My poor Ermy, you will get your breakfast at last as for myself, I am famishing. Mr. Carfax, I hope your early rambles have given you a good appetite, that you may keep us both in countenance."

"Of course you will dine with us, Mr. Carfax," said Mrs. Marcia, when, three hours afterwards, they returned from inspecting some family portraits, one of which both ladies declared to be singularly like their unexpected guest.

"It is scarcely necessary to fetch your credentials now," the lady of Singlehurst Manor had remarked, glancing from the picture to the square, low brow, and far-seeing, slatecoloured eyes, which at that moment were like nothing else but limpid lakes, dark with perpetual shadow. How unlike George Trevanion's sunny blue orbs! and equally unlike those spectacled, grey, kindly beaming eyes of the Great Copley editor.

But Mr. Carfax was in morning costume, and begged to be excused. Mrs. Marcia would not accept any such excuse; she and Ermy never dressed for their early dinner, she assured him, and finally it was agreed that he should at once go back to the inn, make the requisite toilet, and return to Singlehurst. When he was gone Mrs. Marcia sat a long time, thinking-so long that Ermengarde, tired of the protracted silence, asked if she might know the subject of her meditations.

“Well, yes, you may, Ermy," was Mrs. Marcia's prompt answer, as she roused up from her reverie; "I was thinking about my two kinsmen; for this Carfax man is really a sort of cousin-a sort that would not count, though, if I had any

near relatives, I suppose; but when one is absolutely alone in the world, one is glad to lay claim to even the remotest consanguinity. I wish you had been born my sister, Ermy."

66

'My dear Marcia, it is all the same as if I had! We are sisters in all but blood. Perhaps we should not so thoroughly accord if we were indeed the children of the same parents. But, Marcia, I do not yet despair of your marrying, and so forming the sweetest and closest ties for yourself: you have taken no irrevocable vows."

66

Ermy, that speech proves how little, after all, you understand your friend. Had I never been enchanted, I could not have been disenchanted as I am. No one, I imagine, rushes after the mirage a second time. Once thoroughly deceived, one can never trust again."

"I do not agree with you; at least, I would qualify such a statement. You were a girl, Marcia, and your judg Iment was immature. You placed your trust in one you did not really know. Passionate and impulsive as your nature is, inexperienced as then you were, you took everything for granted. Because a base, worldly man played you false, it does not follow that you should regard all other men with suspicion. A truly good man-I mean a Godfearing man-is always to be believed in. To lose faith, even in one's fellow creatures, seems to me a misery—a thorough misery. And I think, if we suspect and systematically distrust those about us, we shall have a very weak faith in God."

"And yet your favourite Book says, 'Cease ye from man'; and in another place, Put not your trust in princes, nor in the son of man, in whom there is no help.' I could quote many more such expressions, if my memory only served me. I must say, Ermy, you Bible people are constantly contradicting yourselves.'

"I think not, Marcia. The texts you have referred to have a comparative meaning; they teach us only to place our first and firmest trust in God. He must be always over all, and above all our primary, our most stedfast faith must be in

:

Him, because we know that He is almighty, and not only able, but willing to help those who commit themselves and their cause to Him; because He has promised to be with us in the time of trouble, and to deliver us if we call upon Him ; also because we know that we cannot place any inalienable trust in any living creature whose breath is in his nostrils. There are more things in the world than change, and fickleness, and falsehood to teach us not to rest supremely on the creature. There is separation, Marcia, and there is death. One may be willing to lay down one's life to serve one's friends, and yet be unable to further their interests in the least particular."

"You are a good little thing, Ermy. It must be very pleasant to be truly good. Please to take notice that I do trust you! Also, I feel a sort of instinct which tells me I may trust this Robert Carfax. It seems to me that he is good also."

"Dear Marcia, I wish you would change that form of speech. I do not like to be called good."

"Well, I will be orthodox, and say Christian, then. fancy this Robert Carfax is what you call a Christian man; though the subject of religion was never introduced, there was something in his tone that reminded me of you and of Christopher Gray. He evidently looked at things from one point of view, and I from another. What is your own opinion, Ermy?"

"I think with you, Marcia; there was, as you remarked, something in his tone and manner which led me to believe that he was one of those who are ever looking beyond the concerns of time and sense to that which is spiritual and eternal; or, rather, I should say that the impress of the higher life is on all that he says and does, even on the most unimportant particulars."

"Yes, I understand: that is, I understand intellectually. Of course I have no idea how it feels to be always living two separate lives which yet are one. This Christianity of yours, Ermy, is a great mystery."

“And yet a mystery which a child may solve, so far as it is necessary on this side the grave. The full unfolding of the perfect revelation is for another world. But there is nothing to be perplexed about: Christianity is sublime."

"I know Cowper wrote of—

simple, though it is

"Heaven's easy, artless, unencumbered plan !'

And he adds:

"From ostentation as from weakness free,
It stands like the cerulean arch we see,
Majestic in its own simplicity!'

6

And yet, Ermy, though I suppose the good man was right, as all sorts of good people continue to endorse his opinions, Heaven's plan' seems to me to be complicated enough; anything but easy, artless, and unencumbered.' When all the Christian world shall agree, I shall begin to think the perplexity and confusion is in my own mind alone."

“The Christian world, which in reality means the Church of God, does agree in fundamentals far more than you imagine. It differs chiefly on points that are not essential. You know, Marcia, we cannot expect all minds and tastes to accord. Everybody is agreed that dinner is an excellent institution: but everybody is not agreed about the way or mode of dining. You choose to dine at two o'clock, the Earl and Countess sit down at eight, while you may find many of our villagers enjoying their mid-day meal literally when the sun is at the noon. Then the Esquimaux prefers to dine on train-oil and blubber-fat; we like roast beef, or ducks and green peas; the Italian is happy with maccaroni and watermelons; and the Frenchman chooses all kinds of soups and ragouts, and delicately seasoned dishes ;-nevertheless, all agree in the necessity and general desirability of a meal called dinner. The same diversity of tastes is to be observed in nearly everything. I do not see, Marcia, why all people

should be expected to like the same form of religion any more than the same mode of daily life.”

"Ah well, Ermy, you always make out a good case. I shall not try to argue with you; but I know what I know, and I think what I think. Let us speak of something else. What shall we do specially to entertain our guests this afternoon?”

“There are the new books for Mr. Gray and Ethel, and there is the flower-garden for Aunt Prudence-she will want cuttings of those new foliage-plants, I know-and the pianoforte and the organ for Ambrose, and the croquet-lawn for everybody; to say nothing of the talk that Mr. Carfax and the editor will have on things celestial and terrestrial.” “And infernal?"

"Yes, if they take up your new illustrated Dante, or discuss the first books of 'Paradise Lost.' Do you expect Mr. George?"

"Really, I did not know what to make of George yesterday. First of all he said he would drive Ethel over, with Ambrose and Maude, while Mrs. Gray and Miss Constantine came by train; then he remembered that he was going up to town on special business, and would not be back till late; then he was in a grand hurry to get away, that he might spend the evening with Ethel; and afterwards, it appeared, he lingered in the Crown' coffee-room, taking the tea he would not wait for here, and eating another plate of strawberries, going home quite late. There is something strikingly mercurial in George Trevanion: you never know when you have him or how. I always think of kaleidoscopes, and chameleons, and dissolving views, when I talk much with my cousin George-his mind receives so many impressions in an hour."

"It has received one lasting impression, however— Ethel."

"I pray that it may be lasting, Ermy. At one timethat was before you came to Singlehurst-he was devoted to Lady Mary; then all the world imagined him to be at the