Muriel found resistance not to be thought of. All she could do was to follow the bent of her mother's varying will, minute by minute. Now Mrs. Bertram chose to walk up and down the room; now to lie down; now to make a pretence at working, with hands that shook persistently; now to discuss the morning visitor; now to declare that the very mention of her was unendurable. Muriel did her best to conform to each mood in turn. A brief pause was broken by the above question. "You cannot go to the Manor this evening, mamma. I thought of sending an excuse." 66 Certainly I shall go. It will do me more good than moping here with nobody to speak to. What you intend to wear?" do Only my black silk. There is no need to make much of an appearance for a teachers' tea-party. But indeed I think you would be better quietly at home." "I can't stand discussion about it. Argument makes me ill. Hand me my embroidery, Muriel. I am fearfully nervous this afternoon." Muriel brought it, and tried to awaken interest in a certain new pattern; but while talking, Mrs. Bertram, giving à violent start, burst into tears. She had done this several times already. The embroidery was pushed aside. "Are you in pain?" asked her daughter anxiously. "I don't know-no, not pain-only this feeling in my head. That woman-I don't know how to bear myself when I think of her. What shall we do? What can we do? The miserable disgrace the shame "It is no disgrace. We have done no wrong," said Muriel. "There is nothing to be ashamed of. Mamma, it is trying and disagreeable, but please don't think matters worse than they are. We shall get things straight again." "You can't. You don't half understand," said Mrs. Bertram petulantly. "It is the misery of that being known, after all these years. I can't bear it! I cannot live in Bushby. I shall go away somewhere -to France or Germany. Oh! what is that?" and she started again. 66 Only a ring at the front door. You are nervous, and everything startles you." "You are not going to see the woman to-day, Muriel. I will not be left in the house without you.' "No, I will go to-morrow," said Muriel. "And mind you make her understand that we will have nothing to do with her-nothing! I will never see her again. If she will leave Bushby at once, without a word to anybody, I am quite willing to give her money. You can tell her so. I don't care how much,-anything,-if the whole thing is kept secret." Muriel did not like to suggest that her wisest course might be to see Mrs. James Bertram without the delay of another night. She was reluctant to leave her mother in this state. Also she had a shrewd suspicion that the matter had already reached a stage beyond secrecy. I can't sit still, Muriel. Give me your arm." Mrs. Bertram walked to and fro, talking incessantly on the same subject. "I don't see what else is to be done. Her object is to screw something out of us, of course. How are you to find out whether the tale is true? Papersbut the woman may have stolen them. It may yes, be all a mere get-up. I believe it is, for my part, and I always shall believe it. True or untrue, I will never have anything to do with them. I only wish we had somebody to consult about the best way of acting. If only John were here, or Arthur, or even Mr. Maxwell. I don't see why Mr. Maxwell's absurd fancy should keep him from helping us to decide in such a matter as this. Chesney told me once that Mr. Maxwell knew all about it. There is not a gentleman to appeal to, and I have been all my life so accustomed to be taken care of,—and you don't seem to know in the least what to do. I don't know what will become of us. I almost think it will kill me. Muriel, what o'clock is it?" "Four o'clock-no, a quarter past." "What time do we go to the Manor?" "The note mentioned six or half past, just as we felt inclined. So I ordered the fly to be here about ten minutes before six." "I must dress soon after five. Perhaps if I lie down a little while it may do me good." "If you please, Miss Bertram, you are wanted," said Price, entering. "Who is it?" Mrs. Bertram asked. "A young person, ma'am. She didn't give her name," Price answered discreetly, in a tone of indifference. "You will rest in your room while I go to see what she wants," said Muriel persuasively. "Come, mamma dear, and Price shall call Maria to sit with you. I have one or two letters that ought to be written." Mrs. Bertram acquiesced, and Muriel felt some relief. She arranged her mother on the bed, and outside the door Price whispered, "Maria saw the young person, Miss Bertram, and she says it is the daughter of the woman that frightened mistress so this morning. I couldn't have thought it, for she looks every bit a lady." Muriel went downstairs swiftly, and found Pauline in the dining-room, holding a bundle of papers. "I won't hinder you," she said timidly. "But I found mother had not let you keep these papers, Miss Bertram, when you asked for them, so I have brought them straight away to you. I won't stop." 'Wait a minute. How many papers are there?” 66 66 'I don't know. I didn't count." Muriel did so, and pronounced the number aloud. "I will take care of them," she said. "Perhaps your mother shows more wisdom than you do, Pauline, of the worldly sort." "No," said Pauline. you." 66 "They are quite safe with How do you know?" Pauline gave a quick glance. "I do know," she said. "I couldn't help being sure about you, Miss Bertram." Muriel was touched, more than she would show. Voice and look were soft as she said, "You shall not find your trust misplaced. How is your mother now ?" "She is very bad. She does nothing but lie and moan." "Poor thing!" murmured Muriel, and she stood gazing out of the window in dreamy style. "Mrs. Burley does not think mother can live long," said Pauline, with downcast look, That is sad for you to hear." "Yes, I have nobody else belonging to me." LIFE'S CHANGES. "You will not be friendless." Pauline shook her head. "I have no friends," she said. 355 Pauline suddenly lifted her black eyes, full of the to pass judgment either upon her father's lack of expression which had more than once thrilled Muriel straightforwardness, or upon her mother's resentful with an indescribable sense of sympathy and kin-coldness, only she did feel that the story was a ship. "Mother does things I don't like, and she melancholy one. Arthur Bertram seemed for the is angry with me often, but she is my mother. I most part to pass over his home troubles in silence. shall have nobody when she dies." In his last letter, however, Muriel came upon a sentence which almost overcame her: “We have two little ones now. Baby is a perfect snowflake— her mother's pride. Our eldest is a picture of you, James. I see you in every movement. Poor child! I do not know how it will work by-and-bye, for her mother complains bitterly of her brown complexion, and sometimes can scarcely bear to look at her. Do not mention this to anybody." There were no letters of later date from Arthur Bertram, though he had lived a few years longer. "I cannot make promises yet, for I do not know how far I may go. But do you think you can trust me, without a direct promise, to see that you are not left alone in the world?" Pauline's face changed as if a lightning-glow had flashed over it. "Oh, yes; oh, yes," she said. "I won't be so unhappy, now you have said that. Mother says, Miss Bertram, that I am a lady, but I think I should be quite happy if I might be your own maid, and do things for you. I would not take any wages, and I would eat very little, and nobody need ever know my name. I would be Pauline to everybody." The outburst was curiously artless and unaffected, but the sweet refined manner struck Muriel as incongruous with any such suggestion. "I should wish something better than that for you," she said. "I am very independent, and have no maid, Pauline. I must take the advice of friends, and think things over, and, meantime, you have to nurse your mother." "She is very bad to-day," said Pauline, resuming her careworn look. "I don't know what to do when the worst of the pain comes on." "I hope to see her to-morrow. Does she show any change of mind yet-on religious matters?" Muriel had hesitated how to put the question. "No," said Pauline in a low voice. "No anxiety about herself?" "Sometimes. I don't know; I don't always know whether it is that or pain." 66 Does she let you read the Bible to her ?" "Sometimes," repeated Pauline. "But she never says anything about it." "Never mind; go on reading. Some little verse may be God's message to her. We can pray that it may. She perhaps thinks and feels more than we can tell." "I don't know," said Pauline sorrowfully. "She doesn't seem to feel much." "I do not think that is any certain proof. But you have to go to her now, and I must not keep you. We shall meet to-morrow." No touch of cousinliness came into the parting. Muriel had not yet allowed herself to view that idea as a reality. When, however, she sat down at the table, and slowly read through the documents brought by Pauline, conviction stole into her mind. She knew that the claim was truth. If she had before felt this, almost unknown to herself, she now saw it to be so, plainly, incontrovertibly. These papers would have proved the matter in a court of law. Muriel's calm common-sense could in nowise stand out against them. Her father's letters to his brother James interested her much. There was a vein of sadness running through them, which brought moisture into Muriel's eyes. He had been wrong to hide from his intended the fact of his " native kinship, but with that Muriel had not to do. She did not feel it needful Muriel sat in profound thought, and then with sudden resolution fetched her writing-case. Two letters were speedily accomplished. "MY DEAR MR. MAXWELL, "We are in a good deal of trouble just now. May I write to you on my mother's behalf, even though she was not very cordial to you the other day? You know the little skeleton' in our family history, which so tries her. A sister-in-law of my father's-a half-caste, very poor, and I should say very common-looking, with a daughter extremely unlike herself has appeared in Bushby. So at least she claims to be, and I fear the claim is true. My mother is terribly upset, and she seems to long for masculine advice, instead of having only me to lean on. She said to-day, If only John or Arthur were here, or even Mr. Maxwell.' I did not ask her whether I should write. I have thought it best to do so on my own responsibility, leaving you to decide what to do. Perhaps you could write a few quieting words of advice to her. Would you mind? I can say no more, except that I am "Ever yours, "MURIEL. "P.S. I am merely asking your advice. We are quite willing to help the poor woman herself, though I have tried to make her understand that she can legally demand nothing from us. I think this came to her as a discovery." Muriel's second letter was to her brother: "MY DEAR ARthur, "I am writing in haste to tell you that some relatives of ours have suddenly turned up in Bushby, not at all to mamma's pleasure, or, I am afraid, to mine. There appears to be little doubt as to the truth of the tale. "The woman-for a lady she is not, either English, native,' or Portuguese, and her nationality seems to be a compound of the three-professes to be the widow of my father's younger brother, James. I never heard of him before, did you? It has taken us greatly by surprise. I wish you were here, but that I know is not possible at this moment. Mrs. J. Bertram-shall I ever frame my lips to call her 'aunt'?-is very ill, not far I think from death. doing so. Have I grown more worldly-spirited of | in trying to get your own way. I shall certainly late, I wonder? 66 go. What do you suppose I have dressed for?" And yet it is not that part of the matter which I mind. I could take the gentle Pauline to heart and home easily enough-and I have often thought of the poor oppressed ladies and women of India, Instead of which she was over forty. Mrs. Bertram sisters of mine as they are in a nearer degree than walked in and out incessantly, and every ribbon and that in which they are sisters of all who belong to the button-metaphorically speaking-had to undergo same wide empire, and sisters of all who are fellow-critical discussion. She was barely ready when the women. Have we not all one Father?-though they know Him not yet. I have thought of them many a time with loving interest, and I do not wish to forget the touch of their national blood flowing in my veins. "You see I don't shrink from that fact. But when I stand beside this poor, miserable, repulsive, vulgar woman, and hear her calling herself my aunt,' I confess pride does get the mastery, and my philosophy and Christianity do not seem equal to the occasion. It is wrong-wrong. It is not Christlike. I am praying for a better spirit, and you must pray for me. "I wanted the relief of writing this down, though I daresay you will smile at me in your quiet way. But I cannot trouble John now with this sort of thing, so you will put up with my little effervescence. Write and tell me what you think of it all. "Your affectionate sister, Both being sent to the post, Muriel went upstairs to her mother, resolved to say nothing about the papers in her possession until the next day. She was amazed to find Mrs. Bertram dressed already for the evening. The glow in the cheeks added to her beauty, but did not add to Muriel's ease of mind. She seemed composed as usual, save for a nervous twitching of the muscles round her lips. "Mamma, you look lovely!" was Muriel's exclamation. Mrs. Bertram surveyed herself in the pier-glass. "Yes, the effect is good. I could not lie still, so I thought I would dress early. What have you been doing all this time? It is a quarter past five." "So late? I did not know.' "You will have to make haste. Mind you are ready." Mrs. Bertram put her hand to her head, and murmured, "I wish that feeling would go.' What feeling?" "One cannot describe sensations. A kind of feeling as if I were here and somewhere else at the same time. I never had it before. I hope I shall not faint again." You don't feel inclined to do so?" asked Muriel, with assumed cheerfulness. "Not now. I thought it was coming on a little while ago. I felt so strange all at once, and Price was quite frightened, for my colour went completely, but my cheeks and head are burning again now. It is excitement, I suppose. One comfort is, no one will think me ill, or suppose that anything has happened." Muriel wondered how often the remark had been made that day. She wondered also whether anybody would be possessed of so little penetration as not to think her mother looking ill. fly was announced, and Mrs. Bertram had been chafing for ten minutes at the prospect of possible delay. Arriving at Claverton Manor, they found everybody there before them. Tea was over, and the teachers for whose benefit the treat had been arranged, were scattered through hall, drawing-room, library and garden, admiring flowers or playing at croquet and bagatelle. Many friends were present, helping to amuse and themselves amused. Ernest Wentworth came into the hall to welcome the two latest-comers. He was very grateful for their company, and extremely courteous, escorting Mrs. Bertram to the seat of honour in the drawing. room, and lingering about Muriel with evident desire for conversation. She made herself as little interesting as she could well do, but possibly she would have attracted him less in one of her piquant and brilliant moods, than in this quiet and pensive gravity. He was sure she was suffering greatly from the associations belonging to her old home, while in reality the day's events had left little room in her mind for the indulgence of recollections. "Mrs. Bertram is not looking well this evening," he said solicitously. "She has not been herself to-day, thank you." "Perhaps she is sensitive to changes of weather. It is very oppressive, wonderfully so for autumn. I fancy there is a thunderstorm brewing. The air feels thundery. "I do not know that she is sensitive to the approach of a storm. It affects her nerves a good deal when it actually does come." "Rachel is rather timid. I should not think you were, Miss Bertram." "If two people live together, and one is nervous, the other must needs act the courageous role.” "Putting self aside,-yes, I understand," he said, with admiration. "No, I did not mean that exactly. I am not timid. How beautiful your flowers are looking." I The Hawthorn and the Wild Rose. LEARNT a lesson from the flowers to-day; I saw the first wild-roses clustered gay. What though the smile I loved so soon had died Which once shed light and fragrance on our way, Weave us fresh wreaths in beautiful array; RICHARD WILTON, M.A. THE NOTES ON ITS PRESENT RELIGIOUS AND MORAL CONDITION. BY WILLIAM TALLACK. HE eminent religious and intellectual benefits a recent visit to Berlin, to refer to these complaints conferred by Germany upon the other nations by the Imperial chaplain, and appealed to various of the world, must ever render its moral condition persons in religious and civil official positions for a subject of the deepest interest to all thoughtful their own opinions on the subject. It was sad and persons. So many good men, too, have sprung from surprising to find an almost unanimous agreement that country, and such a considerable number of as to the truth of these allegations; though there beneficent institutions have had their origin there, was not quite the same amount of unanimity as to that the inhabitants of other lands are bound to the causes of so deplorable a state of affairs. But receive with reluctance and hesitation any serious there was found to be a general concurrence of opinion charges which enemies or rivals may adduce against that the great war of 1870-71 between Germany and its general merits. For, in the eyes of less privileged France was a turning-point in the national history, nations, some of the very virtues and advantages of and that since that date things have been going Germany are specially liable to be misunderstood decidedly from bad to worse. and misrepresented. But it is impossible for the friends of that great historic empire to divest themselves of the gravest anxiety on its account when, as recently and at present, many of its official authorities and most honoured citizens unite in public lamentations over a grievous decadence in the condition of the national religion and morality, and over a marked and rapid increase in the statistics of crime. For example, there appeared in the leading English newspapers, a few months ago, the following statement: "The Chaplain of the Imperial family, M. Bauer, preached, on Wednesday last, a sermon in the Cathedral of Berlin, before the Emperor and the Imperial family, in which he spoke of the present state of morality, or rather immorality, in Prussia, in very strong terms. He said, 'Affection, faith, and obedience to the word of God are unknown in this country, in this our great German Fatherland, which formerly was justly called the home of the faith. On the contrary, it really seems as if it were the father of all lies who now is worshipped in Prussia. What formerly was considered generous and noble is now looked upon with contempt; and theft and swindling are called by the euphonic name "business." Marriages are concluded without the blessing of the Church, concluded "on trial," to be broken, if not found to answer. We still have a Sunday, but it is only a Sunday in name, as the people work during church hours and spend the afternoon and evening in rioting in the public-houses and music-halls; while the upper classes rush to the races, preferring to hear the panting of the tortured horses to hearing the word of God, which is ridiculed in the press and turned into blasphemy in the popular assemblies; the servants of God are insulted daily.'" The same journals add, from a Berlin correspondent: "The German clerical newspapers, Protestant as well as Catholic, are writing in a like strain." The writer of the present paper, feeling it very difficult to accept such a gloomy picture as the above as a faithful description of German society, yet being unable absolutely to reject it when coming from so authoritative a source, took occasion during This conclusion is sustained by the large volume of criminal statistics recently issued by the government at Berlin. It is dated 1878, and includes all the provincial and national returns of crime to the end of the year 1876, the latest period respecting which complete and authentic figures for the country at large have been compiled. They include all Prussia, Hanover, and the Rhine provinces, but not the Southern States, as Bavaria, Würtemberg, and Baden. From these statistics, including the two departments of the Ministry of the Interior and the Ministry of Justice, it appears that the total number of imprisonments, of late years, have been as follows: 1872. 1873. 1874. 102,077 The subdivisions containing the statistics of special classes of crime for the same periods, show that offences against public order have increased, in the five years, 43 per cent.; crimes against life and the person 50 per cent.; crimes against morality, 56 per cent. And prison officials declare that during the past two years a still further considerable increase of crime has taken place. Again, a gentleman who has resided for many years in Germany and has revisited it during the last few weeks, states that a careful series of houseto-house inquiries in Berlin, show that in less than one house out of every eighty is there any regular use or even possession of the Bible. He adds that so small is the proportion of the attenders at religious worship, in the German capital, that, to a population of more than a million, there are only one hundred and ten ministers of religion, both Protestant and Catholic. The average number of persons in each congregation is below one hundred. The same careful observer mentions various other facts which demonstrate an alarming amount of vice and immorality. Many other mournful testimonies, from nativeborn Germans, or from residents in the country, |