kneelers to even deeper contrition, or lifted them to even higher heights of praise. And while the pleading voice of brother Sheldon rose, sank, rose again, the hand of Lawrence Yewdall fell gently on bowed heads, lifted streaming faces, comforted the heaving shoulders of strong men sobbing for pardon. “Are you saved, brother? And you, sister? Backslide no more! Strive, strive!" He suited the word to each, as he went from rank to rank. Again his arm was touched. Matt Scargil stood before him.

With twitching face "A word, sir; only

a word. I want you to say a prayer for a poor lass in sore grief up yonder."

The preacher eyed him sternly. "I remember you," he said. "I met you on the road. You reviled."

"I vow to God I'll never do it again!" Matt cried. "I want you to come with me, there's life and death in it, sir-you must come, it can't wait, you can ride there and back under the hour."

"

"Is it some trick?" the preacher asked. What do you want with me?"

"I'll tell you as we ride, sir—it's a secret, it's a terrible secret, but I'll tell you all about it as we go. Come at once, sir-you must come, it's life and death!"

"Is it my Master's business?"

"Before God, sir, I believe it is!" cried the staunch Churchman from Whinyat; his voice rang out loud in a pause of the prayer.

The preacher seized the moment and started a new strain. "Sing again," he said; and he led them, in a lilting, almost a rollicking tune:—

Then let your songs abound,

And every tear be dry,

We're marching through Immanuel's ground

To fairer worlds on high.

Anon the voice of prayer began, in a passionate plea for all sick, all dying, all widowed, all troubled, all bereaved.

"It's that, sir," Matt said; "you must come!"

The preacher touched the shaking shoulders of a young man kneeling near. "I go on an errand of mercy, brother Longden," he whispered. "Exhort in my stead till I'm back."

The Athanasian Creed is the most splendid ecclesiastical lyric ever poured forth by the genius of man.

-Endymion, lii.

But life is sweet, though all that makes it sweet,

Lessen like sound of friends' departing feet.

-To George William Curtis.

O tell me, friends, while yet ye hear

May it not be, some coming year,

These ancient paths that here divide
Shall yet again run side by side?

-Parting.

I was born an American; I shall live an American; I shall die an

American.

-Webster's Speech.

316

XXXI.

THE blind, old, white dobbin had come to Aspurt dale, the pitying prayer in the crypt had been uttered, and Lawrence Yewdall was gone, with one more secret confided to his breast. Loneliness and silence possessed the dale of Aspurt now, as it basked in the sun.

The sun had sloped an hour from the meridian. Miles and leagues away the eye of day looked down on the hare-like, twisting flight of Bosswel Leeke, and the staunch pursuit by the runners. In the Woodseats the sun lit up the old tithe-barn where the converted Methodists were gathered at their Lovefeast of bread and water and praise. North-eastwards the sun beheld the silent journeying of Cousin Matt and Cousin Dahlia towards Whinyat, by a road where the runners could hardly chance to come.

The sun saw the Rector of Stoniton in his refugium; Clerk Quince, the empty service ended, was gone from the three-decker to his table in the schoolbarn, his lean meal and his fat lexicon. The Rector had pushed aside his tray, and was busy again with the quill. "My learned contemporary, Erasmus Darwin, of the county town of this shire," he was writing, "albeit a Materialist and professor of anti-Christian

opinion, hath none the less a just knowledge and estimate of Dissent. In his Philosophical Treatise, at page one hundred and eighty-seven of the Edition in my possession, I find these adequate Words: 'Many theatric preachers among the Methodists successfully inculcate the fear of death and of hell, and live luxuriantly on the folly of the hearers whom they hallucinate'. It is true. At this moment their preachings and Agapæ, such as were the scandal of the primitive Church, proceed unhindered, not greatly distant from the limit of my parish. The clergyman, my neighbour, is but a slothful Shepherd of his Pastures; and woe is me that strength and liberty fail me, so that I do not withstand these Wolves in the Woodlands, face to face, as I ought."

Not greatly distant the sun warmed the roof of The Brazen Serpent, where Copernicus and the inn-maid napped after dinner, their heads on the table, side by side.

The sun saw Uncle Abel and Aunt Prudence at their meal in the Mill-House. Aunt Prudence sighed, moved restless, ate but little.

Matt wa'ant at church this mornin', Prudence," old Uncle Abel said. "Matt hanna bin near us for days an' days-what's come o' th' lad?"

Aunt Prue's secret trembled on her lips, but she kept it back; she did not breathe the hidden hope that strengthened with every hour of her nephew's absence.