "There is no other Name; for He is everywhere, and He made everything!"

The Child sat silent for some time, with a look of awe in his eyes, and then he said, "Was it to Him you were speaking whilst I was asleep?"

"Yes," she said.

"What were you saying?" he asked.

"I was thanking Him for bringing me here, and asking Him to take care of you and me."

"Then it was GOD who took care of you in the storm?"

"It is GOD who gives us everything good. He is so very good, and He loves us so much!"

"Did you ever hear Him speak?" asked the Child, after another silence. "You seem to know Him so well."

"No, I never heard Him," replied the maiden; "but when I look at this," she added, folding the parchment close to her, "He talks to me in my heart!"

The Child clasped his hands round his knees as he sat on the ground, and looking up into her face, he said, "It is very wonderful. I should like to know more about it. But who told you?"

The little girl could not answer him: she burst into tears, and could only sob, "My mother—oh, my mother!"

The Child was frightened to see her cry so bitterly. He kissed her and told her not to cry, and then he brought her all his prettiest shells to look at; but she would not look at them, nor be comforted, but kept sobbing, "Mother, mother!—shall I never see you any more?—are you lost in the deep, cold sea?—will you never speak to me again?" So at last he sat down and began to cry too; for he thought of the storm, and the wailing voices, and the little faithful mother-bird spreading her wings over her brood, and he felt something very sad must have happened to the little girl, and she must have lost what was dearest to her in the world. At length, as she wept on, he nestled his hands into hers, and whispered timidly, "Cannot God help you?—speak to Him!"

Then the little maiden became quieter, and the two little ones knelt down together, and she murmured, "Our Father who art in heaven."

Her tears fell fast, and she could not say any more; but when she rose, her face was beaming, and her eyes smiled gravely through her tears: and the Child felt there was One who loved them and was near them, wherever they were.

But he was afraid to ask her any more questions, so he led her into the wood. He thought she might not like to go beside the sea. And there, among the flowers, and the sunbeams, and the birds, the two children forgot their tears, and rejoiced in the joy of all the happy creatures.

In the evening, when they were sitting hand in hand at the entrance of the cave, the little maiden suddenly said,—

"How long have you been here?"

"I do not know," said the Child, looking up at her in surprise. "Always, I suppose!"

"But I think I know," said the maiden. "You are my little younger brother who was lost so long ago. I am sure you are!" she added; "for whenever I look at you, my mother's eyes seem looking at me through yours."

And the children hugged each other close, and laughed and wept together. And the happy Child was long in falling asleep that night, for he had found a sister, and he had learned the blessed Name, and he knew there was One watching over them always, and loving them dearly.

CHAPTER III.

The Child awoke happier than ever, and began to prepare a feast for his little sister; but when he had finished, and stood in the entrance of the cave looking toward the sea, a cold shudder crept over him. Now the waves were sparkling and laughing, and he knew that thousands of happy creatures were busy amongst them; but he could not forget the storm and the wailing voices, for he thought of the tender mother whose kind eyes might have smiled on him, who was lying there. So he turned from the sea, but he could not turn from the thought. And as they were walking again by the green path into the wood, at length he ventured to say,—

"Sister, was our mother with you on that stormy night?"

"Yes," she said, very sorrowfully; "we were all in the ship together."

"Then," he said, "if God could take care of you, may He not have taken care of her, and be bringing her to us?"

The maiden shook her head and murmured,—

"She is dead, brother; she will never come to us. It is death that keeps her from us."

"What is death?" said the child.

"I do not know," replied the maiden, her tears beginning to flow again; "she is happy with God; but she will never come to us again."

The Child was silent for some minutes. Then he said,—

"It must be the same that happened to my own dear little bird last winter."

"What little bird?"

"My little bird which used to come and sing to me every day whilst I took my breakfast, and eat from my hand, until one morning I found it lying quite still on the mossy bank. I spoke to it, but it would not open its eyes; and when I took it up, its little breast and wings, which were always so soft and warm, were quite cold. And it never sang to me again."

"Yes," said the maiden softly, "that must have been death."

They walked on some steps without speaking, till the Child said,—

"Why does God let anything die, when He is so good?"

"My mother said it was not God who sent death into the world," she replied, "but sin; and God and sin cannot dwell together."

"What is sin?" asked the Child.

"It is when we are fretful or unkind, or when we are loving ourselves best," she said.

And then she told him all she knew about the beautiful Garden, and the two happy people for whom God made it all; and of the Enemy who tempted them to distrust God's love and disobey Him. And since then, she said, sin and death had never left the world.

The Child looked very much perplexed and grieved, and asked if that was the end of all God had made so good and happy?

Then the little maiden told him another story of wonderful love and sorrow: of One, great and good and glorious above all, who left the happy heavens and came down to bear all the sin; of His poor cradle in the manger, about which the angels came to sing; of His being so poor that He had not where to lay His head; of His walking about teaching until He was weary; of the sick people He healed; of the little dead girl whose cold hand He touched, and she sat up and began to speak; of His taking little children in His arms, laying His hands on them, and blessing them; and then of where the cruel people stretched those kind arms which had been folded so tenderly around their little ones;—until the Child hid his face on the mossy bank where they were sitting, and wept as if his heart would break.

Tears were in the little maiden's eyes also, yet she was frightened to see him sob so bitterly, and tried to comfort him; but he only wept on and sobbed out,—

"O sister! I cannot bear to live, since He is dead!"

Then the maiden's eyes glistened with joy, and she took his hands, and said,—

"He is not dead, brother—He rose from the cold grave where they laid Him, and now He is alive for evermore in heaven; and He loves little children just as He used: and one day He will come and take us up to be with Him."

"Shall we see Him?" said the Child, his tears stopping in a moment, as he looked up with a beaming face, "will He speak to us, to you and to me?"

The little maiden believed surely that He would.

"And is our mother with Him?" asked the Child.

"I am sure she is; she loved Him so dearly!" the little girl replied.

"Then we must never wish her back, sister," he said; "only think how happy she must be!"

So all day the happy children wandered about the wood, and spoke of the blessed stories the little maiden had heard from her mother or read in the Book, their hearts full of that Name which is above every name. And when evening came, and they had knelt together in prayer, the little maiden began to sing a hymn.

She sang of God, and of Him who loved God and loved men, and offered Himself up to keep the holy law, and save lost and sinful men who had broken it. She thanked Him for making everything so good and beautiful; she thanked Him for so loving and redeeming them. The words were very simple, but the things she sang about were very high and deep; and as the Child listened to her, he heard again the old, sweet, solemn Song; sweet and solemn as he had never heard it before. It pealed up from the waves and the countless multitudes of living creatures who dwelt in them; it streamed from the wood in a thousand tones of joy; it thrilled from star to star through the heavens;—and every silvery note of melody, and every grand burst of harmony, fitted into the words of the little maiden's song, and echoed the sacred Name she uttered.

The Child listened for some time in a trance of speechless joy, till (he scarcely knew how) the love and thankfulness which were in his heart burst from his lips, and he also sang the Words of the Song.

CHAPTER IV.

So the happy days glided on one after another, and bore the busy happy children with them. They disentangled the weeds which twisted themselves too tight around the tender young saplings; they trained back the branches to let the sunbeams through on the flowers which were growing pale in the shade; they raised the drooping heads of many a delicate blossom, and twined their fragile stalks around a stronger stem, till every flower in the wood knew them, and flushed with joy as they passed; and the branches bent towards them as willows towards the rivers.

They watched the busy sea-creatures at their work. They saw the sea-birds poise on the wing, dive under the waves, and then soar up again, their breasts glittering like opals, and the spray raining in sparkling drops from their wings; and the Child climbed the rocks to peep into the nests, whilst his sister watched him from below. Many a stranded anemone expanded its petals gratefully as they laid it in the clear rock-pool; and many a shipwrecked medusa spread its crystal streamers on the waves where they replaced it, thus paying them royal honours.

And as they worked and watched, they and the happy creatures sang together, and the Song was complete.

The little maiden also taught the Child to read the Book; and often the day would pass so quickly as they read together on the mossy banks, or wandered hand in hand beside the waves or among the trees, talking of all the blessed histories they knew, that morning and evening seemed to touch.

But as they read on, and grew themselves, the Book seemed to grow and unfold before them. They read of a warfare and a race, of crowns to be placed on the heads of those who won, with words of welcome from a Voice they knew. They read of many who suffered and toiled, and of the cup of cold water a child's hand could carry, which should in no wise lose its reward.

They read of a World which God loved, and of many lost children whom He sought to bring home to Him. And as they often talked about it together, they became sure that the World must be beyond the mountains which rose above the waterfall. Thither, therefore, they would often go; and thence they would follow the little stream across the plain, trying to reach the mountains where it was born. Every time they tried they drew nearer, until one day the creatures in the wood and on the shore lost sight of them, and never saw them more.

But in the land on the other side of the mountains there was found, long afterwards, a strange legend of two children who came from beyond the hills, with a wonderful Book, and a sweet and solemn Song. They went from house to house, reading the Book to all who would listen, and teaching the Song to any who would learn. And it was said that wherever they went, joy and music sprang up in their footsteps.

In homes where jarring voices made sad discord, they read the Book and taught that blessed Song, and voices which joined in it soon lost their harshness and ceased to jar. By sick-beds they sang it, and the voice of patience and peace replaced the murmurs of disease; they taught it in homes of poverty and toil, to little lisping children, to mothers burdened with many cares, to men toiling by the wayside.

In some places the Children met with rough usage, like Him whose Name gave all the power and sweetness to their Song; but nothing could dry up the flood of love and melody in their hearts; and it was believed that although their footsteps had passed away from earth, they were still singing the blessed Song in a happy place beyond the heavens.

But the Book remained with the people, and the Song lived in their hearts; and if you go to that country you may hear it now, in palaces and in lowly homes of toil, by beds of sickness, and by the wayside; in happy choruses, or sung by lonely voices, which but for it would have had no music. And trees and flowers, the sea and the stars, streams and busy living creatures, and even rocks and stones, join in it. For the Song is no more without Words.

THE END.

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Ravens and the Angels, with Other Stories and Parables, by Elizabeth Rundle Charles

THE RAVENS AND THE ANGELS: WITH Other Stories and Parables.

MRS. RUNDLE CHARLES

Author of "THE SCHÖNBERG-COTTA FAMILY," &c. &c.

Contents.

The Ravens and the Angels.

A STORY OF THE MIDDLE AGES.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

Ecce homo

A STORY OF THE YEAR OF OUR LORD ONE THOUSAND.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

FOOTNOTES:

The Cottage by the Cathedral.

The Unknown Architect of the Minster.

A LEGEND, NOT OF COLOGNE.

Only the Crypt.[2]

BURIED WITH CHRIST.

FOOTNOTES:

The Sepulchre and the Shrine.

The Cathedral Chimes.

A LEGEND.

The Ruined Temple.

The Clock-Bell and the Alarm-Bell.

The Black Ship.

The Island and the Main Land.

A SEQUEL TO "THE BLACK SHIP."

RISEN WITH CHRIST.

The Jewel of the Order of the King's Own.

The Acorn.

Passages from the Life of a Fern.

Thorns and Spines.[3]

FOOTNOTES:

Parables in Household Things.

"Things Using Us."

Sunshine, Daylight, and the Rock.

Wanderers and Pilgrims.

The Ark and the Fortress.

The Three Dreams.

THE FOLD AND THE PALACE.

THE FOLD.

THE PALACE.

Thou and I[4]

FOOTNOTES:

What Makes Things Musical?

The Song without Words.

LEAVES FROM A VERY OLD BOOK. PART I.—THE SONG WITHOUT WORDS.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

CHAPTER V.

CHAPTER VI.

CHAPTER VII.

CHAPTER VIII.

PART II.—THE WORDS OF THE SONG.

CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER II.

CHAPTER III.

CHAPTER IV.

THE END.

WORKS BY THE AUTHOR OF

"Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family."

NEW ILLUSTRATED EDITION.

Young Lady's Library.

Library of Historical Tales.

Prize Temperance Tales.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

ONE HUNDRED POUND PRIZE TALE.

FIFTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

FIFTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

SEVENTY POUND PRIZE TALE.

SPECIAL PRIZE TALE.

SPECIAL PRIZE TALE.

Stories of Home and School Life.

Self-Effort Series.

Favourite Stories by A. L. O. E.

T. NELSON AND SONS, LONDON. EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK.

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