what she should do. She had to take a few moments another. He tried teaching, but it failed. Perhaps to consider, then it came into her mind what the he had not the requisite patience; perhaps he right thing was. She took the forlorn woman in lacked perseverance. His wife let no one into her arms and kissed her. It was not a warm the secret; it was buried with him when, at last, embrace, and when it was over the sisters stood sickness and a broken heart did their worst, and he apart again. was carried to the grave. "Things have gone hard with you, Margaret," said the richer sister coldly, and evidently embarrassed by the presence of the poorer one. "It is as we thought-that wretched marriage!" "It was not wretched; it was happy and blessed," replied the other eagerly. "He was the best, the kindest, the dearest She broke down, and hid her face in her hands. Again you looked for tears, but they came not. When she raised her head, the other saw how it was. She caught sight of the badge of widowhood, and said hastily, almost with exultation, “Ah! he is dead!" She was sorry when she had said it; but she had been taught to look upon him as the marplot of the family. Again the sisters were silent. The widow bent her head, as though some wintry blast were passing over it. A perplexing question was rising to the lips of Adela: "What was her sister's errand?” Could she look at her and ask it? Did she not come for help-for money-perhaps for refuge? And would their father ever grant it? The marriage had taken place some years ago, when Adela was a child at school... She had never been told all the particulars. She knew that Margaret's lover had no wealth, or even a position; that his profession was a very precarious one. He had been an artist, and what (as the old man said) could be more unsatisfactory than that? In fact, he was opposed to the attachment altogether. It was never clearly known by Adela whether her sister's disobedience was absolute and wilful. Whether in despite of her father's will she married Ernest Seymour for this was the name of her lover. At any rate, she married him from her own home. But her father never forgave it. When she was on her wedding journey, he wrote and told her so; and he forbade her to return, on any pretext whatever. The more he mused on the subject, the more bitter he became concerning it. And Margaret's husband was not successful; that was the crowning offence. If he had made a lucky hit-painted some picture that would have proved his fortune, and taken the world by surprise, the offence might have been forgiven, and the stone of stumbling rolled away. But, alas! it was not so. He was direly unsuccessful. He had talent-so, at least, his wife imagined-but the world never recognised it. He painted pictures, but they did not sell. He was reduced from one extremity to What a life she had had-that girl crowned with roses! That once happy Margaret! Would the old man forgive? Would he take her to his heart and home again? Would her wounds be healed, her sorrows wiped away? Would it all end happily, as in some story-book or fable? Adela feared not. She knew how inflexible he was, and how unforgiving. She knew the very mention of the name of Margaret was forbidden. What was she to do? What would be required of her? It was a new and puzzling experience. The sisters had been strangers all their lives. When Adela was a child, Margaret had been a woman. Adela could just remember the Margaret of old. She could recal the shining locks and the blue eyes, undimmed then, and not sunken with grief and weary vigils. It puzzled her to imagine by what process the change had taken place. Could this, indeed, be Margaret ? CHAPTER V. MARGARET read what her sister was thinking. She was quick and apt to decipher expressions, and the whole argument lay before her clear as daylight. She was prepared for the question asked with perplexity and even shame: "What brings you here? What is it you want?" "Nothing for myself," was the quick reply. "Nothing-nothing!" Adela glanced at the shabby dress and the worn face, and she said, with a touch of feeling, "I know what ought to be done. I would do it myself. I would say come-come, at once, to our home and hearts. But my father" "You need not tell me. I know! I know!" interrupted Margaret, quickly. there was no time to lose. The sooner this interview came to an end the better. Margaret guessed as much by a kind of intuition. She knew her sister wanted to be rid of her; that the company was coming, and the old hall would be gay with lights and music. There was no place for her here, not even for the sole of her foot. Well, she would go, but not till she had told her errand. And she would tell it at once, briefly and boldly. She had a little daughter. (Here the warm flush came on her cheek, and the mother's love shone in her eyes.) The child was unfit to struggle with its lot-it was so delicate, so fragile. Its very life hung in the balance. She could not screen it, or give it the care it needed. Might she place it here, in comfort and security, while she struggled out yonder for her bread? There was no gainsaying the fact of how hard that struggle would be. She spoke with great earnestness. The pleading tones of her voice were scarcely to be resisted. Adela was not unmoved, but she was astonished at the request. Indeed, it seemed at first impossible to entertain it for a moment. 'If your child came here," she said at length, half bewildered at the idea, "you would have to part with it. How can you bear that, Margaret ?" Margaret pressed her hand to her heart. "Yes, I can bear it," replied she slowly, and as if the concession were wrung from her by an agony of dread lest the child should die. Adela stood silent and thoughtful. This was a newer experience still. "Where is your child?" asked she. 66 Here, in the town. You can see her. If only you see her, you will love her. Do you think I could bear to see her waste away and die?-that I could leave her long hours alone, she who wants such care and tending? Oh, Adela, my sister Adela, have pity on me, and help to save my child!” Adela had pity; but she was sorely perplexed. A sound of horses' feet, and a ring at the bell, broke short the conference. "Oh, I must go!" cried she, starting from her reverie "I must go, Margaret, but I will see you again. Where? Quick! Tell me where ?" Margaret told her. She had the address written down, and she gave it to her sister. Adela would see her in the morning, without fail. And here was a piece of gold. That, surely, would heal some sorrows. But Margaret would not take the gold-she went away, leaving it behind her. CHAPTER VI. BRINGING HOME THE BRIDE. HORACE VINCENT had been married a fortnight, and had just brought home his bride. Whether for good or evil, for weal or for woe, the deed was done, and was past recal. He had taken the house, and furnished it. He had made all his arrangements; in haste, it is true, but Ruth's position demanded that it should be so, else she had been left without even a shelter. As it was, she had fled into this tower of refuge, and was safe. At this starting-point of his married life, Horace thought he was very happy indeed. Here was the sweet loving girl to sit opposite to him, and to make his home happy; to be his dear companion and solace in this working weary world. Why did he, even now, hesitate at that word companion? Why did he break off the web of his speculations abruptly, and with a kind of mental reservation? How bright and cheerful everything looked, on that first evening! Everything was new, and sparkling, and untried. Horace had furnished the house well, and with taste. "It is better to do it well in the beginning," he had said. And when a feeling of anxiety came into his mind as to the cost, he would meet it by another observation. "I am getting on; I shall soon make it all right," he would say. "Besides, I shall have a wife to look after my affairs. Of course all ladies understand housekeeping. It is their vocation." On this head he had no doubts whatever. Still there were many thoughts that were inclined to harass him. He would like to tell Ruth exactly how he stood. He would like to hear her say that she was mistress of the position; that his views were her views. Once or twice, she had let drop a remark which had led him to suppose that she fancied his riches were unlimited. He must undeceive her on that head. And what time more suitable than now ?— now, when they were both starting in life-when to blunder would be most embarrassing, if not disastrous? He had lighted up the gas, for it was getting dark. Dinner was over, and he was sitting by his own fireside, hearing her sing. She sang very sweetly. He had bought her a new piano, and her nimble fingers went running up and down the keys. "I soon get tired of playing,” she said, rising abruptly; "it reminds one so of the days of one's drudgery; and I never liked music." "Come here, Ruth, and sit by me. I love music passionately. I have promised myself the pleasure of hearing you sing every night." "I want to make some wax flowers. My aunt had me taught. It is the only occupation I really like," said she, making no answer to his observation. "What do we want wax flowers for?" asked he, in rather a dismayed tone. WORDS IN SEASON. Because," said he, gravely, "my little wife must not fancy she has married a rich man. We must live carefully, and be very industrious, and then perhaps we can afford to make wax flowers by-andby." She laughed. "Horace, you must make a little sketch of the bouquet before you go to-morrow. The first thing after breakfast I shall set off--" 21 odd sensation in his mind, or rather a mixture of sensations, which he could not exactly explain or understand. "Ruth," said he at length, "when young people such as you and I are beginning life, there is nothing like prudence and economy. I am not rich. I told you so before. My whole income is not more than one hundred and fifty pounds at present." "Oh, but that is a great deal, Horace," said she, still triumphantly. "My aunt had not nearly sɔ much. I call you quite a rich man." "With your good management, dearest, I may be one. A man who lives within his income, and puts by a little every year, is in my opinion rich. What do you say, Ruth ?" She was not listening to him in the least. "And if I get on and do well, we may be able to take a larger house, and be in rather a different She laughed again. "You are, Ruth ?" he asked, position. There is an old saying, Ruth, that a man with some anxiety. "I don't know much about housekeeping, Horace. You forget I was a governess." must ask his wife how he is to live." "I don't want a better house, Horace. I think this is delightful. I like to look out on the market He was silent a few minutes, and looked thought- place. It is as cheerful again as High Street was." fully into the fire. "Martha did all the housekeeping," continued Ruth. "My aunt said she could not pretend to be troubled with teaching me." He was still silent. But you would like me to succeed ?" "I don't know. I am quite satisfied with you as you are." And the smile with which the words were spoken was so sweet, that all other thoughts were driven "And of course, now I have a servant of my own, out of his head. Nor did he venture any further I can do the same," said Ruth triumphantly. remarks on domestic economy the whole of the (To be continued.) He was silent a few more minutes. There was an evening. WORDS IN SEASON. THE TRANSFIGURATION-II, BY THE REV. CANON BATEMAN, M.A., VICAR OF MARGATE. III.-BRIGHT VISIONS. F the wondrous vision we are considering took place in the night season, the effect would be more striking, and the converse more impressive, in contrast with the dark and silent world. It is not improbable; for our Lord was wont to spend his nights in prayer; and St. Luke tells us that it was "the next day" when they came down from the mount. Probably the vision may have just prevented the dawn; and when they came down, the day had begun; and the world, awaking, was ready with one of its many tales of sorrow. The transaction itself was as true as God's own word could make it; and as real as the highest effort of human art could depict it. Who that has read the simple yet graphic account of the three Evangelists, and the plain though indirect allusion by the fourth-" we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the father" (John i. 14) does not feel instinctively that the narrative is true, even if St. Peter had not himself set his seal to it as an eye-witness in his second epistle?-"We have not followed cunningly devised fables when we made known unto you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but were eye-witnesses of his majesty. For he received from God the Father honour and glory, when there came such a voice to him from the excellent glory, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. And this voice which came from heaven we heard, when we were with him in the holy mount" (2 Peter i. 16). And who that has ever gazed in reality or in representation, upon that wonderful creation of genius, "The Transfiguration," even as left unfinished by the dying hand, and borne aloft in the funeral procession of Raffaelle-the greatest painter, perhaps, who ever lived-can have failed to realise the scene? The Lord is transfigured, and soars in mid-air. Attendant upon Him as the central figure, are Moses and Elias, representatives of the law and the prophets, one of whom never saw death, and the other of whom God himself buried. They float buoyantly like spirits of light and glory, whilst paying homage to the LORD of light and glory. Moses sees in him the mediator of the "better covenant;" Elijah, him to whom "gave all the prophets witness." Promises, types, symbols, passovers, sinofferings, are about to pass away, and by the "decease to be accomplished in Jerusalem," the Gospel is to be for ever established, and One "made sin for us, who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteousness of God in him." There may be anomalies in this representation; for genius often oversteps the fixed boundaries of time and space; but they are necessary for the 'elucidation of the subject. If something of earth had not been introduced, there would have been less of heaven. The dark shades of the one throw out the bright lights of the other. The three disciples are said to sleep, and seem to sleep; but God"openeth their ears I to receive instruction. It is plain that they hear the Divine converse, and recognise by it the Divine messengers. The anxious Father, the struggling child, the interested spectators, the powerless apostles, all serve to contrast the sins and sorrows of this mortal life with the glory that shall one day be revealed; all serve to point to Him who came to destroy the works of the devil. How wonderful THE BOOK which reveals such things! How wonderful the art which gives expression and reality to them! And during our Christian course, have we known no bright visions? Have we never realised that "the joy of the Lord is our strength?" There are many desponding Christians who linger too long at the tomb, and scarcely realise the fact that "the Lord is risen indeed." Tears are their meat day and night. They are always writing bitter things against themselves. They look downwards at their own works and deservings: and not upwards at their Lord's finished work and prevailing advocacy. They feel as if called to answer for themselves; and never say, "Thou shalt answer for me, O Lord." The consequence is, that their chariot-wheels drive heavily, and they make but little progress. It is not God's will that they should be thus burdened, but "their own infirmity." Tears are fitting for the penitent, but not for the believer. Weep, when you think of sin, and when you kneel before the cross confessing sin; but rejoice, when you think of the handwriting that was against you and contrary to you, taken out of the way and nailed to that cross. Intercourse is not pleasant with one whose eyes are always full of tears, and whose tongue is always full of complaints. Such an one may call for sympathy-and words of encouragement and comfort become well the Christian counseller. But if, in spite of all that you can say, the crane still " chatters," the dove still "mourns," the eyes still "fail with looking upwards;" then the intercourse soon ceases to be either pleasant or profitable. And why should it not be so with God? Why should he prefer tears to smiles? Ezra was right when he said to the people, "Go your way, eat the fat and drink the sweet, and send portions unto them for whom nothing is prepared for this day is holy unto our Lord: neither be ye sorry, for the joy of the Lord is your strength" (Neh. viii. 10). There is nothing sweeter than to realise our high privileges as the people of God, and to indulge the bright visions of present grace and future glory which is their heritage. To enjoy the comforts of religion; to realise the fatherhood of God; to think of the continual intercession of our great High Priest; to go in and out as those who are freed from condemnation; to feel safe; to serve in newness of life; to have cloudless access to the Mercy Seat; to cast all cares on him who careth for us; to have our names written in the Book of Life; to discern the "mark" upon our foreheads; to feel the "white stone" in our hands; to crave for no novelties; to need no excitements; to walk in old paths; to be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord; this is the heritage of God's people; this makes their garments white and their faces shining. It only wants what it will have in heaven, and not before -the element of endurance. Bright visions do not last. We are prompt enough to suggest the building of "tabernacles; " but we know not what we say. When St. Peter realised the bright vision before him, he suggested the building of "three tabernacles." He would have given permanence to that which was transitory. He would have had his Lord always thenceforth surrounded with a halo of light and glory. He would have had Moses and Elias abiding upon this earth. That the vision was to pass away so soon, never crossed his mind. It was "good," and he would have had that good permanent, just as in our sacred seasons and times of "refreshing from the presence of the Lord,” we would fain retain, and ever hold fast, what in themselves are but foretastes of the glory that shall be revealed hereafter. Joy and peace in believing; spiritual attainments in the divine life; Christian privileges; Church communion; a faithful ministry; the fellowship of the saints; these are but as transfigurations. They are transitory. They flicker and change; appear and disappear. They are like the summer lightning playing about the WORDS IN SEASON. air, rather than the fire ever burning upon the high for me. altar. After edification in God's house; after the enjoyment of brotherly intercourse; after our hearts have been burning at the breaking of bread-we are ready to say, "Surely it is good for us to be here!" Surely the good savour of the feast will remain ! Surely our hearts will not again grow cold, nor our feet wander from the right way!" Alas! we know not what we say; some temptation is often close at hand, and Satan is ready to catch us at the rebound: and when we come down from the third heaven, we meet the buffet and feel the thorn; when we see bright visions, and talk of building tabernacles, there comes the overshadowing cloud! IV.-OVERSHADOWING CLOUDS. These often come when we least expect them, and they put an end to bright visions, and all idea of building tabernacles! Three peculiarities seem attached to them: they excite fear; they have a voice; they pass away. 1. They excite fear. "Peter said unto Jesus, Master, it is good for us to be here, and let us build three tabernacles. While he thus spake, there came a cloud and overshadowed them; and they feared as they entered into the cloud." Ah! while he thus spake! While we are reckoning on some earthly thing-when, like David in his prosperity, we are saying, "I shall never be moved: Lord, by thy power thou hast made my mountain to stand strong;" when, like Job, we are thinking, "I shall die in my nest; I shall multiply my days as the sand;" when some of our plans, long laid, are on the very eve of their accomplishment; when a few steps more, and the summit of the mountain will be gained; when one effort more, and the prize will be within our grasp -then, just then, the cloud envelops us, and all is hidden. We are seized with sudden fear. "What is about to happen?" we say, when prospects, hitherto fair, are suddenly obscured; when health, hitherto strong, begins to fail; when the pulse, heretofore calm, begins to quicken; when the family, once united, begins to be broken up; when the footprints, so far plain, begin to disappear. Under such circumstances, we often feel a sense of awe and apprehension. "What is about to happen? Whereunto will all this grow? How can I act without accustomed guidance? What if I shall not live out half my days ?" Thus of us, as of the disciples, it may be said, "They feared as they entered into the cloud.” One way to avoid this is to do and say as David did and said: "Lord, my heart is not haughty, nor mine eyes lofty: neither do I exercise myself in great matters, or in things too 23 Surely I have behaved and quieted myself, as a child that is weaned of his mother: my soul is even as a weaned child" (Ps. cxxxi. 1, 2). When we have served God for many years, and maintained a good profession; when men begin to look up to us, and seek counsel at our hands; when we have borne the yoke, and passed safely through the discipline of sorrows; when we have leaned on Christ's breast, stood by his cross, and triumphed in his resurrection -we are then apt to think that we can bear prosperity, that our manna will keep for many days, that the sunshine will do us no harm, that Satan when he cometh will "find nothing in us." Alas! let us be at ease again; let strong and vigorous health return; let the "time of our wealth" come quickly after the "time of our tribulation;" and we shall feel how strong the "body of this death" still is; how prompt and prone we are to build again the things that we had destroyed; how corruption springs up in the sunshine; how needful is the cloud to bring down the heat! Keep thy soul low, O Christian man, if you would pass unhurt and without fear from adversity to prosperity; from reproach to reputation; from the pinching of poverty to fulness of bread; from the tossings of the sea to the tranquillity of the haven; from bright visions to overshadowing clouds. 2. They have a voice. The disciples heard the voice, and it told them of Jesus. "This is my beloved Son," it said, " in whom I am well pleased." If we listen we shall also hear these, or such-like words-words confirmatory of our faith, or consolatory under our trials. You think that some strange thing has happened unto you, that some enemy has been loosed against you, that you are cast out of God's sight, and, therefore, are overshadowed by the cloud. But, no; there is a voice in it-a voice of power-a voice telling of one "able and willing to save to the uttermost all that come unto God by him "-a voice testifying of one who is "touched with the feeling of our infirmities"-a voice bidding us trust in him, and we shall never be confounded. "What you are suffering under," it says, "is not by chance. It is ordered in all things, and sure. It will subserve your salvation. It is the Shepherd's crook to guide you to good, but, perhaps, forsaken pastures. It is the Refiner's fire to purge the dross, and purify the silver, and enable you to offer the sacrifice of righteousness. It is the rod in the hand of the Schoolmaster to bring you to Christ.” Hear ye "the rod, and who hath appointed it." Turn to him that smiteth. Before long your training will be ended, and you will be fitted for everlasting life. |