of Cyril's white passion. Mr. Maitland covered his face with his surplice. He, too, was uneasy and more affected than he liked to acknowledge to himself; yet he hoped that Alma's betrayer might be present and have his heart touched. The dusk was falling fast in the dim, deep-shadowed building; two or three sparks of light glowed among the white robes of the choir, and up among the dark arches Cyril's face showed haggard and agonized in the little isle of light made by the two pale tapers on each side of him in the dark

Dess.

Long did the little congregation remember that scene: the hush of attention, broken only by an occasional sob from some woman— for most of the sleepers were awake now, and dimly conscious of the unaccustomed passion breaking the drowsy air around themthe great growing shadows in the fast-darkening church; the mass of awe-struck faces pale in the gray gloom; the rosy gleams of the scattered tapers on the choristers' surplices; and up above them, from the heart of the mysterious darkness, the one beautiful, impassioned face in the lonely radiance, and the mighty musical voice pealing forth the unutterable anguish of sin; and the light which subsequent events threw upon it only rendered it the more impressive.

"It is true, indeed," said the preacher, suddenly easing the intolerable tension of his passion, and speaking in calmer tones, "that what a holy writer has called 'the princely heart of innocence,' may be regained after long anguish of penitence and prayer, but the consequences of sin roll on in ever-growing echoes, terrible with the thunder of everlasting doom; the contrite heart is utterly broken, and the life for ever saddened and marred. Innocence once lost, my brethren, the old careless joy of youth never returns. O thou, whosoever thou be, man, woman, or even child; thou who hast once stained thy soul with deadly sin, 'not poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy sirups of the world, shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep which thou ow'dst yesterday.'

"Yet despair not, beloved brethren," he added, with flute-like softness, for his voice had again risen in agonized intensity; "there is forgiveness and healing for all. But oh! keep innocency, keep innocency; guard and treasure that inestimable, irrecoverable possession, that pure perennial source of joyous days and peaceful nights, and take heed, take watchful heed, of the thing that is right. Keep innocency, O little children, sitting here in the holy church

this evening, beneath the eyes of those who love and guard youyou whose souls are yet fresh with the dew of baptism, keep, oh, keep your innocency! Keep it, youths and children, who wear the chorister's white robe! Keep innocency, young men and maidens, full of heart and hope: keep this one pearl, I pray you, for there is no joy without it! And you, men and women of mature years, strong to labor and bowed with cares and toils innumerable-you who, in the hurry of life's hot noon, have scarce time to think of heaven, with its white robes and peace, yet see that you keep innocency through all! And you, standing amid the long golden lights of life's evening, aged men and women who wear the honored crown of white hairs, watch still, and see that you guard your priceless treasure even to the last. Keep innocency, I conjure you, for that shall bring a man peace at the last! Peace, peace," he repeated, with a yearning intensity that culminated in a deep, hard sob, "peace!

He paused, and there was a dense silence for some seconds, and Everard saw that the blue brilliance of his eyes was blurred with tears; while Sir Lionel and Ingram experienced a sense of profound relief in the hope that the too exciting sermon was at an end. The congregation rose joyously to their feet, eased of a strain that was becoming intolerable.

When Cyril had left the pulpit, his father pronounced the benediction on the kneeling crowd in his calm, sweet tones, so restful after the storm and passion of the young preacher's richly compassed voice. But the blessing did not reach Cyril's distracted soul. Taking advantage of the shadows when he reached his place in the chancel, he glided swiftly behind the pillars, like some hurt spirit fleeing from the benison that would heal it, till he reached the vestry, where he threw himself in a chair behind a screen and covered his face. When Mr. Maitland in due time followed the choir thither, he did not at first observe the silent, ghostly figure in the shadow; and then becoming aware of him, he left him to himself till the choristers were gone, thinking that he was praying. But on approaching nearer, he was startled to hear strong sobs issue from the veiled figure.

"My dear boy," he remonstrated, "this will never do. Too much excitement is unwholesome both for priest and people. Come, master yourself, dear lad. You are unwell; this fasting is not wise. Henry was right."

“Oh, father,” sobbed Cyril, “it is not the fasting! Oh, shut the door, and let us be alone, and let me tell you all—all!”

"Come, come," said the gentle old man; calm yourself, and tell me whatever you like later. At present we are both worn out, and need change of thought. You have a great gift, dear fellow, and I trust your words have struck home to at least one conscience-'

"They have-oh, they have, indeed!" repeated Cyril, with increasing agitation; "and that miserable conscience- Oh, father, father! how can I tell you-?"

"Hush! hush! This is hysteria, as Everard predicted. Say no more; I insist upon your silence. Remember where we are! Drink this water. Stay! I will call Henry"; and Mr. Maitland went quickly into the church, where Everard was yet lingering with Lilian, who always had various errands connected with the parish to transact in the porch, and beckoned him to the vestry.

Cyril did not resist his father's will any more, but sank back with a moan, half of anguish, half of relief, and listened meekly to the rough kindliness of Everard and the gentle remonstrances of his father.

"This is a pretty scene, Mr. Maitland," observed Everard, on entering the vestry. "Ill? Of course he is ill, after exciting himself on an empty stomach! The end of such goings-on as these, my friend, is Bedlam. Take this brandy, and then go quietly home and get a good sleep, and let us have no more of this nonsense, for goodness' sake."

So Cyril did as they bid him, and held his peace. Had he but acted on his heart's impulse, and spoken out then as he wished, he would have produced sorrow and dismay indeed, but the long, lingering tragedy which was to involve so many lives would have been for ever averted.

Once, perhaps, in each crisis of our lives, our guardian angel stands before us with his hands full of golden opportunity, which, if we grasp, it is well with us; but woe to us if we turn our backs sullenly on our gentle visitor, and scorn his celestial gift! Never again is the gracious treasure offered, and the favorable moment returns no more.

CHAPTER VIII.

"Ar, you med all mark my words!" said Granfer, looking solemnly around from under the shadow of his bushy gray eyebrows. "I've a zaid it, and I'll zay it agen-ay, that I 'ool, let they go agen it as may! You med all mark my words, I zay. Queen Victòree'll make he a bishop avore she's done wi' 'un."

"Ay," chorused the listening group, who were standing around the village oracle in the church-yard, looking phantom-like in the pale blending of sunset and moonrise; and then there was a thoughtful pause, during which Granfer's shrewd gray eyes scrutinized each face with an air of challenge.

"Terble vine praiching zure-ly," observed Hale, the wheelwright.

"Vine! you med well zay that," rejoined Granfer, sternly. "I tell 'ee all, there never was praiching that vine in all Malbourne lands avore! Ay, I've a zaid it, and I'll zay it agen!"

"Made me sweat, 'ee did," observed Straun, the blacksmith, whose Sunday appearance was a caricature on his burly workingday presentment; for broadcloth of Baine's rough fashioning now hid the magnificent, muscular arms and bare neck; a tall hat, too small in the head, replaced the careless, smoke-browned cap of every day; and the washing and shaving to which his face had been subjected gave it an almost unnatural pallor.

"Ye med well sweat, Jarge Straun, when you thinks on yer zins," reflected Granfer, piously.

"'Twas terble vine; but darned if I knows what 'twas all about!" said William Grove, scratching his curly head with some perplexity.

"Ah! Mr. Cyril, he have a dale too much larning for the likes o' you, Willum," returned Granfer, graciously condescending to William's weaker intellect: "let he alone for that. Why, Lard love 'ee, Willum, I couldn't make out more'n a quarter on't mezelf; that I couldn't, I tell 'ee! A vast o' larning in that lad's head."

66 Ay, and some on it was poetry; I yerd the jingle of it," said sailor Jim.

66

'Master, now," continued Granfer, settling himself more comfortably against a tombstone, and leaning forward on his stick"Lard 'a massey, any vool med understand he! He spakes in his

discoorses jest as though he was a zitting in front of vire atop of a cricket, and a zaying, 'Well, Granfer, and how be the taäties a-coming up?' or, 'Granfer, think o' yer zins avore you blames other volk.' Ay, that's how he spakes, bless 'un! He don't know no better, he don't. Can't spake no grander than the Lard have give 'un grace to."

"Master's a good man," said Straun, defiantly.

his duty by we this thirty year."

"He've a done

"Ay, he's well enough, master is," continued Granfer, in a tolerant manner; 66 I never had no vault to vind wi' he, bless un! A vine vamily he've had, too! He've a done so well as he could; but a never was no praicher to spake on, I tell 'ee."

"Terble pretty what Mr. Cyril said about preaching to them as knowed him a boy," said Tom Hale. "Them esskypades, now," he added fondly, as he caressed his mustache and struck one of his martial attitudes.

"What's a esskypade, Granfer?" inquired a smock-frock.

"A esskypade," returned Granfer, slowly and thoughtfully-“a esskypade, zo to zay, is, in a way o' spaking, what you med call a zet-to-a zart of a scrimmage like "; and he fixed his glittering eye fiercely, yet half doubtfully, on Tom Hale's face, as much as to challenge him to deny it.

"Just so," responded Tom. "I said to meself, I said, 'Mr. Cyril is thinking of the set-to we had together in father's yard that Saturday afternoon; that's what he means by his esskypades.'

"Ay, and you licked him well," added Jim, eagerly; "that was summat like a fight, Tom."

"Master Cyril had to be carried home, and kep' his bed for a week; and Tom, he couldn't see out of his eyes next day," commented the elder Hale, with pride in his brother's prowess.

'Ay, you dreshed 'un, zure enough, Tom," commented Granfer, graciously.

"He took a deal of licking, and hit out like a man," said the modest warrior, who loved Cyril with the profound affection inspired only by a vanquished foe.

Tom had fought sterner battles since. He had been through the Indian Mutiny campaign, and known the grim realities of Lucknow; but his heart still glowed, as he saw before him, in his mind's eye, the prostrate form of Cyril on the grass among the timber of the wheelwright's yard-poor, vanquished Cyril, slighter, though older,