well content to receive Him as Son of David and Son of God. Hence he sits by the wayside, crying, 'O Son of David, have mercy on me!" for if the Nazarene claims that title of honour, it will be better, thinks Bartimæus, to give it Him even before the cure is wrought, and so perhaps incline Him to perform the cure.

Had Jesus passed on, showing no sign of grace, Bartimaeus might have changed his thought of Him-might, though it is by no means certain that he would; for there was a singular vitality and pertinacity in his faith. It was not to be easily suppressed. The crowd about Christ, who were surely most likely to know the mind of Christ, bid the beggar hold his peace; they "rebuke" him for intruding his misery on the general joy; they "charge" him to leave Jesus untroubled by his vain pitiful outcries. If the poor wretch had given up all hope, if he had said within himself, "These men who see the Nazarene, and have been long with Him, must know what He is like, and what He is likely to do, better than I can, I may as well spare my breath," could we have been much surprised? We should have had little reason for surprise. What is really surprising is that, undeterred by the unanimous opinion and rebuke of the crowd-undeterred, but not, I dare say, without some sinking of heart, some abatement of hopehe should cry so much the more a great deal, O Son of David, have mercy on me!"

It is all of a piece with this vital pertinacious faith that, so soon as Christ bids him "come," he flings aside His long flowing garment in order that he may come the more quickly; that when Christ places His Divine power absolutely at the blind man's disposal, he should at once endeavour to apply it to that in himself which was weakest and most defective; and that, so soon as he had received his sight, he should use it to follow Jesus in the way, thus "glorifying God" for the wonder He had wrought. It was faith, and faith of an admirable strength and constancy, that saved him.

Now, if we use the story of Bartimæus, or the part he plays in this story, as a glass in which we may see both ourselves and him, we shall surely find that face answers to face and heart to heart. For instance, if the blind man of Judea saw further and more clearly into the character and work of Jesus than the seeing multitude, there are surely many blind men among us-men, i.e., whose eyes are absolutely closed on that knowledge of Life and Nature which springs from culture, who nevertheless have a very clear and deep insight into the mysteries of truth and godliness. I think we must all have known "babes and sucklings" who were familiar with spiritual truths which are often hidden from the eyes of the wise and prudent, and out of whose mouths God perfected a sweeter

praise than even the noble hymn which Science sings. Knowledge is good; but it is not the highest good. The faith which inspires charity is better than even the knowledge which leads to wisdem; though best of all is the charity which, born of faith, puts on wisdom. However high the esteem in which we hold the discoveries of Science, though we rank them only below the disclosures of Inspiration, we must still admit that there is no direct connection between a scientific acquaintance with the mysteries of Nature, and an apprehension of those spiritual mysteries of which Nature is the open and manifold parable. Blind men-i.e., men blind to the wonders and charms of Sciencemay nevertheless have eyes for the truths which centre in the person of Christ Jesus our Lord; while men with eyes for all that Science discovers may be blind to His claims, and see no beauty in Him that they should desire Him.

Now, as of old, the Divine Healer and Saviour is too often surrounded by a rebuking crowd, who, even when they feign or try to help us to His presence, still keep us at a distance from Him. There is the more need, therefore, that we should take pattern by Bartimæus. The more the crowd rebuked him, so much the more a great deal he cried for mercy. Whatever they said, he would not hold his peace. They might leave him sitting by the wayside, solitary and forlorn; they might gather closer round the Master, and with their loud hymns of praise drown his imploring cries. Still he would cry; and if there were in very deed a Saviour in the crowd, He at least would listen and be gracious. And so, when the blessing for which he longed seemed slipping past him, the danger of losing it only redoubled the fervour and passion of his prayer. Let us learn a lesson from him. When men rebuke us and our cry for Divine help, when the very Church rebukes us because we do not speak her language, let us cry so much the more. In dogma, in knowledge, in ecclesiastical form and privilege, they may stand near to Christ and yet be far from Him. They may "go before" Him, yet not to prepare His way. They may "follow after" Him, yet have little of His Spirit. What have we to do with them? They cannot heal us, nor can they withhold us from the healing grace of Christ, if we will not let them. He stands among them, seeking to draw all men unto Himself, willing that all men should be saved and come to a knowledge of the truth. Above all the clamour of their rebukes His gracious voice is heard, saying, "Come unto me, all ye that are sinful, penitent, sorrowful; I will heal you, and save you, and give you rest." Let us but make our appeal to Him, and we need not doubt that, through all the hosannas of the Church and all the ballelujahs of Heaven, our cry for mercy will reach His ear, and He will answer, and save and bless us.

Dysart's prospects of happiness, if Mr. Atherstone came to seek her again at the hands of her aunt.

But now it seemed to Lady Elizabeth that his departure for an indefinite length of time, so immediately after his return home, could admit of no other interpretation but a deliberate intention of avoiding Una, and putting an end to any idea that he wished to resume his former relations with her, and Una herself drew the same conclusion. The aunt and niece had never spoken on the subject together, however, and they did not now; only for the next few days the invalid's mental discomfort showed itself in greater irritability than that which was already habitual to her, and Una went about calm and gentle as ever, but strangely silent, and with a dim shadowy look in her eyes when she came down from what was supposed to be a night's rest, which might have told the most indifferent observer of the secret suffering which was so keenly trying her once joyous spirit.

Meantime, when Atherstone returned home from his visit to Dr. Burton, he found, as it so often happens in this world, that circumstances were working at a distance from him in such a fashion as to render it simply impossible that he should carry out his intention of leaving home without again seeing Una Dysart. He had been aware that Wilhelmina Northcote was to be married on the following day to Hervey Crichton, and he had received a warm invitation from her parents to be present at the ceremony, but he had felt from the first that he really had not sufficient moral courage to witness such a scene in the very presence of his lost Una.

He knew that she must inevitably be there, as Miss Northcote's chief friend, and he was equally certain that Trafford would perform the rite which would so soon be repeated in order to unite himself to her who should have been poor Humphrey's bride, and still was the very darling of his heart. Could he bear to see that good man's happy triumph, and watch him meeting the tender glance of those sweet eyes that once had looked with such deep love into his own? No; to go through such an ordeal seemed beyond his power; and he had that morning sent a cautiouslyworded answer to Mrs. Northcote, in which he tried hard to conceal the true reason of his refusal to attend the wedding of her daughter. No sooner did he arrive at home on this afternoon, however, than he was greeted with the information that Mr. Northcote was waiting for him in the library, and when he opened the door, he saw the squire seated on a chair in the centre of the room, with his hands firmly clasped on the top of his gold-headed stick. He looked up with a merry twinkle in his eye as Atherstone came in, but did not move.

"Here I sit, friend Humphrey," he said, in his hearty genial voice, "and from this chair I do not move till I have brought you to repentance of your cold-hearted indifference to what concerns us so nearly,

and won your promise to do honour to our pretty Wil. to-morrow by your presence. I could not have believed you would be so unfriendly as to refuse us." "It is not indifference, indeed, Mr. Northcote," said Atherstone, his lips quivering with pain; "no one can rejoice more heartily than I do in any happiness that may come to you or yours, and Miss Northcote has my fervent good wishes; but you really must excuse me from appearing at her wedding."

"What is your reason? can you tell it to me?" said the squire, looking him straight in the face.

Humphrey's proud spirit revolted from any confes. sion of the truth, and he answered, deprecatingly, "Forgive me, Mr. Northcote, but even that I cannot do."

"No, because you have not a single valid reason to give me. You know as well as I do that the Northcotes and Atherstones have been friends for some hundreds of years, and there never yet was a great festive occasion in the one house without the representative of the other being present; there must be a mutual consent before you break up such an old custom as that, and you will not get mine, I can tell you. But the truth is, Atherstone," continued the squire, more seriously, "it is not merely to give us pleasure that I urge you to do this, but for your own sake; it may affect your future standing in the county very injuriously if you seem to fight shy of your neighbours on this especial occasion; it will be your first appearance after your absence, and all the painful circumstances connected with it, and every one expects to see you there, and to welcome you back to your own place once more; if you avoid being present-which at any time would have seemed very strange conduct on your part-it will inevitably convey the impression that matters are not after all cleared up, and there will be a renewal of doubts and suspicions which may not be easily dispelled."

Humphrey was too sorely wounded at the heart to feel all the bitterness which would once have been aroused within him by such remarks, and he answered, despondingly, "I do not seem to care much what any one in the world thinks of me now."

"But you should care, my dear fellow; we have to avoid even the appearance of evil, and you are bound to make yourself worthy-in the eyes of others as well as in reality-of the position in which God has placed you. Come, my friend, be advised by me; you must come to us; I will take no refusal; and, after all, it is no such very dreadful affair; we meet at the church soon after eleven, and when they have converted my little Will o' the wisp' into Mrs. Hervey Crichton, we shall come back to the Manor House for luncheon-breakfast I believe it is to be called-and the whole business will be at an end be fore three o'clock. I do not care about your staying to the evening party unless you like to do so; but I do beg you to be present at the wedding itself."

Then Humphrey resigned himself. What, after all,

"You are

very kind to care what I do, Mr. Northcote," he said; "and, since you wish it, I will come to the church at all events."

"And to the breakfast. Good! Now I am satisfied; and you will not regret it yourself, Humphrey, I am very sure."

Atherstone only smiled rather sadly; and the squire took his leave, declaring he had more to do than he then knew how to manage.

CHAPTER XLIII.

WILHELMINA NORTHCOTE's wedding-day dawned as sunny and cloudless in all the perfection of summer beauty as if this world were but the fairyland of hope and brightness, which it often seems to us to be in the days of our untried youth; none could have dreamt those azure skies were ever darkened by snow-laden clouds and angry storms, or that the fair green valleys of the flower-decked earth but hid the ashes of the countless dead. All was serene and gay; and the morning smiled like a radiant bride, jewelled with the sparkling dewdrops, and heralded with songs of triumph from a thousand carolling birds.

We are often aware of a strange sympathy existing between Nature and the human race-a sympathy which links itself with our immortal being rather than with that personality which is known and seen to our fellow-creatures. It has been well said that to God and to Nature we never grow old; there we are known to be ever the same, even as we know ourselves; the same in our child-like need of a Father's love, in our self-pity for our unseen pangs, in the imperishable desire for happiness, which sets our heart bounding in its earliest years, and still burns within it fierce and strong as ever, when, worn and wounded, it is feebly beating out its last remains of life. If the world presses hard upon us, and we are hurt to the quick by cruel wrongs from trusted friends, or by the sting of slanderous tongues, there is a subtle consolation in passing out to the solitude of woods and fields, where the unseen presence of the only true and deathless Love impresses itself upon us through the outward aspect of Nature in some mysterious manner, felt though not understood; but there are times when this mysterious mission seems to be repudiated by our mother Earth, and she turns upon us with glittering smiles and garish brightness, when we long for the soft shadows and the tender gloom of sun-veiled skies to speak responsive to our

darkened souls.

What a cruel mockery that brilliant sparkling morning seemed to Humphrey Atherstone, as he stood on the steps of his own door waiting for Nightshade to be brought round that he might ride to the church in time for the wedding ceremony, according to his promise. Never through all the

He let the bridle lie loose on Nightshade's arched and glossy neck as he rode along; perhaps he almost hoped the instincts of his favourite horse would guide the animal to bear him away in reckless flight far in the opposite direction; but the stately black horse paced onwards steady and sure, and soon it had borne him to the lich-gate, where the villagers were assembled in happy groups, looking out eagerly for the coming of the bride. Atherstone's groom rode up as he dismounted, took the bridle which his master flung to him listlessly, and led Nightshade away; so that Humphrey seemed to have no alternative but to pass on to the scene he dreaded, yet never perhaps had his splendid beauty and noble dignified bearing been so striking as on that day, when he uncovered his dark head in the sunshine in answer to the salutations of the crowd, and passed on calm and grave into the shade of the churchyard trees.

Here were assembled well-nigh all the wedding guests, who preferred to wait outside in the pleasant air rather than within the church; and to Humphrey Atherstone the whole scene appeared strangely out of harmony with that quiet resting-place of the dead: light laughter filled the air, gay dresses swept over the graves, and merry groups leant on the marble monuments which recorded how much beloved had been the lost and how full of anguish were the living. Atherstone was met very cordially by his neighbours, to all of whom the peculiar circumstances of his history were now known, and he patiently went through the congratulations on his return, and answered courteously, to the hopes expressed by many, that he would mix again with his friends, as in the days of his earlier youth; but as soon as he could he withdrew himself from among them, and escaped into a side alley shaded by branching trees, which seemed to him to be quite deserted. It was lined on either side with the green mounds which sheltered the very poor, whose surviving friends had been unable to mark each cherished spot, except by a few wild flowers laid on the turf from day to day; but there was one solitary grave placed at a distance from all the ethers under a fine old elm-tree which was distinguished by a white marble cross at the head, while at the foot there stood the figure of a young man, motionless as if he sought to be a living monument to the dead who slept beneath. Atherstone did not know whose