There is something moving!' she cried to me hoarsely. 'Harry, I-I am afraid!'

To every man who loves there comes a moment when he realises that every energy is demanded of him in protection of one woman alone; the supreme claim is for the one who craves the care, and who requires it by right of the love which binds a man to woman. She needed me; and, as we turned towards each other, all the shadows seemed to lighten, and the horror of dividing darkness passed away.

Breaking through the mist came a human form. It was Milward. He walked straight up to his daughter. He spoke in quiet, conventional tones:

'I can paint the face correctly now-because-I've seen

He stopped and staggered. Next minute he fell in a dead faint at our feet.

The Professor and his cognac bottle came to our assistance, and we took the wanderer home to Bruges.

In after days Milward completed his picture. He informed us briefly that he had changed his conception; and Beatrix tells me that the face of Burchard, the leader, is entirely different from the one first painted on the canvas. I am not fond of looking at it, since it reminds me disquietingly of that fancied glimpse of a something in the mists of the Arend marsh.

The Professor declined testily to enlighten me when I asked him whether he also had experienced any unusual sensations on the same occasion. He subsequently added, however, a significant note to his work on the 'Mediæval Manuscripts,' and was very much annoyed with an 'Athenæum' reviewer who analysed the contents adversely. When I inquired again of the historian if Milward's house in Bruges was really the one where the last of the Erembalds had lived and painted, he actually temporised. He hinted judicially that to arrive at a correct estimate of even contemporary history required abilities beyond my mental qualifications. From which I am inclined to gather that the Professor as well had somewhat modified his views.

He astounded me tremendously a day later. I was sitting disconsolately over the study fire in the waning light of the afternoon, trying to invent an excuse to call on the Milwards.

'All women,' he exploded oracularly at 'prefer imaginative men to practical ones.

my dumfounded head, That is the reason why

Beatrix's mother married a painter instead of choosing me.

cluded at the time that she displayed a profound lack of consideration. But merit rarely wins a wife; therefore, there is a chance for you!'

I poked the fire despondently. The Professor sniffed.

'I should advise that you go and visit Miss Milward now,' he went on, with commendable tact. Explain to her as logically as possible that you have been an idiot. I have perceived an indication that she is not indifferent to you.'

At this I ceased to batter the coals in the grate, and went out. The streets of Bruges can be the happiest and sunniest thoroughfares in the world.

Beatrix received me sedately, and offered tea. This also can be the most delightful meal ever invented. We discussed the alterations in the opinions of eminent men.

'Girls have been known to change their minds sometimes,' remarked my companion pensively. She bent down to pat a fidgety terrier which was clamouring for biscuit. I felt capable of behaving badly to the little brute if it absorbed her attention too completely. Indeed, all people can,' she murmured very low.

I said nothing. This momentous statement required time to assimilate. In the ensuing silence I received the fleetest of glances from under bewitching soft lashes.

'Once I received your orders never to speak of a certain subject any more,' I reminded her with regretful firmness. And obedience is my bane.'

For a second her aloofness was elaborately tantalising. Then she raised her eyes. A tender tell-tale brilliance shone in them enchantingly.

'I think I will change my mandate now,' said Beatrix Milward, quite demurely.

Thus I was allowed to mention 'Love' again.

ARTHUR H. HENDERSON.

FROM A COLLEGE WINDOW.

XII.

THERE is a motto which I should like to see written over the door of every place of worship, both as an invitation and a warning: THOU SHALT MAKE ME TO UNDERSTAND WISDOM SECRETLY. It is an invitation to those who enter to come and participate in a great and holy mystery; and it is a warning to those who believe that in the formalities of religion alone is the secret of religion to be found. I will not here speak of worship, of the value of the symbol, the winged prayer, the uttered word; I wish rather to speak for a little of religion itself, a thing, as I believe, greatly misunderstood. How much it is misunderstood may be seen from the fact that though the word itself, religion, stands for one of the most beautiful and simple things in the world, there yet hangs about it an aroma which is not wholly pleasing. What difficult service that great and humble name has seen! With what strange and evil meanings it has been charged! How dinted and battered it is with hard usage! how dimmed its radiance, how stained its purity! It is the best word, perhaps the only word, for the thing that I mean; and yet something dusty and technical hangs about it, which makes it wearisome instead of delightful, dreary rather than joyful. The same is the case with many of the words which stand for great things. They have been weapons in the hands of dry, bigoted, offensive persons, until their brightness is clouded, their keen edge hacked and broken.

By religion I mean the power, whatever it be, which makes a man choose what is hard rather than what is easy, what is lofty and noble rather than what is mean and selfish; that puts courage into timorous hearts, and gladness into clouded spirits; that consoles men in grief, misfortune, and disappointment; that makes them joyfully accept a heavy burden; that, in a word, uplifts men out of the dominion of material things, and sets their feet in a purer and simpler region.

Yet this great thing, which lies so near us that we can take it into our grasp by merely reaching out a hand; which is as close

to us as the air and the sunlight, has been by the sad, misguided efforts, very often of the best and noblest-minded men, who knew how precious a thing it was, so guarded, so wrapped up, made so remote, so alien to life and thought, that many people who live by its light and draw it in as simply as the air they breathe, never even know that they have come within hail of it. Is he a good man?' said a simple Methodist once, in reply to a question about a friend. Yes, he is good, but not religious-good.' By which he meant that he lived kindly, purely, and unselfishly as a Christian should, but did not attend any particular place of worship, and therefore could not be held to have any religious motive for his actions, but was guided by a mere worthless instinct, a preference for unworldly living.

Now, if ever there was a Divine attempt made in the world to shake religion free of its wrappings it was the preaching of Christ. So far as we can gather from records of obscure and mysterious origin, translations, it would seem, of something oral and traditional, Christ aimed at bringing religion within the reach of the humblest and simplest souls. Whatever doubt men may feel as to the literal accuracy of these records in matters of fact, however much it may be held that the relation of incidents was coloured by the popular belief of the time in the possibility of miraculous manifestations, yet the words and sayings of Christ emerge from the narrative, though in places it seems as though they had been imperfectly apprehended, as containing and expressing thoughts quite outside the range of the minds that recorded them, and thus possess an authenticity, which is confirmed and proved by the immature mental grasp of those who compiled the records, in a way in which it would not have been proved if the compilers had been obviously men of mental acuteness and farreaching philosophical grasp.

To express the religion of Christ in precise words would be a mighty task; but it may be said that it was not merely a system, nor primarily a creed; it was a message to individual hearts, bewildered by the complexity of the world and the intricacy of religious observances. Christ bade men believe that their Creator was also a Father; that the only way to escape from the overwhelming difficulties presented by the world was the way of simplicity, sincerity, and love; that a man should keep out of his life all that insults and hurts the soul, and that he should hold the interests of others as dear as he held his own. It was a protest

against all ambition, and cruelty, and luxury, and self-conceit. It showed that a man should accept his temperament and his place in life as gifts from the hands of his Father; and that he should then be peaceful, pure, humble, and loving. Christ brought into the world an entirely new standard; He showed that many respected and reverenced persons were very far indeed from the Father; while many obscure, sinful, miserable outcasts found the secret which the respectable and contemptuous missed. Never was there a message which cast so much hope abroad in rich handfuls to the world. The astonishing part of the revelation was that it was so absolutely simple; neither wealth, nor intellect, nor position, nor even moral perfection was needed. The simplest child, the most abandoned sinner could take the great gift as easily as the most honoured statesman, the wisest sage-indeed more easily; for it was the very complexity of affairs, of motives, of wealth, that entangled the soul and prevented it from realising its freedom.

Christ lived His human life on these principles; and sank from danger to danger, from disaster to disaster, and having touched the whole gamut of human suffering, and disappointment, and shame, died a death in which no element of disgust, and terror, and pain was wanting.

And from that moment the deterioration began. At first the great secret ran silently through the world from soul to soul, till the world was leavened. But even so the process of capturing and transforming the faith in accordance with human weakness began. The intellectual spirit laid hold on it first. Metaphysicians scrutinised the humble and sweet mystery, overlaid it with definitions, harmonised it with ancient systems, dogmatised it, made it hard, and subtle, and uninspiring. Vivid metaphors and illustrations were seized upon and converted into precise statements of principles. The very misapprehensions of the original hearers were invested with the same sanctity that belonged to the Master Himself. But even so the bright and beautiful spirit made its way, like a stream of clear water, refreshing thirsty places and making the desert bloom like the rose, till at last the world itself, in the middle of its luxuries and pomp, became aware that here was a mighty force abroad which must be reckoned with; and then the world itself determined upon the capture of Christianity; and how sadly it succeeded can be read in the pages of history; until at last the pure creature, like a barbarian captive bright with youth and beauty, was bound with golden chains and bidden, bewildered