CHAPTER XII.

_Reprieved._

"Now, May," began Miss Waller in her most portentous tone, on Monday morning, "I must have an explanation with you. I'm going home this week, for it's ruinously expensive being here; and to-day Mr. Lang is coming for his answer. Without any beating about the bush, I expect you to marry him."

"Oh, aunt, don't--_don't_!" entreated May, wringing her hands. "I cannot marry Mr. Lang."

"What childish nonsense! Fancy refusing a house in Palace Gardens, and all that money!"

"I can't and won't marry him."

"Very well, then, you and Doris must find another home. I have pinched myself to keep you in luxury; but if you will be so wickedly blind to your plain duty, I wash my hands of you."

"I don't care one bit for myself, aunt; I could earn a living, I'm sure, and I'd gladly do it. Let me try," pleaded May, "I will promise never to cost you another penny, if you will only be so kind as to give Doris a home until I am able to keep her myself."

"Which will not be till Doomsday. Talk of earning your living--what rubbish! Why, you haven't even one decent accomplishment. No, if you leave my house, Doris goes, too; I won't have the little spoilt monkey left on my hands."

"But, aunt----"

"Besides, think what advantages you could give Doris if you married Mr. Lang--the best possible education, horses, carriages, Continental trips, everything! If you really cared at all for your child, you couldn't hesitate for a minute."

It was a clever argument, and it made May waver as nothing else could; and Miss Waller did not know whether to be glad or sorry that just then Mr. Lang himself was announced.

"Don't go, Miss Waller," he began, as the spinster, after a few casual observations, was about to leave the room. "I've nothing to say to Mrs. Burnside you may not hear as well. Your niece knows by this time that I am anxious to have her for my wife. I want to marry and settle down now, and I can promise you," he added, turning to face May for the first time, "a most luxurious home--you've seen it--both for yourself and your little girl. Your aunt wishes it, I know; and I hope, Mrs. Burnside--May--you'll make me very happy by saying you'll be my wife before Christmas."

He came closer, and would have taken her hand; but she started back. Her aunt's basilisk eyes were fixed on her, to add to her discomfiture; but she said as firmly as she could, "I am very grateful for your kindness, Mr. Lang; nevertheless, I must refuse your offer, for I do not love you, and I could not marry any man unless I did."

"Now, really, Miss Waller," remonstrated the plutocrat, turning with an injured air to the wrathful spinster, "I call this too bad! It was understood between us that you would prepare Mrs. Burnside, so that it might all be plain sailing. I'm not accustomed to ask and be refused, I can tell you."

"May must have lost her senses to reject such an offer, Mr. Lang," returned Miss Waller, with an annihilating glance at her niece. "She is an ungrateful, undutiful girl; and if she refuses you, I will have nothing more to do with her."

"Well," rejoined Mr. Lang, with a gulp, as if swallowing something very nauseous to the taste, "I must confess I didn't expect to be sent to the right-about like this. However, young ladies often change their minds; and perhaps, when Mrs. Burnside thinks my offer quietly over, she may alter her opinion. I've great faith in your persuasions, Miss Waller. I've just had a telegram, saying a fall of rock has damaged the machinery at the Springkloof, and I'm wanted out there, so I must sail for the Cape at once. I expect to be away some months; by November I shall probably be back in England. I give Mrs. Burnside until then to consider my offer; I won't look upon this as a final rejection. I'm sure, when she thinks of all I'm in a position to offer, she can't be so foolish as to refuse."

"How kind--how generous!" exclaimed Miss Waller, as May stood in stony silence. "I promise in my niece's name that when you come back she will accept you. I hope we shall see you again before you leave?"

"Well, no, for I've a lot to do before I go. But I'll write to you; and as soon as I possibly can I shall return for Mrs. Burnside's answer."

As if in a sick dream, with this threat ringing in her ears, May mechanically tendered him her limp hand in farewell. When they were once more alone her aunt said in crisp, dry tones:

"I shall return to Beachbourne on Wednesday, and make arrangements for spending August and September in visiting amongst our friends in the country. We have plenty of invitations. I have said all I need say on the subject of Mr. Lang. Meanwhile, you can choose between Palace Gardens and every luxury, and a life of starvation and beggary for you and Doris."

Despite the apparent calm with which Mr. Lang had taken May's rejection of his flattering offer, he was nevertheless in a very bad temper when he left the house and jumped into his victoria. He was not accustomed to rebuffs--which made the fact that he had just been rejected by a penniless widow, only saved from actual want by her aunt's charity, doubly galling.

"I'm mad to care so much about a pale-faced girl with nothing to say for herself; and I really ought to do better. I could easily marry a lady of title, or anybody I choose; and it would serve her right if I went straight off and proposed to somebody else, just to show her that rich husbands don't grow on every bush!"

Revenge is always the first thought of a mean mind which is smarting from a sense of injury. Mr. Lang chuckled over this idea for some time, and the result was, that when Esther Inglis entered their one sitting-room about half-past five that day, she found Mr. Lang seated in the most comfortable chair, awaiting her.

She instantly assumed her thorny manner; but it had no more effect than it would have had upon a rhinoceros. "I've come to say good-bye for the present, Miss Inglis," he airily remarked, as if his visit were a matter of course. "I leave to-morrow for Johannesburg on business; and as I shall probably see your brother, it would give me great pleasure to take charge of anything you may wish to send him."

Esther's handsome face relaxed. Really it was very kind and thoughtful of Mr. Lang, who, with his influence, might prove a valuable friend to Jack.

"It is very good of you, and in his last letter Jack asked us to send him some collars and ties; they are such a fearful price at Johannesburg, and not good. But they are not bought yet, and you say you leave to-morrow?"

"Yes, but the shops will not be closed for some time, and my victoria is at the door, if you will honour me by using it to go where you wish."

Esther hesitated a moment; but the opportunity of saving expensive and troublesome postage, besides serving Jack, was too good to lose. Mr. Lang rose, and indicated a box lying on the table.

"I've brought you a little fruit, Miss Inglis, just sent to me from my country place near Dorking. My head-gardener prides himself on his peaches and nectarines; but I must leave you to judge."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Esther, with sparkling eyes; for she had not tasted a nectarine since leaving Mallowfleld. In a moment she had undone the satin ribbon which tied down the lid, and was feasting her eyes on such peaches as she had seldom seen.

"As you seem fond of fruit, I'll give orders to my gardener to send you a box periodically," observed Mr. Lang. "Oh, don't thank me; I shall be away, and somebody may as well enjoy it. And if you'll have the parcel and letters ready, my footman shall call for them to-morrow morning."

He accompanied Esther down to the street, where his beautifully appointed carriage was waiting; and it must be confessed she enjoyed finding herself seated behind a spruce coachman and footman once more. "You will take this lady's orders," pompously commanded Mr. Lang. "Keep the carriage as long as you like, Miss Inglis, and I'll not forget about the parcel."

So manifest was his desire to propitiate, that Esther could do no less than bid him a civil farewell, with the hope that he might have a pleasant journey. Then she rolled away, looking so much at home in the smart carriage that Mr. Lang gazed after her admiringly.

"By Jove, how well she sets the whole thing off! Looks like a lady used to carriages all her life. May Burnside really isn't a patch upon Esther Inglis; there is no mistake about that!"

Had Miss Waller only been there to hear him, she might well have trembled for the success of her darling scheme of marrying May to a rich man.

[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]

"Going to Mr. President's!"

That is what the hundreds of little boys and girls will tell you any Easter Monday morning, should you chance to stop them and ask their destination as they go toddling along the streets of Washington with baskets of eggs hanging on their arms and a glad delight shining in their eyes.

They make up a very "mixed" crowd, these children! There is the dainty little miss in richly embroidered frock and wide silk sash, with one tiny hand held tightly in the grasp of a big negro nurse and the other hand clasping lovingly a basket of pretty coloured eggs; there is another little girl in a very clean but much-faded gingham or print apron, trotting along at her mother's side--the mother dressed, perchance, in shabby black, belonging to the class known in the Southern part of the States as the "poor whites"; there is also the trio of little "darkey" girls, dancing merrily along the sidewalk, swinging their egg-baskets as though with intention of spilling the eggs over passers-by, yet never quite dropping them, and singing the while as they keep step--

"Tra la la la, tra la la la, Easter Monday morning!"

There are nice, smart-looking little boys, strutting along proudly in their first pair of knickerbockers, with pockets bulging out with Easter eggs, their black nurses walking just a few steps behind them; there are the poor white boys whose clothes are patched and boots worn with toes protruding. On other days they sell newspapers, black boots, and do "odd jobbs" to earn a few cents, but on Easter Monday morning they somehow get together a collection of coloured eggs and go to see the President. Then there are the little black boys, some smartly dressed (for many of the coloured people of Washington are well-to-do), and others as shabby as shabby can be. But no matter. Are they not provided with Easter Monday eggs and going up to the White House to see "Mr. President," who every Easter Monday gives over his beautiful lawn to as many little boys and girls as like to go and see him, and roll their eggs over the grassy slopes that look out over the Potomac River?

On no other day during the year does Washington present so interesting and picturesque an appearance as on Easter Monday, and it is the happiest day of all the year with the children of the Capitol City. In England, of course, Easter Monday is always a Bank Holiday, but not so in the United States. In New York and other large American cities banks and shops and schools are open as usual; but in the district of Columbia, where Washington is situated, it is a legal holiday. That in itself makes it a happy time for the children. Then, add to the joy of having no lessons to learn the fact that they are allowed to take dozens of coloured eggs to the White House lawn and play the games of "egg-picking" and "egg-rolling" as the specially invited guests of the President of the United States, and it will be easily understood how festive an occasion is Easter Monday to the children of Washington.

Not even the oldest inhabitants of Washington can remember the time when the boys and girls of the city did not celebrate Easter Monday by "egg-rolling," although the children of fifty years ago rolled their eggs down Capitol Hill, under the shadow of the magnificent Capitol building, instead of on the White House lawn. Year after year the children of former generations trudged up the great hill with their egg-baskets over their arms and had the happiest times imaginable with their Easter games.

One Easter Monday, however, about twenty years ago, hundreds of boys and girls went to Capitol Hill with their eggs just as they had done in previous years, when they were astonished to be hustled off the grounds by special messengers and policemen from the Senate and House of Representatives, who declared that the distinguished Senators and Congressmen in convention assembled had made up their minds that their "door-yard" was no longer to be disfigured for days after Easter Monday with broken eggs and vari-coloured shells! They were weary of having their highly polished boots smeared with yolks of eggs, and Easter Monday "egg-rolling" in Washington was to be ended!

Then there went up all about the precincts of the nation's Capitol a loud wail of anguish and wrath from hundreds of childish throats, in which the numerous nurses and attendants joined. Many boys and girls gathered on the steps of the building, sobbing in disappointment, some of the larger boys throwing out direful hints of vengeance to be wreaked on the heads of the nation's law-makers; but the stately Senators remained stony-hearted, in spite of it all. In the midst of the tearful hubbub the President's carriage drove past, and President Hayes (the then head of the nation) drew up near the portico to inquire why the children wept instead of rolling their eggs on Easter Monday.

A chorus of voices informed him that the "nasty Senators wouldn't let them play any more because they messed up the grounds"; and then again from the throng of little ones confronting the President there arose fresh outbursts of grief and indignation.

"Never you mind, children," said President Hayes soothingly. "You may come right up to my house and play in my back yard."

Then the mourning was turned to rejoicing. Every child knew that in all the city of Washington there was not so wonderful a "back yard" as that which belonged to the White House. Its beautifully kept slopes were ideal places for "egg-rolling," and then there was the great fountain in the middle of the lawn! So when the President's carriage started to return to the White House, it was followed by several hundred boys and girls swinging their egg-baskets, and singing and shouting out their gratitude to the President of the United States, who was going to let them play in his garden. I doubt if ever an American President had an escort of which he had such cause to feel proud as that which accompanied President Hayes to the White House gates on that memorable Easter Monday.

Outside the gates they were kept waiting for about an hour, while the President gave his hurried instructions to the gardeners to put the place in readiness. At eleven o'clock the gates swung open, and from that time till six o'clock the children rolled their eggs.

Ever since then Washington children have gone regularly every Easter Monday to play in the President's "back yard," each of President Hayes's successors having kept up the custom of inserting in the Washington papers each year an invitation to all the children residents of the town to spend the day rolling eggs on the lawn.

In President Hayes's time his own children joined in the sport, and during the last term of President Cleveland the President's little girls, who were considered too young to roll eggs with the elder children, were kept on the back portico with their mother or their nurse, where they could watch the progress of the games.

Two years ago, on Easter Monday, I spent the day on the White House lawn, watching the big "Presidential children's party," as it is called. The gates were opened at a little after ten o'clock, and during the day there were several thousand children playing in the grounds. Many of the children, besides carrying their baskets of eggs, carried also their luncheon-baskets, and when tired of games they sat about on the grass, picnic-fashion, eating bread-and-butter and cakes and hard-boiled eggs. I should here mention that, although the President does not consider it necessary to make any rules for the preservation of order among his young guests--it being taken for granted that all children invited to the President's garden will behave in their very best style--he always requests that those who accept his invitation to roll their eggs on his lawn will be particular to bring with them only eggs that are thoroughly hard boiled, for in the game of "egg-picking" the use of raw or soft-boiled eggs would be, to say the least, most inconvenient!

The game of "egg-picking" is a very simple one, although it is entered into most enthusiastically by the boys and girls. The children separate themselves into groups of eight or ten, then seat themselves on the grass at the top of the slopes and roll their eggs down to the bottom. The eggs that make the descent without getting cracked or "picked" may be brought back and re-rolled, until they do get cracked or until the game is over, while those that get "picked" are placed back in the baskets. The boy who can hit his neighbour's egg and "pick" it without "picking" his own is looked upon as something of a hero. Of course, toward the end of the game many of the players drop out, all of their eggs having got "picked." Very often the players are reduced to two who show themselves particularly expert, and then there is great excitement watching for the winner.

Besides the game of "egg-picking" there are egg-ball games, egg croquet games; but plain "egg-rolling," which consists of rolling eggs down the slopes, going after them, and rolling them again and again, seems to be the favourite amusement. Then, too, the children engage in "jumping the rope" and other similar amusements.

Although many of the children spend the entire day on the lawn, numbers of them remain for a couple of hours only. By this means the grounds are not kept so crowded as they would otherwise be. The hours between three and five o'clock, however, are considered the most enjoyable, as during that time the President always arranges to have the Marine Baud to entertain the children with music, and it is at that time also that the President makes his appearance out on the back portico to greet the children. It is, of course, thoroughly understood that so busy a man as the President cannot spend his whole day with his young visitors. He entertains them by turning over his grounds to them, and they enjoy themselves in their own way without molestation.

On the afternoon of the Easter Monday which I spent in Washington President McKinley came out on the portico at about half-past three. He took off his hat and waved it to the children, who all gathered as near as possible about the portico and shouted out--

"Howdy do, Mr. President? Howdy do, howdy do?"--the boys taking off their caps and the little girls waving their handkerchiefs.

"How do you do, children? Glad to see you, and hope you are having a good time!" shouted back the President.

"Splendid time, Mr. President, and thank you for your invitation," called back the delighted little guests.

"That's right!" returned the President, laughing. "I hope you'll all come again next Easter Monday."

"Thank you, Mr. President. Good-bye, good-bye!" shouted the children. Then President McKinley went back to his duties of State and the children returned to their egg-rolling. Mrs. McKinley sat on the portico most of the afternoon watching the merriment. Occasionally a little boy or girl would edge up to the portico, and push a blue or red egg through the railings, saying:

"Please, Mrs. President, I've brought you one of my eggs to keep!"

Mrs. McKinley accepted the little presents with the sweetest of smiles and a "Thank you."

At about two o'clock in the afternoon the White House lawn looked like a large picnic ground. Some of the children had brought napkins to lay upon the grass when they should be ready to eat their luncheon, and on the napkins they spread their boiled eggs and bread-and-butter. One little girl, when I complimented her on her daintiness, explained:

"I does it so I won't get eggshells on Mr. President's grass! My mamma told me I must be careful, cos it wouldn't be very nice if the President of the 'Nited States had to go round to-morrow picking up eggshells after me!"

During the afternoon there were several slight accidents at the fountain. Some of the children delighted in digging all the meat from their eggs through the smallest possible aperture and then floating the empty shells in the lower basin of the fountain where the water was undisturbed. In trying to keep their improvised ships from sailing away, two little girls fell into the water, but they were quickly rescued by their nurses and taken home to be dried.

At five o'clock the crowd began to disperse, and at a little past six the small guests of the President had all left the lawn and were on their way to their various homes. Such a variety of homes, indeed, they went to! Some to magnificent mansions on Connecticut Avenue. Their fathers were high Government officials, Senators, members of the Cabinet, and their mothers well-known society women. Other little boys and girls went to very humble homes and minded their little baby brothers and sisters while their mothers got supper; and then there were the homes in the localities given over almost entirely to the negro population. Before the War their parents and grandparents had been slaves, little dreaming that their descendants would ever be invited along with the children of the aristocratic whites to play in the President's "back yard"!

By the way, what a sight that "back yard" did present on the morning following Easter Monday! There were four gardeners busily at work with rakes and brooms and baskets. They were gathering up the litter of eggshells, breadcrumbs, bits of paper, lost playthings, and tiny bits of muslin and calico that had somehow got torn off the dresses of some of the children. At the fountain one of the gardeners was fishing out pieces of string and floating shells. It was four o'clock when the garden was finally "picked up" and shorn of its festive appearance. It was then absolutely "spick and span," and no one could ever have guessed that the day before it had been a playground for several thousand children!

ELIZABETH L. BANKS.

FORGIVENESS.

Within a spacious hall, before a fire Whose flick'ring light danced weirdly on his brow, Stood Peter mutely brooding o'er his vow To die with Christ, though thousands should conspire To wreak their vengeance, profitless and dire, On Christ and all who faith in Him avow. With sin the soul of Peter struggled now, When, "Known, or not, to Jesus?" men inquire.

"I know Him not"--thus, falsely, thrice he swore; And think you that because this weak man fell The God-Man would deny him evermore? Christ looked upon him, and that look did spell: "For thee My soul shall on the Cross be riven, And, therefore, Peter, is thy sin forgiven!"

LOUIS H. VICTORY.

_A COMPLETE STORY._

By M. H. Cornwall Legh, Author of "The Steep Ascent," Etc.

I.

"So poor Annie is dead!" Miss Lucretia repeated as she laid down the black-edged letter which she had just read through for the third time and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief already damp and flabby. "Poor Annie! So soon after poor Edward's death too! And now I wonder what will become of poor little Amy?"

She repeated the adjective which seemed most appropriate as often as she liked, for she was only speaking to herself.

Miss Lucretia lived alone in a very small house, which was one of a row, all just alike, with a bow-window apiece for their glory, and a little bit of garden and a fence and a gate. They were called Primrose Cottages, despite the fact that there were no primroses about them.

Thirlambury was a very dull, behind-the-age little town, and people thought Miss Lucretia a very dull, behind-the-age little lady. She thought so herself; for she had always taken life meekly.

Lucretia was the only one of the three sisters--of whose happy girlhood together the old maid was thinking as she wiped away her tears--who had been at all meek. Constantia and Ann had both been strong-charactered, masterful girls, in accordance with the traditions of their family. With Constantia this decided turn had met with the happiest development. It had enabled her to manage to perfection a husband and family, and it was with pardonable pride that she now looked at her six successful sons and daughters, all brought up just as they should have been, physically, intellectually, and morally; of whom the last had just left the nursery for the school-room.

With Ann the family characteristics had gone in the wrong direction. Her strong will had led her to marry a very unsatisfactory little man, whom his family finally exported to New Zealand, with her and their four children, rejoicing over the happy riddance. Out there Constantia did not like to say, providentially, though that was the adverb which suggested itself--the four children took diphtheria, and every one of them died.

When the grass had grown green on those four graves, another child was born--little Amy--and Aunt Lucretia was asked to be its godmother. And now, there was this child of five years old left without either parent. They had not been first-class parents, but Miss Lucretia did not think of that; her heart being of too old-fashioned make for such philosophy.

"An orphan, poor little dear!" she said to herself, and her handkerchief became damp again at the thought.

"Constantia has arranged already about her being brought to England," Miss Lucretia soliloquised. (Being alone, she had got into the way of soliloquising.) "How prompt Constantia always is! And now what will become of the child?"

It was not an idle speculation. Miss Lucretia was revolving something in her mind--an idea so new, so absorbing, that over it her eyes dried, and she put back the letter into its envelope with untrembling fingers.

"I am sure I could do it!" she said at last, speaking aloud this time, and with a great deal of determination. "A child of five cannot cost much to keep, and there are many little ways in which I could reduce my expenditure." Then she relapsed into silent thought again. She was making deep calculations, wondering how an income which just sufficed for her and her faithful Fanny could be stretched at the four corners so as to cover the expenses of one more member of humanity. Such a little member that in a large household she could be received and fed and clothed for some years to come without any perceptible difference in the outgoings; but this was a very small household, and the matter had to be considered.

Miss Lucretia's income was of the kind described as modest; but she was a careful manager, and, as everybody knew how poor she was, nothing was expected of her in the way of entertaining beyond a quiet cup of afternoon tea, and the promoters of charity lists went away from her door contented if she only gave half-a-crown.

She always did give the half-crown, and a penny to the organ-grinder who came round weekly, and sixpence each to the butcher's boy, the baker's boy, and the grocer's boy at Christmas; the same every year, not allowing herself any wild excursions of charity till the regular subscriptions had been provided for.

But it was not in her philanthropies that Miss Lucretia proposed making her substantial reductions. There were a great many little luxuries which could be curtailed.

Regarding food, people would have said that no one was more economical than Miss Lucretia, but Miss Lucretia herself knew better. It was true that there never was any waste in this little establishment. A pound of meat was never ordered when three-quarters of a pound would do; and every scrap of food was eaten. But the meat and the milk and the butter ordered for 4, Primrose Cottages were always of the very best. The eggs must be newlaid, and not selected. The pot of jam--"preserves," Miss Lucretia called it, with old-fashioned elegance--in which she and Fanny indulged once a fortnight, must be of whole fruit in syrup; not the marvels of cheapness in two-pound jars.

"Why," thought Miss Lucretia now to herself, "should I buy butter at eighteenpence a pound, when they say the Normandy butter, or the Brittany, is really excellent? And it does seem a sinful waste to give two shillings for tea when one can get it quite good, the Vicar's wife tells me, at sixteen-pence. Indeed, I have seen phenomenal tea at a shilling." And so on.

The little lady proceeded with her reductions till she was quite convinced that Amy's coming need make no real difference in Fanny's comfort--the question which had pressed most upon her mind.

Then there were Amy's clothes to be thought of. Well, they would not cost much. There was a gown hanging up now in the cupboard which might be cut up for her.

Then there was a crimson merino dress which Miss Lucretia had bought last summer for the Vicarage garden-party--not without some misgivings as to the choice of so unwearing a colour, but with the solace to her conscience of knowing it could be dyed.

That would make a sweet little frock and cloak for Amy; for the dress had only been worn twice, and its wearer had held it up very carefully out of the dust.

Miss Lucretia went up to the little box-room opening out of her bedroom, and turned out a number of old treasures--things she had kept ever since her girlhood, carefully folded, wrong side out, and covered with tissue-paper. Here was her bridesmaid's dress for Constantia's wedding--that would cut up into a lovely Sunday frock; and here was a piece of china silk which had never been made up till Miss Lucretia grew too old for white dresses; and other things that would all come in. Yes, she would have no difficulty in dressing little Amy, and making her look just as smart as the children at Beaconsfield Mansion when occasion arose for it. She hoped the occasions would arise, that her child would be asked to parties, like other children, and with a new interest the old woman thought of the different families of her acquaintance.

And now about a room for Amy. The little box-room must be cleared out, and that would make a charming nest for her. The old chintz with the rosebuds on it Miss Lucretia had just taken from its paper would be the very thing for curtains. A little bed would just fit here behind the door, and a washstand there, and so on. Miss Lucretia planned it all out with absorbing interest. The question was, where was the money to come from for buying the furniture? There were certain things in the box-room which could be sold. Miss Lucretia's harp; she never played on it now, and harping was out of fashion, so it would not be wanted for Amy. And that portfolio of engravings--and---- She had soon marked out enough of her treasures to make the furnishing of the little room an easy matter.

Then she went downstairs and divulged her great project to Fanny. Her co-operation was very necessary, and her mistress approached her a little timidly.

"Fanny, I am thinking of having a child to live with me."

"Bless us! ma'am, a child?"

"Yes, my poor sister's little orphan."

Fanny's heart was warm. She listened to Miss Lucretia's plans and wishes without any crushing comment, but at the end she remarked, "Well, I should have thought as Mrs. Dalrymple would have taken her; she is so rich and with that big place and all; but if she don't feel disposed that way, and you do, ma'am, well, I suppose the poor little soul had best come to us." That was quite enough, and now Miss Lucretia hurried out of the house, and into the High Street, to inquire about the price of children's beds. It was early in the day, of course, to enter into such details, but then, the whole affair was so interesting that they could not be put off till to-morrow.

As Miss Lucretia walked down the High Street, she was attracted by a toyshop, and found herself straying into it to inquire the price of a doll in the window. It would be very silly to buy one so soon, and before any of the necessaries of life were provided for. But the temptation proved too strong for her. She went in and bought it--the first present she would give to _her child_.

Miss Lucretia spent an hour in the furniture shop. She had to arrange first with the proprietor about the sale of her own belongings, and then to choose the furniture for the room. She found she wanted only the prettiest, nicest things for Amy, though the cheapest for their solid value would have been her main object if for herself. Then there was a lovely paper, with nursery rhyme pictures all over it, which so fascinated her that she ordered half-a-dozen pieces of it to come on approval.

Altogether, it was a most exciting afternoon, and Miss Lucretia came home with a springing step, and radiant eyes, and a general bearing of youthfulness, such as she had not known for the last twenty years. A bright golden glow had suddenly overspread the grey landscape of her life, such as the sun sometimes throws at sunset, when it looks out from under a cloud at the end of a long grey day.

Before the post went out, she wrote a letter to Constantia, announcing her intention of taking Amy for her own, which gave a delightful seal of finality to her decision.

II.

"I could not have believed that Lucretia would be so foolish. Just fancy! she wants to adopt Amy!" was Mrs. Dalrymple's comment, as she read her sister's letter; and everyone at the breakfast table exclaimed.

"It is a very generous idea," remarked Mr. Dalrymple mildly. He had always been a mild sort of man, and marriage with Constantia had not made him less so.

"Generous! yes. Lucretia is always generous. You know the difficulty I had in stopping her giving expensive presents to the children; but it is so very foolish. I shall write her a letter, of course, and tell her that we intend to have Amy ourselves. Poor Lucretia! Fancy her with the charge of a child!"

So Constantia wrote her letter. It contained about a quarter of the words that Lucretia had used, and was very sensible, kind and decided. There was no answer required to it.

Great was Mrs. Dalrymple's surprise, therefore, when by return of post came a reply, not of acquiescence, but setting forth the other aunt's superior claim as godmother, an idea which, as Constantia remarked, was simply absurd.

"I shall have to go to Thirlambury myself," she said: "though it is not very convenient." It was often not very convenient to go to Thirlambury.

In the meantime, Miss Lucretia had been indulging in her new day-dream, till every bit of her life had been remodelled in anticipation, and brought into harmony with her coming work and responsibility as an adopted mother. Already she attached to herself that beautiful title, the missing of which had been the sole sorrow of her life. As a young girl, Lucretia's day-dreams had not been of lovers, but of marriage; the joys of children clinging round her neck, the merry voices about the house, the little feet pattering up and down.

And now she counted the days to the one coming so near, when she should feel the real warm arms of little Amy clasped round "godmamma's" neck, and fold the child in her own with the new wonderful joy of possession. She felt that she could hold up her head again among women, and that the life which a week ago had seemed to hold nothing more except advancing infirmities was full of new possibilities and ever-increasing interest. Miss Lucretia lived again.

Miss Lucretia actually bought the bed, which the shopman had urged her to purchase at once, or it might be gone, as he had no other bedstead for a child.

As Miss Lucretia relinquished one after another of her own comforts and conveniences, the blessedness of giving grew more and more apparent to her. Nothing in life had ever given her a joy like the joy of this sacrifice.

Four days had passed so, and Miss Lucretia was just planning which plot of the small garden space allowed to a Primrose cottage might be spared from beans and cauliflowers to make a flowerbed for Amy, when a ring was heard at the door-bell. Miss Lucretia answered it herself, as Fanny was out, and there stood Constantia!

Miss Lucretia was always delighted to see her sister, and made the most of her rather infrequent visits. But to-day a kind of misgiving came over her at the unexpected sight of Constantia's smiling face; and a sensation of defeat as Constantia uttered, in her brisk, cheerful voice, the words, "And how are you, Lucretia? You didn't expect to see me?"

Lucretia welcomed her, as usual, and took her into the little parlour, which was drawing-room or dining-room according to the time of day. It was drawing-room now, and the dining-table stood folded, with a cloth and some ornaments on it, in a corner; everything was as neat and carefully arranged as it always was; each chair in that particular spot which experience had proved to be the best for it.

"How nice and tidy you always look, Lucretia," was Mrs. Dalrymple's first remark, as she sat down with a genial laugh in the visitor's arm-chair. "You must be struck with the difference when you come to The Towers. With six children, it is impossible to keep everything in its place!"

Miss Lucretia asked after the six children, categorically, staving off the subject which she knew very well had brought her sister to Thirlambury.

"The girls are as well as possible," answered their mother, massing them, for brevity; "and they are all looking forward so much to having Amy." Mrs. Dalrymple was a person who took bulls by their horns. She always knew exactly what she intended to do with the bull--the great secret of success in life--and was quite sure about its being the best thing that could be done.

"But I intended to have Amy," answered Miss Lucretia, in almost as firm a voice, but putting herself at a disadvantage at once by her slip of the past tense.

"Yes, I know you did. You wrote me all about it. It was exceedingly kind and good of you to think of such a thing, but, of course, it was quite out of the question. As I told you when I wrote, we intend to take her."

"Didn't you get my second letter?"

"Yes, and I saw by that you did not quite understand mine to you. I wrote in a hurry, and I suppose I did not make myself clear."

Constantia Dalrymple was under the impression that she was the most truthful of women.

"You made yourself perfectly clear," answered Lucretia, with a quiet dignity which was not usual with her. "But before you spoke of taking the child, I had made up my mind to do so. I have spoken to Fanny about it, and she is perfectly willing to accept the extra economies we shall have to practise, and any trouble Amy will give her. Of course, I shall take charge of her myself."

"How good of Fanny! I have always thought she must have enough to do with the whole work of your house, and she works a good deal in the garden, too, does she not?"

Miss Lucretia looked a trifle uncomfortable.

"I think Fanny will enjoy having a young life about the house," she replied, rather hurriedly; "just as I shall myself."

Constantia smiled. It was not exactly a nice smile, but perhaps she did not know that.

"I do not think either you or Fanny have had much to do with children," she said. "It is all very well to have them with you for a few hours at a time, when they are in their best frocks and on their best behaviour, and you have nothing to do with them except amuse them. But when you have the whole responsibility of a child, and are obliged to look after her from morning till night, it is a very different thing."

"Of course it is," said Miss Lucretia.

It was that very fact, comprising as it did the constant demand on time and thought and labour, with all the rich reward of corresponding affection from the child in its dependence, that made the sweetness of this dream of motherhood. But Lucretia could not put this into words. She was never very fluent with her deeper ideas, which were, perhaps, instincts rather than formulated notions, and she was least fluent of all with Constantia.

"And how could you ever afford it?" went on Mrs. Dalrymple.

Lucretia explained her scheme of retrenchment, and all her little plans.

"But you won't be able to go on dressing Amy with your old things for ever," said Constantia. "And, then, there will be hats and boots and shoes.

"She may be ill, too; children have to go through measles and whooping-cough, and that sort of thing: how will you afford to pay the doctor?"

Lucretia was silent for a moment; Constantia had such a very convincing way of saying things, and making all that was unpractical and visionary appear so; but she was not really vanquished.

"I think one must trust for that----" she began, at which Constantia smiled again.

"How about schooling, too? A girl's education is a very expensive thing nowadays. I am sure Edie and Gwendoline have cost us as much as the boys."

"Amy is only five now, and for some years to come I think of teaching her myself." The present tense this time, for she was on her mettle. "You know we were very thoroughly grounded by Miss Cox."

"That is a long time ago, Lucretia!"

"Yes, it is a long time, but I suppose the principles of grammar and arithmetic are the same, and I have not forgotten how to read!"

It surprised Mrs. Dalrymple to see her sister pluck up so much spirit, but this defiant attitude did not affect her. There was in her such a certainty of being in the right, and of causing the right to prevail, that she was able to take all Lucretia's opposition very quietly. It was obstinate of her sister to hold out like this--weak people always were obstinate--and it was extremely foolish, but her surrender was only a matter of time.

Lucretia went on talking, urging her suit in a way that would have struck some people as pathetic, but Constantia was not much given to seeing the pathos in life; her view of things in general was optimistic, and unless a sorrow was thrust before her she did not look at it.

Constantia let Lucretia talk on until she naturally ceased, after repeating herself a good many times, in the way that peculiarly weakens a cause. Then she brought up her reserve force.

"But do you think it would be good for the child to be by herself, just with you and old Fanny?"

Fanny was ten years younger than her mistress, and Lucretia realised how very old fifty-nine must be.

Constantia paused a moment. Then she went on to point out all the drawbacks of a bringing-up such as Amy must have with two old maids--not using the term, but dwelling on the characteristics implied in it.

"What would you do with the child if she were naughty?" Mrs. Dalrymple asked by way of a test question. "She is sure to have a strong will of her own; you know what poor Ann was."

Miss Lucretia could not answer the question, naughtiness seeming to her as multi-form a thing as illness, and the treatment for either depending upon its form and cause. She replied that her idea was to bring the child up on a system of love; a vague answer which did not satisfy her sister.

"Bringing up children is not such an easy and simple matter as people might think who have had no experience." Here Constantia herself stood on a firm foundation. "And it is much more difficult to bring up one child by itself than when there are others for it to consort with."

Then Mrs. Dalrymple proceeded to dilate on the smallness of Primrose Cottage, which was certainly a very poor little place compared with The Towers. There Amy would have the grounds to play about in; she would share the girls' governess, ride on Gwendoline's pony, and Nurse, who had been so splendid with Bertram and Edie, would only be too pleased to have a child again.

"It always makes her and me quite unhappy to look at the empty nursery," said Mrs. Dalrymple, "though the children have only flown into the schoolroom."

There was a weight of truth in every sentence Constantia uttered, which made it strike like a battering-ram against the walls of Miss Lucretia's airy castle. At last she gave a little cry--a cry in words:

"Oh, don't tell me that I mustn't have Amy!"

"I do not say that you must not have her," answered Constantia. "As you say, you are the child's godmother, and the elder of us two. I leave it for you to decide. Only, I want you to think which would really be best for Amy."

Released thus, suddenly and unexpectedly, from the paws of the cat, the little mouse of Miss Lucretia's soul ran trembling into a corner, while the cat smiled, sweetly enough this time, as those may who have won the game. It was a good cat, too, which had only been doing its duty.

At this moment, Fanny came in, bringing tea, and Mrs. Dalrymple greeted her with her usual warmth and kindness, rejoicing in the anticipation of eating some of that delicious home-made cake which was always so much better than they could get their cook at The Towers to make; asking with sympathy after Fanny's rheumatism, and giving her an abundance of those smiles which were so taking; while Lucretia sat, looking old and small and withered, with a face that seemed as if it would never smile again.

She had come to her hour of sacrifice; the great sacrifice of her life. Even with Lucretia the age was not past when sacrifices may be lit up by a golden halo of romance. There had been a halo round the sacrifice of all her little comforts which she had already made in will for Amy. The love that prompted it had turned the self-denial into a part of the joy of her prospective guardianship.

But round this sacrifice there hovered no such brightness. It was only like herself, a poor, common-place, drab-coloured thing. No sense of heroism could attend it; common-sense demanded it, so Constantia had proved, but, even with Constantia's provings, Lucretia could not have offered up her precious sacrifice upon the altar of common-sense. But the other altar, which stood hard by, the altar of love, was one that she could not thus disdain. The result of the pitiful struggle was certain, or Constantia would not have given the game into Lucretia's hands; but Lucretia was not sharp enough to see that. To her the whole brunt of choosing was as real, the action of her will as decided, as if a long habit of unselfishness had not made any other course impossible.

It was better for Amy that she should go to Constantia. Then to Constantia she must go.

"I suppose you are right," she said at last, in words as commonplace as befitted her unheroic sacrifice.

"I was sure you would agree with me when you came to think about it," Constantia answered, gently now, for it was part of her system, the one, perhaps, which had made it so successful with her children, never to use unnecessary force. "I am sure a month hence you will feel very glad that you have not a child turning your peaceful life and your pretty cottage upside down."

There was no use trying to make Constantia understand; and, if she could have understood, it would have made no difference.

Miss Lucretia said nothing. It was time now for Mrs. Dalrymple to go, and, finishing her second cup of tea, she wished her sister an affectionate good-bye, with the promise of a hamper of game from The Towers, where they were just going to have one of their "big shoots."

"Perhaps I might have done it more kindly," Constantia thought, as she drove in her cab to the station. "But it was such a foolish idea. I am glad Lucretia saw it for herself in the end."

Miss Lucretia went upstairs with slow, old footsteps, after her sister had gone. The last red glow had faded from her landscape, and everything was grey again, a shade deeper grey now, as it must go on growing deeper, till the night. She went into the little room, and, as she looked at the little bed which was never to hold her child, a tear came up into each of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

The doll lay on the bed, wrapped up in the white muslin that was to have made its underclothes, looking like a tiny corpse. It seemed to Lucretia like her dream of motherhood as it was now, the dead body of something that had never really lived.

She went to the window and looked out on the grey, darkening landscape, and over it there twinkled one faint star. She stood watching, and the star grew brighter, then another came out, and then another. For a long time Lucretia looked up: then she knelt down, looking up still.

The far-off light from the stars seemed to be shining on her face as she turned it to Fanny, when that faithful woman came up at last to bring her mistress down to supper.

"Miss Amy is going to Mrs. Dalrymple," she said, quietly, and with a little smile. "My sister left it to me to decide whether she should go to The Towers or come here, and I gave her up to them, Fanny. I am glad she is going to my sister. She will be happier there."

There can be no two opinions as to the most famous Easter hymn. In almost every church throughout the land, and in most chapels too, there arises, every Easter morning, the well-known strains of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day, Alleluia!" There may be an occasional difference in the wording of a line here and there, as the hymn appears in various hymnals, but practically it is the one hymn which binds all Christian congregations together on Easter morning. It is our Easter greeting one to another, in the joy and hope of that blessed day, like the greeting of the pious Russian on the same morn, who salutes every passer-by with the words "Christ is risen!"

On the Resurrection Morning Soul & Body meet again, No more sorrow, no more weeping, No more pain. Here awhile they must be parted And the Flesh its Sabbath keep, Waiting, in a holy stillness Fast asleep.

* * * *

O the beauty! O the gladness Of that Resurrection Day, Which shall never, thro' long ages, Pass away. On that happy Easter morning All the graves their dead restore, Father, sister, child & Mother Meet once more.

S. Baring Gould.

It is strange, therefore, that no one has even an indistinct notion as to who wrote this famous hymn. Its author is, and long has been, unknown; and, equally strange, there is almost the same to be said of the composer of its famous tune. For the tune is as great a favourite as the words, and, in fact, whilst the words do occasionally alter, as stated, the tune is ever the same one we know so well. The honour of being its composer has by some been ascribed to Henry Carey, but there are no certain grounds for the assumption, fine musician though he was. So completely has this tune associated itself, however, with the hymn that few people are aware that some collections of hymns have alternative tunes to the great song of praise for Easter Day. But even Monk's tune to it in "Hymns Ancient and Modern," takes quite an inferior place; it is seldom, or never, used.

Possibly the immense popularity of "Jesus Christ is risen to-day" depends on two things. Firstly, the words are extremely simple--a little child can understand them; secondly, the tune is one of the very best "congregational" ones of any collection.

Were I asked to name the next favourite Easter hymn, I should certainly give the palm to one of the most beautiful hymns of the Church of Christ--a hymn which has solaced and sustained the hearts of thousands in their dark hours of grief for the loss of their loved ones, just as it has rejoiced the hearts of so many loving servants of the Master at their Easter festivals. I refer to Baring-Gould's touching hymn "On the Resurrection morning."

The comfort derived from the sweet words of hope and promise in this hymn by members of the Church militant here on earth will never be known till that "Resurrection morning."

The Rev. Sabine Baring-Gould has kindly given me, for THE QUIVER, a copy of the manuscript of this hymn, and a few notes about it which cannot but prove interesting. It was composed on May Day, in 1864, he says; and, certainly, that is appropriate enough, for do not all poets sing of May Day as a special day for the awakening and rejoicing of nature? Horbury, that robust Yorkshire village where Mr. Baring-Gould was then the curate, was the birthplace of "On the Resurrection morning," as it was of what has proved one of the six most "popular" hymns of the world, viz. "Onward, Christian soldiers." So Horbury enjoys no mean fame. No one speaks more lovingly of Horbury than does its former curate, now so famous; and Horbury--church, chapel, and "non-connected"--is proud to a degree of Sabine Baring-Gould and of the fame he has for ever given its name by these and other noted hymns.

It will be noticed that there is a word or two slightly different in the author's copy from those of the usually printed text. In one case his manuscript is not perhaps the better. "Which shall never, through long ages, pass away," is not, in the writer's opinion, grander than "Which shall not, through endless ages, pass away." Dr. E. H. Turpin's fine tune to "On the Resurrection morning" has the merit of exactly suiting it. All can sing it, and that makes it so popular. The composer, with great kindness, has also allowed me to reproduce his manuscript of it here; and it is only fair to say that did the renown of the celebrated organist, as a composer, depend only on this one tune, so linked to the hymn, it would not easily perish whilst joyful hearts on Easter Day, and sad hearts at the graveside of loved ones, join in singing "On the Resurrection morning."

To the Rev. J. M. Neale, who died about the time when Baring-Gould wrote the hymn just spoken of, the Christian world is indebted for three splendid Easter hymns. Of these it is difficult to say which is the finest, though perhaps, being quite original, we should give that honour to the well-known "The foe behind, the deep before." Every section of the Church of Christ sings with deep and solemn pathos those beautiful lines--

"No longer must the mourners weep, Nor call departed Christians dead; For death is hallow'd into sleep, And every grave is but a bed"--

following so closely on the joyful strain of "Christ is risen!" in the preceding verse.

To this hymn innumerable tunes have been composed by musical people of various degrees of ability; but it has always seemed to me that by far the best are the two tunes given to it in the Wesleyan hymn-book, and, curious to relate, the composers are both ministers, the Rev. Olinthus R. Barnicott and the Rev. Sidney J. P. Dunman. And it may safely be said that the singing by an average Wesleyan congregation of this fine hymn, to either of these fine tunes, will not be easily forgotten by the person who hears it for the first time.

The two other famous Easter hymns of Dr. Neale's composition were really translations from the Greek. Nevertheless, they are grand translations, if one may say so. "The Day of Resurrection"--best recognised when sung to the tune composed by Berthold Tours, the celebrated composer is a regular favourite at Easter-tide; but even more famous is the other hymn from the Greek--

"Come, ye faithful, raise the strain Of triumphant gladness."

This hymn may safely be placed amongst the most popular of Easter favourites, and, like so many others, whilst excellent in its words, it owes not a little of its fame to its fine tune. This latter was composed by Mr. Arthur Henry Brown, of Brentwood, and was called "St. John Damascene," under which name it still figures in the various Church hymn-books. Mr. Brown told me that the tune was composed in less than a quarter of an hour! But he also told me that even that was eclipsed by the tune "St. Anatolius"--does any hymn-lover not know it?--to "The day is past and over," which was composed in five minutes! Truly that was an "inspired" five minutes, for which the Christian Church has reason to be thankful!

To the late Bishop of Lincoln, Dr. Christopher Wordsworth--who that knew the saintly old man did not love him?--the world is indebted for the ever-popular

"Alleluia! Alleluia! Hearts to Heav'n and voices raise,"

which always goes with "a good swing" on Easter morn. Its tone is "victory" from beginning to end, and there are few more beautiful Easter verses than the first one of this hymn.

Sir Arthur Sullivan composed its tune--the one best known, "Lux Eoi"--and the very lilt of the music seems somehow to suggest the work of the great musician who gave us similar "swinging" tunes for "Onward, Christian soldiers" ("St. Gertrude") and for "The Jubilee Hymn." But Sir Arthur tells me that "Lux Eoi" was not composed especially for this hymn, but for another one less famous. The rapidity of Sir Arthur's composition is only equalled by that of Arthur H. Brown, already mentioned. The gifted composer of _The Golden Legend_ thinks long before he puts pen to paper, and often defers doing this "till the last minute," as we say; but when he _does_ get started, he goes at it as few composers can, and will polish off the introduction to an oratorio in a night!

"When I survey the wondrous Cross," that splendid old hymn of that splendid old divine, Dr. Isaac Watts, is probably one of our very oldest hymns that is at all well known to-day. Everybody sings it, for everybody knows both words and tune: Englishman, native African, Brother Jonathan, converted Chinese, all sing alike from the heart, after they have felt the real significance and power of that death and resurrection--

"Love so amazing, so divine, Demands my life, my soul, my all!"

"Rockingham," the tune to which this hymn is eternally wedded, was composed by Dr. Edward Miller. There is a magnificent roll and stateliness about it which suits the words perfectly, and the wonderful magnetic force which comes over one as one listens to six thousand people--led by, say, Mr. Ira D. Sankey, singing "When I survey the wondrous Cross"--was well described by the nameless slave in America, who, hearing it thus sung by a crowd, and being reproved for humming the tune as the people sang, said, "Massa, it no use; me _must_ jine in!"

A living hymn-writer of no small fame--the present Archbishop of York--has given us one of the very finest of the hymns for this season. Though not popular in the sense that Dr. Watts' celebrated hymn is, yet there are few more charmingly beautiful lines, suggestive of Good Friday and Easter thoughts, than are found in Dr. Maclagan's hymn, "Lord, when Thy Kingdom comes, remember me!"

This hymn is one of the best-known of the Archbishop's, though, of course, his most famous one is the ever-beautiful "The Saints of God, their conflict past."

We cannot pass by without notice the Rev. John Ellerton's "Welcome, happy morning," and the Rev. F. W. Faber's very sweetly sad "O come and mourn with me awhile," which, of course, is a hymn for Good Friday. The tune to this was written by the celebrated Durham man to whom the Church of England (and all denominations) will ever be in debt for some of the sweetest hymn-tunes the world has ever known--Dr. J. B. Dykes. And it was fitting that he who composed the beautiful tune to "Our blest Redeemer," for Whitsuntide, should then give us another ever-famous tune to Faber's grand words.

Let me close this brief account of some of our finest Easter hymns by just recalling one or two of our finest Easter anthems. Of course, the first, _par excellence_, is the immortal "I know that my Redeemer liveth"; and equally with it, from the same "oratorio of oratorios," is the "Hallelujah" Chorus. Of these what shall be said? Shall it be told again how Handel thought he was in heaven when he wrote them? Or shall we note that the "Hallelujah" Chorus is one of the three pieces of music in the world on hearing which every Briton stands up and doffs his hat? These are the National Anthem, the "Dead March" in _Saul_, and the "Hallelujah" Chorus. In the first he pays his tribute to his earthly sovereign; in the second he pays his last tribute to the venerated dead; in the third he acknowledges the tribute due to his Almighty Lord, the Sovereign of Heaven.

Apart from these two masterpieces of Handel, the prettiest and most beautiful Easter anthem is that of Dr. Stainer, composed for the cantata _The Raising of Jairus' Daughter_. In a wide experience of cathedral music and anthem-singing by our best choirs, I doubt if there is any much finer musical treat than to listen to the choir of St. Paul's, or that of York Minster, as there rolls forth that most beautiful of anthems, words and music--"Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and God shall give thee light." This is, indeed, a noble song for "Easter's bright morning," and well may its words be taken as our special Easter thought; for to all of us, in some way or other, they must have a special meaning.

By The Rev. Hugh Macmillan, D.D., L.L.D.

"Physician, heal thyself."--ST. LUKE iv. 23.

We are accustomed to think that the healing virtue there is in herbs and trees was meant only for man; that herbs and trees were created with these virtues in them for the special purpose of curing our human diseases and ministering to our human wants, and for nothing else; that God had man in view in the beginning when He gave these medicinal qualities to plants, and apart from man's use of them they serve no other purpose.

Now this, which is a common, widespread idea, is an altogether erroneous one. For if God meant these vegetable qualities and products exclusively for man's use, the questions may be pertinently asked, Why were they so long undiscovered; and why do they occur in places often remote from human habitation, and waste themselves upon the desert air?

It is true indeed that God designed them as remedies for man's ailments, that He prepared beforehand the cures of human ills long previous to the necessity for these cures arising. But this law of mercy was a comprehensive one, and had a two-fold object in view. God in the first place created the plant complete in itself, adapted to its own circumstances and requirements; and in the second place, it is through this perfect adaptability to its own wants that it becomes generally useful in nature, and ministers to the necessities of other created things. It is because the plant heals itself first by the remedy which it grows and produces by its own powers that it becomes a medicine to the animal world, when any members of that world are placed in similar circumstances and exposed to a similar disease.

Why, for instance, does the Peruvian bark tree produce the bitter principle in its bark from which we have prepared the valuable medicine called quinine? Is it not because that bitter principle is necessary to preserve the health of the tree itself in the wet, malarial districts where it grows? The Peruvian bark tree grows its own quinine, and administers it to itself, as it were, in order to prevent a disease in itself caused by the marshy places where it is found, similar to fever in the human subject. The willow grows beside rivers and streams which are apt to cause exhalations and breed influences that are noxious to the well-being of the tree. It has therefore developed in its own bark a febrifuge called salicin, which protects it from these noxious influences and maintains its trunk and branches and foliage in vigorous health and beauty. And it is because the quinine is good for the tree itself in malarial places that it is good for the fever which human beings take in such places; and it is because the salicin of the willow guards the tree from the injurious exhalations of marshes and river banks that it is a specific for rheumatism in man, which is produced by the same causes.

The same benefit which the medicinal principle developed by itself works in its own constitution it confers upon man when subjected to the same evil. And so it is with all the herbal medicines. They have a purpose to serve in the economy of the plant that yields them before they can minister to human sickness and disease. Sugar was not meant in the first instance to sweeten man's cup, but to store up food for the plant in order to enable it to flower. Tannin is created in the bark of the oak tree, in the first instance, not for the purpose of helping to make leather for man's shoes, but for the purpose of preventing mildew and fungous growths from settling on the bark of the tree and so decaying it. Scent is produced in flowers and shrubs that grow in watery places, not for man's gratification in the first instance, but in order to deodorise the air and make it fit for these scented flowers and shrubs to breathe and to preserve their vitality and vigour. Aromatic fragrance is yielded by the grey shrubs and herbs of the dry desert, not that the garments of the human passer-by might smell pleasantly of it, but that it might regulate the temperature, and keep the plants cool in the burning heat of the noonday and warm in the freezing cold of the night air.

Such instances might be multiplied indefinitely. Indeed, it may be regarded as a rule of nature without exception that, whatever properties plants possess that are useful to man, these properties, in the first instance, are not only useful but indispensable to themselves. And it is because they serve necessary uses in their own economy that they are found so necessary in the economy of man. Each plant that grows in circumstances where it is likely to be injured by the soil or climate develops within itself the antidotes and remedies against these unfavourable circumstances. It is a physician that heals itself first of all, that adapts itself as perfectly as possible to the peculiarities of its own place of growth. Nature and it are harmonious: they help each other. The qualities that are beneficial to itself are equally in the same way beneficial to other creatures; and it helps the world because it has first helped itself. It imparts health all around because it looks first after its own health.

All this is obvious. The plant could not exist at all did it not develop those qualities which would minister to its welfare and adjust it perfectly to its environment. But in human economy we fancy somehow that the law is less strict and more irregular, and can be violated at times with impunity. We think that a man can perform the part of a physician, and cure others, although he cannot cure a trouble that afflicts himself; that he can restore others to health while he himself is unhealthy. We can separate between a man's skill and his personality; and, indeed, there are many cases where a physician who is dying slowly of some incurable disease can yet, by his knowledge and cleverness, so treat his patients that he may heal their diseases and restore them to health and strength. But we are usually suspicious of a doctor endeavouring to cure others when he himself labours under an uncured disease. We reason naturally that his first concern should be himself; and if he fails in doing good to himself by his skill and medicine, when his interests are most of all concerned and the motive for healing strongest, how can he hope to succeed in the case of others, strangers and comparatively indifferent to him? We should not accept with implicit confidence a so-called remedy for baldness forced upon our notice by a person whose own head was in that condition. We should expect him to operate upon himself in the first instance with success, and then we should feel disposed to venture upon a similar use of it. The proverb says that "He who drives fat cattle must himself be fat"; and upon the principle involved in that common saying he who would heal others must himself be a specimen of that active, vigorous health to which he wishes to restore others. In no work, indeed, is the personal equation of more consequence than in the work of the physician. Three-fourths of the elements that enter into all diseases are spiritual, and three-fourths of the remedies that must be used for them must also be spiritual. The personal appearance, character, and manner of the physician himself are most important factors in the cure of disease. Confidence in the doctor is more than half the cure; and therefore what the doctor is in himself is of great consequence.

In the spiritual sphere the physician can only heal others as he heals himself. He himself must be an exemplification of the saving health of God's countenance if he is to do good to others. It is just as true in the affairs of the human soul as it is in the case of the plant--that the quality which is beneficial to the soul itself is equally beneficial to the world. It is noticeable, however, that there are exceptions to the rule in the spiritual world as there are exceptions in the natural human world. Just as there are cases of physicians healing bodily diseases in others while their own disease is unhealed, so there are cases where a man is the means of saving others while he himself is unsaved.

It is not, indeed, a matter of supposition, but of certainty, that a man may do good while he is not good. Hundreds of instances could be given, in which persons have been the means of quickening, comforting, and building up souls in the Lord, while all the time they themselves were strangers to the power of truth and ignorant of the love of Christ in their hearts. Ministers have preached the Gospel for years, and have been wise in bringing souls to Christ, and yet have themselves been castaways in the end. Members of churches have been zealous in every good work, and yet have known nothing of godliness but the form. The very commonness of this thing increases its sadness. We think the case of Moses leading the Israelites to the border of the Promised Land while he himself was forbidden to enter peculiarly pathetic; but its pathos is in reality far less touching than the case of the man who brings others to the fountain of life while he himself is perishing of thirst, who is like a guide-post pointing the way of salvation to others while unable himself to take a single step.

But though instances have unquestionably occurred in which signal beneficial results have followed the preaching of the Gospel by ungodly men, this is not the normal order of the Divine procedure. It is personal experience of religion as an inward life, as a living power in the heart, that imparts unction to active Christian effort, that adds conviction and power to testimony and commendation. He is the man to do spiritual good to others who is able to say with the Apostle, "That which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, and our hands have handled, of the word of life, declare we unto you, that ye also may have fellowship with us." He is the man to say to others, "O taste and see that the Lord is good," who has himself tasted, and from his own enjoyment can say, "Blessed is the man that trusteth in Him."

It is an unchangeable law and constitution of our nature that we cannot desire blessings for others which we do not really desire for ourselves, the blessedness of which we have not known ourselves. When we feel the value of our own souls, and not till then, we shall feel the value of the souls of others. When we see the Lord ourselves, and not till then, we shall desire that every child of man shall see Him.

It is on this account that our Lord says to Peter, "When thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren." "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou Me? Feed My sheep; feed My lambs." If we are saved ourselves, we shall be best fitted to save and benefit others. There is a virtue in true holiness, there is a secret charm in the wisdom that cometh from above, which wins our hearts, and inclines us to embrace a religion which yields such blessed fruits. The man who eminently possesses and constantly exhibits these qualities becomes quick and powerful in acting upon the minds of those around him.

The best way, then, to do good is to be good, and to have such a Christian character as will of itself communicate good. Be yourself what you wish your family, your friends and neighbours, to be. "Physician, heal thyself." God needs physicians, many physicians; for there are many destroyers spreading the influence of their ungodly life--a deadly infection--around, and adding to the disease and misery which man's sin first brought upon the world. Let us act as fellow-workers with the Good Physician in bringing back health and strength and beauty to a plague-stricken world; and for this purpose let us qualify ourselves more thoroughly. Let us apply the Gospel remedies anew to our own case which we recommend to others, that our own profiting and healing by these may be made manifest to all. Let us ask God to search us and see if there be anything that would prevent us from doing all the good that we might, any defect of manner or disposition of heart that might cause the way of truth so far as we are concerned to be evil spoken of; and let us ask the help of the Divine Spirit to get it healed. So that thus being made every whit whole ourselves, we may diffuse a healthy atmosphere around us and make others partakers of our saving health.

The Sabbath is the best day for healing. Jesus asked the Jews, "Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath day?" The reply might have been, "Is it lawful to do anything else but heal on the Sabbath day?" That day is set apart for healing the diseases of the world. It is the day of recreation--re-creating us and fitting us anew by its rest and refreshment of worship for the toil and travail of our weekday life. Let us bring to Jesus on this Sabbath day all the old infirmities and disabilities which have been a hindrance to the growth of the work of grace in the midst of us, and He will deliver us from them, and make us new creatures; and so--set free in newness of health and strength, with our palsied frame invigorated, our withered hand restored, our lame feet made swift in the way of God's commandments, and our world-bound spirit loosed from its infirmity and covetousness, and enabled to look upward where our true treasure is--let us seek to free others from their infirmities and diseases, and to make all around us strong in faith and health in the new life of God's service.

Let the tonic that has restored our own spiritual constitution be in all our words and deeds and looks, to restore the spiritual constitution of others. Let the perfume that neutralises the drought and cold of the world be exhaled from all our character and conduct, so that it may be the means of enabling all with whom we come in contact to resist the aridity and the coldness of the world too. Let each of us be so full of Christ's healing and saving power, so saturated with His salvation, as it were, that we ourselves may be Christ's best medicines. Let the words "Physician, heal thyself" be in the very forefront of our profession and of our life throughout all the years; and we ourselves in such a case will be among the most potent influences for good in the world.

By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.