Such, without, was the strange contrast to the purity of the moral atmosphere within, in which Cicely Major and her little brother had been brought up and still continued to live.

One of the first windows to be lighted up was that of a front second floor of 21. No. 21 was evidently a more pretentious house than its fellows by a few degrees (bricks). Here it was that John Major had lived in practice for a quarter of a century, not perhaps in a very aristocratic practice, but still living comfortably upon his wellearned income. Here it was that Mrs. Major had died a week after the birth of their son Cecil-more commonly called "Brud," probably because his father had been accustomed to call his sister "Cis" for some nine years prior to his advent.

From here also John Major had followed in the same certain trail, leaving (as is common in M.D.s) little behind him but his two children. And here Cis and Brud had learnt the grand lesson (only to be learnt here on earth, and by misfortunes) of trust and patience. By the strange irony of fate, perhaps none are so really content as they who have had great trouble: tried in the furnace of calamity, one either goes to the father of all evil or comes out cleansed to some extent from a superfluity of dross.

Shortly prior to his death Mr. Major had taken in, as assistant, a young fellow fresh from Guy's, who now succeeded him, but who did not succeed as well as had been anticipated of him in the business.

Frank Caultett, during his three years at the hospital, had acquitted himself with some credit; in fact, it was said with some authority that he would make his mark in the profession. But (the case is very common) money was not allied to brains; consequently, being unable to buy himself into a fashionable practice, in which no doubt he would soon have risen to prominence, he had started his medical career as assistant to Major. And (a sad drawback to most modest professional beginners) he was blessed with a sound liver; so that a day on the river, and Saturdays wholly devoted to cricket, football, or what not, meant more to him (as perhaps they should to all young fellows possessed of manliness) than half-a-dozen fresh patients. It is to be feared, therefore, that he sometimes neglected his business; certain it was that, brought up in the country, he disliked many phases of town life, and was trying to effect a change of practice with a country practitioner in Surrey.

It was he who now, enveloped in mackintosh and trousers turned up, knocked at 21 Slush Street. Since the death of Mr. Major the house had been let, Cis retaining only three rooms for herself and Cecil.

Cicely met him on the stairs.

"What a beggarly night!" he said, as they mounted the stairs together. "Why, when I left Anne's Dene the smoke was going straight up, instead of coming down. The old beggar won't come to terms." He had been down to Surrey that day.

"Perhaps it is as well," returned Cicely; she did not like the idea of his going away-he had been very kind. "You know father always said that you would work this into a fine practice. I'm afraid you don't stick to it enough."

Frank took the slight admonition kindly; they were very good friends, these two.

"Well, perhaps not," was all he said. "But how is Brud to-night?" "I'm afraid he is no better."-Words simple enough.

He needed no invitation, and together they entered the bright room in which Brud lay upon a sofa drawn up to the fire. Pale, refined, and bright-eyed, he stretched out a delicate hand to the young doctor, who took a seat beside him.

By degrees, their quiet conversation turned upon the doctor's visit. He told them of the falling beech-mast, the dying bracken, and the changing woods, and presently, being drawn away by a theme dear to his heart, he went back to his own boyhood amongst the beauties of the Surrey hills, and told of their summer glories in glowing terms.

Presently, the tired, listening boy lifted his head, and said,. abstractedly :

"I shall go into the country soon, shan't I? God lives in the country." Poor child, he had never seen it.

Something in the tone seemed to touch his hearers as a prophetic allusion. Cis bent away her head, and Frank coming over to her, they spoke earnestly together.

Yes, few indeed are the things one sees in a great city to remind one of one's Maker. The few scanty trees seem powdered over with a fine coal-dust, and would no doubt be looked down upon as a "coloured" race by the same species in the country. The sky, if not entirely blotted out, is at least veiled in crape, and its full beauty hidden. The sun rises and the sun sets upon a great city— but there is no trace of glory in either. All things tend to remind one rather of the greatness of man. Does one see fine pictures--men painted them; fine monuments, fine buildings-men built them; fine sculpture-it is the work of man's hand.

But the wandering Arab standing upon the terraces of Hieropolis, the lost backwoodsman guided by the lichen, the worn-out

guacho at last brought safe to camp by consulting the compass. plant, the shipwrecked sailor directed by a star, the humble dweller in some quiet rural district, and they "who go down to the sea," these come daily face to face with Nature, and are forced to see the prominent features.

Yes, Brud, my child, the city is the home of great men-but God is to be seen in the country.

NOW.

Where the Californian Coast Range makes a bold sweep, almost corresponding with a broad deep indentation of the Pacific shore, a few miles distant, there is a small highly favoured plateau nestled beneath the foot-hills, which from a height of about eight hundred. feet overlooks the bay.

Looking down from off the mountains, this little settlement has the appearance of an ordinary large market-garden, studded here and there with out-houses; but as one comes nearer one is lost in a maze of fruit groves, intersected here and there by patches of garden, grain, or clover; everything is beautifully green; fruits of many varieties and some of immense size hang ripening in all directions; lines of well-trained grape-vines; orchards of peaches; groves of olives, lemons, oranges; plantations of smaller fruits; all look young and vigorous and well-cared for.

Those that are in bearing (the small fruits are over now) are loaded with fruit, and beside these are many younger ones coming on nicely. What from the heights had appeared to be merely a patch of cabbages are rows of healthy "stocks" of bees.

And those out-houses! here they are the sweetest little habitations, each having its verandah looking out towards the bay, overgrown with roses and handsome creepers-in this favoured spot the coarser creepers will overrun a house in a month, and shortly become as Max Adeler's century-plant.

Although the day is nearly spent it is still quite oppressively hot, for there is not a breath of wind.

Not far from one of the prettiest and rosiest of the houses, the broad figure of a man is straddling a row of strawberries, slowly working his way along, pinching off the young shoots; as he looks up a slim boy comes running towards him through the grove.

"You're to come in," cries the lad, stooping over a root and pinching off several shoots.

"Who says so?"

"Cis."

"Well, I suppose that settles it," with a hearty laugh. "These strawberries are a regular weed, ain't they? I think I shall do away with them altogether "there is nothing new in this remark" why, it's half an hour yet to sundown!" he had ascertained this by holding out his hand horizontally to judge the distance between the sun and the horizon : it was just two fingers-the whole hand is an hour, each finger a quarter of an hour. "Go and set the windmill on, Brud, and I'll come."

Brud lets go the lever of the windmill; the fan swings round and stands at a right angle to the wheel-it is the deadest calm (if one calm can be said to be deader than another).

Frank and Brud go hand in hand towards the house; they are met by Cis-a little rounder and more matronly perhaps, but the same Cis as of old.

Frank passes his arm around her waist, and so for a few minutes they walk up and down beside the house, talking pleasantly together.

Brud goes indoors, probably to see to his fishing tackle, for he and some other boys are just now much taken up with that pastime.

Presently Frank, leading his wife to an easy chair on the lawn, sits down, and merely tapping his right knee, to indicate that that is the one for her to sit upon, takes her in his arms.

'Dearest," she says, "I didn't think it was possible to be so happy."

"Nor I, Cis."

For a minute it would have been well-nigh impossible for a stranger to have told which face the moustache grew upon; then laying her head back upon his shoulder, together they watch the evening close.

Looking towards the mountains, they see the mountain fog gradually descending. First only the tips of the redwoods and other gigantic pines are obscured; then the oaks and madronas; now it lingers in the chaparral with a fonder embrace, as though loth to descend lower and become contaminated with the baser atmosphere; lastly, with an apparent effort, it reaches down to the manganitas, and kisses the parched pink petals of the rhododendrons, which so refreshed seem to raise their heads and ask for more: "Just one more," they seem to say, "and then we will go to sleep." Here its sweet mission is ended; it will descend no lower. But

Nature will see that the other fruits and flowers are not neglected: the heavy dew of California will of a certainty rise to where the fog descended, fulfilling the same mission of love for them also.

A shrill baby-cry reaches them from within. husband and runs to the house.

Cis kisses her

Frank gets up languidly and stretches himself. Two lazy old turkey-buzzards circle overhead, then, stretching their wings, steer for the mountains and to their nest, apparently too lazy to even take the trouble of flapping their wings. They too have a mission to fulfil upon the morrow.

As Frank watches them, until they are lost to view in the fog, a lazy loose-jointed clacking tells him that the windmill has started upon its night's mission of irrigation, and that, like everything else here, it does not intend to be hurried.

There comes to him the soft cool zephyr of eventide-the refreshing Sierra (and Heaven) born evening breeze of lotus-land. And the sun sinks in the sea.