Chapter XI: How Philip Came Back

"The hour we see not, when, upsurging full,
Our cup shall outflow. God is merciful."

"Disengaged, Madam? I have just half an hour to spend with you. Positively the last time before I don my regimentals. And then hurrah for Landrécies! O Ned, I wonder where you are! I wish you would come back!"

"Do you travel with us, Philip?"

"No, thank you, Madam. That would be rather too spicy."

"You go with your regiment?"

"I have that honor."

"Mr. Philip," said Patient, as she noiselessly entered, "I have done your packing, and"--

"What a darling of a Covenanter you are, to take that off my hands!"

"And I have put a little Bible, Sir, along with your linen. Will you please to promise me, Mr. Philip, to read it?"

"Dear Patient," answered Philip, letting his lightness slip from him like a cloak, "I will read it. I have read it so much lately that I should feel almost lost without it, I assure you."

"Have you done aught but read it, Mr. Philip?" asked Patient, earnestly.

"As how?" queried Philip.

"Sir, I can conceive of none so awfully far off God and good as he that handles the bread of life but never eateth of it, he that standeth just outside the gate of the fold and never entereth therein. Have you felt it, Mr. Philip? have you believed it? have you prayed over it?"

There was no lightness about Philip's tone or manner as he answered, "I think, Patient, I have."

But Patient was not satisfied yet.

"Mr. Philip, my bairn," said she, "I do think that what you do, you'll do thoroughly--not half and half. I think you will know whether you do mean to follow the Lord or not. But 'tis one thing to mean to go, and another to set out on your journey; 'tis one thing to think you can leave all without trying, and another to leave all. And I'm no so sure, my dear bairn, whether you ken your own self, and whether you can leave all and follow Him. 'Tis rougher walking in the narrow way than on the broad road. It takes sore riving to get through the gate with some. Can you hold on? Can you set the Lord always before you, above all the jeering and scoffing, all the coldness and neglect of the world? For until the Lord is more to you than any in this world, you'll scarce be leaving all and following Him. Don't be deceived--don't be deceived! and oh, laddie dear, dinna deceive your ainsel'!"

"My dear old friend!" said Philip, looking up lovingly into Patient's face. "I will tell you the honest truth about myself. Celia, do you remember what I said to you the first time that I saw you?"

Celia remembered that well. It had pained her too much to be lightly forgotten.

"Well, that has all passed away. I believe that there is a God, and that the Bible is His revelation to man. Colville's philosophy merely disgusts me now. (I must say for him, though, that he was talking unusual nonsense the other night; he generally has something better to say than that.) Well, then, I believe, if I know what believing means, in Jesus Christ. Perhaps I _don't_ know what believing means; I shall not feel astonished if you tell me so. I believe that He died to save sinners, that is, instead of sinners; but instead of what sinners I don't quite know. For I cannot help seeing that while all mankind are sinners, there is one class of sinners, called saints, who are quite different from the rest. My puzzle at present is what makes the difference. We all believe that Christ died for sinners, yet it seems to be only some of us that get any good from it. If you can explain this to me, do so."

"I must go back to eternity to explain that," said Patient. "Sir, ages back, ere the world had a beginning, the Lord God, who alone was in the beginning, Father, Son, and Spirit, covenanted the redemption of man.[1] Certain persons, whose names were written in the Book of Life,[2] were given of the Father to the Son,[3] unto whom, and to none other, the benefits of His redemption were to be applied.[4] 'No man,' quoth our Lord, 'can come to Me except the Father which hath sent Me draw him;[5] and also, 'All that the Father giveth Me shall come to Me.'[6] Therefore"--

"Stop, stop!" cried Philip. "Let me take all that in before you go on to secondly. Do you mean to say, Patient, that God, the loving and merciful God, who says He wills not the death of any sinner,[7] selected a mere handful of men whom He chose to save, and deliberately left all the rest to perish? Was that love? Was that like God?"

"Sir, we can only know from the Word what is or is not like God. He ruleth over all,[8] and who shall say unto Him, 'What doest Thou?'[9] And when all were sunk in sin, and He might justly have left all to perish, shall we quarrel with Him because He in His sovereign grace and electing love decided to whom the merit of His work, the free gift of God, should be applied?"

"That is Covenanting doctrine, I suppose," said Philip, dryly.

Celia saw breakers a-head.

"Dear Patient," she said, very gently, "are you not trying to feed Philip with rather too strong meat? Remember what our Lord said to His disciples, 'I have many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.'"[10]

"Speak you, then, Madam Celia," said Patient. "I have but one speech."

"Oh! you good folks don't always agree!" observed Philip, as if he had made a discovery.

"We quite agree," answered Celia. "I believe just what Patient does, but I don't think it is suited for you. She is trying to make you spell words of three syllables before you can say your alphabet perfectly; and I think it will be better to help you over the alphabet first. Dear Philip, those whom Christ saves are those whom He makes willing to accept His salvation. Are you willing?"

"Go your own way, Madam," said Patient, in a dissatisfied tone; "go your own way. But don't account me in agreement with the teaching of Arminius."

"My dear Patient, I know nothing about Arminius--neither who he is nor what he teaches," replied Celia, simply. "Does not God make His elect willing to accept His salvation?"

"Surely, Madam, surely," answered Patient, a little mollified. "But you spake of _will_, Madam. Now I never can accept the free-will views of that heretic Arminius."

"Fire away, Patient!" cried Philip, from the sofa; "I will lay five pounds on you. Well, really! I am rejoiced to find that the saints can quarrel like sinners! It makes a fellow feel himself less of an isolation."

This was exactly the sentiment which Celia was most unwilling to foster in Philip's mind. She paused a moment, and sent up a prayer for wisdom before she spoke again.

"Dear Philip, the saints after all are only a few of the sinners. Patient and I are both human, therefore open to sin and error. Don't take what we say, either of us; take what God says. He cannot mistake, and we may. Patient, you will not disagree with me in this?"

"Not a whit, Madam. And I ask your pardon if I spake unadvisedly with my tongue."

"And if I did," responded Celia, softly. "Least of all should we do it on such a subject as this."

"You did not," answered Philip. "It was the old bird that was the fighting cock!"

"Well, dear Philip," said Celia, turning to her brother, "this is the great question for you and me: Are we willing to accept Christ's work, and to place no reliance upon our own works? He will be all or nothing. We cannot save ourselves either wholly or in part. Our salvation is either done, or to do; and if it be yet to do, it can never be accomplished."

"Then what place do you find for good works in your system?"

"No place, as the efforts of the slave to set himself free;[11] every place, as the endeavor of the child to show his love to the reconciled father."[12]

"Well," said Philip, reflectively, "I found long ago that your view was the soil which grew the finest crop of them. Don't look at me so, Patient. Let me talk as I think; it is natural to my mind to express itself as I do. I don't mean anything wrong."

"The Lord will have that out of you, Mr. Philip, if you be His."

"Well," replied Philip, gravely, "I suppose He knows how."

"Ay, He knows how," answered Patient, sadly. "But don't you give Him more work in that way than you can help, Sir. The surgeon's knife may be very necessary, but it never can be otherwise than painful."

Celia did not quite agree with Patient here; but it was a secondary point, and she said nothing. Philip looked at his watch, and, declaring that he could not stay another minute, kissed Celia and Patient, saying, "_A Landrécies!_" as he left the room.

"I see a long, weary walk for Mr. Philip, Madam," remarked Patient, when he was gone. "If he be to reach the good City at all, 'twill sure be by a path of much affliction."

Celia was rather disposed to think the same.

Lady Ingram's expectation that she would be able to procure only small rooms at Landrécies was verified. The apartments to be obtained were both small and few. Lady Ingram and Celia occupied the same bed-chamber. Until this happened, Celia had no idea what a very artificial flower her handsome, stately step-mother really was. She now found that the fourth part of her hair, and nearly three-fourths of her bloom, were imparted. Every morning Lady Ingram sat for two hours under the hands of Thérèse, who powdered her hair, rouged her cheeks, applied pearl-powder to her forehead, tweezers to her eyebrows, and paint to her neck, fixing in also sundry false curls.

"My Lady," asked Patient, in her quietest manner, the first evening at Landrécies, which was the 12th of July, "if the Prince Eugene take us prisoners, what will become of us, if you please?"

"Prisoners!" repeated Lady Ingram. "Absurd, Patient! You speak as if you thought a defeat possible. The armies of the _Grand Monarque_ and those of King James together to be routed by one Savoyard! Preposterous!"

"They were put to flight at Malplaquet, Madam" (which place Patient pronounced to rhyme with jacket); "and 'tis not so many days since the Prince took Le Quesnoy."[13]

"Patient Irvine, you are no better than a fool!" said Lady Ingram, turning round to give effect to her sentence.

"Very like, Madam," was the mild reply of Patient, who was employed in giving the last fold to her young lady's dress. "Indeed, 'tis but the act of a fool to reason beforehand. The Lord will dispose matters."

"Celia! I shall find you another attendant, now that you can speak French, and send Patient back to her sewing. Does she speak in this canting way to you?"

"Pray don't!" was Celia's alarmed reply to the first part of Lady Ingram's remark. "No more than I do to her, Madam," she answered to the second.

"I see!" said Lady Ingram, sarcastically. "A nice choice of an attendant I made for you! It was unavoidable at first, since she was the only woman in my house, except Thérèse, who could speak English; but I ought to have changed her afterwards. I might have known how it would be. When we return to Paris, I will provide you with a French woman."

"You will do the Lord's will, Madam," observed Patient, calmly.

"I will do my own!" cried Lady Ingram, more angrily than was her wont.

"Madam," was Patient's answer, "the Lord's will _will_ be done; and in one sense, whether you choose it or not, you will have to do it."

"Leave the room! You are a canting hypocrite!" commanded her mistress, in no dulcet tones.

"Yes, my Lady," answered Patient, meekly, and obeyed.

"Now, if that woman had had the least spirit, she would have answered me again. A little more rouge here, Thérèse."

And Lady Ingram settled herself peacefully to her powderings, leaving Celia in a state very far from peace. She felt, indeed, extremely rebellious.

"Cannot I have my own choice in this matter?" she thought to herself. "Am I never to have my own way? Must I be forever the slave of this woman, who is neither my own mother nor one of the Lord's people? Shall I calmly let her take from me my only friend and counsellor? No! I will go back to Ashcliffe first; and if I break with Lady Ingram altogether, what matters it?" But the next minute came other thoughts. Patient had told her words of her grandfather's which she remembered,--"A soldier hath no right to change his position." And how could she put such an occasion to fall in her brother's way? Perhaps the Lord was drying up all the wells in order to drive her closer to the one perennial fountain. Ah! poor caged bird, beating against the cage! She little knew either how near she was to freedom, nor by what means God would give it to her.

The 21st of July dawned. Lady Ingram had risen a little earlier than usual, for she expected to see Philip, and had been grumbling all the previous evening at his non-appearance. He came in, dressed in full regimentals, about eleven o'clock, when his mother had been down for about an hour, and Celia for several hours.

"Good-morning and good-bye in one," he said, speaking hastily, and to both at once. "I have but ten minutes to stay. Marshal Villars has found a weak place in Prince Eugene's intrenchments at Denain, and he is going to draw his attention by an attack this morning on the Landrécies side, while we come up the other way and storm Denain this afternoon. Villars himself will be with us. Bentinck defends Denain with seventeen battalions and fourteen squadrons, mostly Dutch.[14] By the way, Le Marais has heard that Ned is in camp, but I have not come across him. You are sure to see him before long, if he be here."

"Philip!" said his mother, suddenly, "the tie of your cravat is quite a quarter of an inch on one side!"

"A quarter of a fiddle-stick, my dear Mother!" said Philip, laughing. "What do you think it will look like when I have been an hour in action! I hope they will let me head a charge. I expect to be made a Prince of the Empire at the very least! Good-bye, Mother."

"Adieu, my son," responded Lady Ingram, a little less languidly than usual. "Don't go into danger, Philip."

"What admirable advice to an officer of His Majesty's army!" returned Philip, kissing her. "Good-bye, little Celia. I have something to tell you when I come back."

Celia looked up from Philip's kiss into his eyes to see what it was. They were deeper and softer than usual, but she read nothing there.

"Good-bye, dear Philip. God keep you!" she said.

"And you--both," replied Philip, in a softened tone. "Adieu!" And he was gone.

All that day Celia could do nothing. She wondered to see Lady Ingram sit quietly knotting, as if the day of the battle of Denain were no more to her than other days. But the day passed like other days; they dined and drank chocolate, and the dusk came on, and Lady Ingram ceased knotting. She had been out of the room a few minutes when Patient put her head in at the door.

"Madam," she said, in her quiet, unmoved voice, "Sir Edward is below, and a strange gentleman with him. Will you speak with him while I find my Lady?"

Celia rose and went down into the dining-room, very curious to make the acquaintance of her unknown brother. But it was not the unknown brother upon whom her eyes first fell. She saw merely that he was there--a tall, dark, grave-looking man; but beside him stood a fair-haired man, a little older than himself, and with a cry of "Harry! dear, dear Harry!" Celia flew to him. Harry's greeting was quite as warm as Celia's, but graver.

"Who has won?" was her first question. She wondered afterwards that it should have been so.

"The allies," answered Harry, quietly. "I am Sir Edward's prisoner."

"A prisoner whom I yield to my sister, to be disposed of at her pleasure," said Edward, coming forward; and Celia, turning from Harry, greeted and thanked the real brother cordially, though a little shyly.

"Have you seen Philip?" she asked of both. Her apprehensions were beginning to subside.

We rarely know the supreme moments of our lives till they are past. We open laughing the letter which contains awful tidings; we look up brightly to see the unclosing of the door--

"Which lets in on us such disabling news,
We ever after have been graver."[15]

It was with a lightened heart, and almost a smile, that Celia asked if her brothers (as she considered both) had seen Philip; and full of apprehension as her heart had been all day, she did not guess the answer from the dead silence that ensued.

Harry was the first to speak, and he addressed himself to Sir Edward. "You, or I?" was his enigmatical question.

"You," answered Edward, shortly.

"Celia, darling!" began Harry, looking back at her with deep compassion in his eyes; and he got no further. And then she knew.

"O Philip, Philip!" broke in a bitter wail from the lips of the sister who had learned to love Philip so much. "Are you sure? Have you seen him?" she asked, turning first to Harry and then to Edward, hoping against hope that there might be some mistake.

"I have seen him," replied Edward; and her hope died away.

"Celia," resumed Edward, "listen, dear sister. I have seen Philip; there can be no mistake on that score. He will be brought here soon. But I have seen also something else, for which, knowing him as I do, I thank God so much that as yet I have hardly begun to grieve at all. He lies just where he fell at the head of his troops, after one of the finest and bravest charges that I ever witnessed in my life: his face turned to God and the foe. But this lay close to his heart. Look at it."

Celia took from her brother's hand the little book which he held out to her. She saw at once that it was a Testament, but the leaves were glued together with a terrible red, at which Celia shuddered as she tried to open them.

"The first leaf," was Edward's direction.

She recognized Philip's well-known hand as she turned to it. At the head of the fly-leaf Lady Ingram's name and address were faintly pencilled; and below were a few lines in darker and fresher lead. Celia dashed the intrusive tears from her eyes before she could read them.

"'Wherefore He is able to save to the uttermost them that come unto God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them.'[16] 'Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.'"[17]

The little book trembled in Celia's hand, and she broke into a fresh shower of uncontrollable weeping. Her companions allowed her to indulge her sorrow for a few moments in silence. Then Edward said gently, "Who shall tell his mother?"

"I will," she answered, ceasing her tears by a violent effort; and she left the room, and went up-stairs at once. Lady Ingram was seated at her knotting.

"Where have you been?" she asked, without looking at her step-daughter, for just then the knotting was at a difficult point, and required all her attention.

Instead of answering, Celia knelt down by her, and uttered one word--a word she had never used to her before.

"Mother!"

Lady Ingram dropped her work, and looked into Celia's face.

"My dear," she said, her voice slightly trembling, "you have bad news to tell me. At once, if you please--I do not like things broken gradually."

At once Celia told her: "Philip is killed."

With a wild shriek which rang through the house, Philip's mother flung up her arms--as Celia remembered that, once before in her life, Claude De L'Orient had done--and then fell back heavily and silently in her chair. Celia, ignorant and terrified, threw open the door and called for Patient and Thérèse. They came in together, the former quiet and practical, the latter screaming and wringing her hands.

"Eh, my faith! Madam is dead!" shrieked Thérèse.

"'Tis but a dwawm, Madam," was the decision of Patient. "Please to open the window. Thérèsa, cut her Ladyship's lace[18] whilst I fetch her water."

"But, my dear friend," remonstrated Thérèse, with an invocation in addition, "that will spoil her figure!"

"Go down-stairs and fetch a glass of water," said Patient, with a spice of scorn. "That's all _you_ are fit for. Madam, will you please to hold her Ladyship's head while I get at her lace and cut it?"

Patient's remedies applied, Lady Ingram partly recovered herself in a few minutes. Edward was by her side when she again opened her eyes. They rested for an instant on him and on Celia, and closed again with a long tremulous sigh which seemed to come from her heart.

"If you will please to give me orders, Madam," said Patient, quietly, to Celia, "I think her Ladyship will be best in her bed, and she scarce seems knowledgeable to give orders herself. Will I and Thérèsa lay her there?"

Celia spoke to Lady Ingram, but received no answer, and she gave Patient the order. So Patient and Thérèse undressed the still figure and laid her to rest. Lady Ingram continued to sleep or swoon, whichever it were; she seemed occasionally sensible to pain, but not to sound, nor did she appear to know who was about her.

About ten o'clock, Celia, seated at her step-mother's bed-side, heard a regular tramp of soldiers' feet below, and knew too well what they must be bringing. A few minutes afterwards her brother softly entered the room.

"Celia, they have brought Philip here. Will you come and see him?"

She hesitated a minute, half for Lady Ingram, and half for herself.

"There is nothing painful or shocking, dear; I would not ask you if there were. Would you like to see him again or not?"

Celia rose and gave Edward her hand. He led her silently down to the dining-room, leaving her to go in the first by herself and kneel beside the still, white clay which only five hours earlier had been Philip Ingram.

Ah! if she only could have known, what might she not have said to him! Had she said enough? Had she done her duty?--her utmost? Had she pressed Christ and His salvation on him as she ought to have done? Where was Philip now?

"Oh, that _had!_ how sad a passage 'tis!"[19]

Oh, that _might have been!_ how much sadder!

Edward and Harry came in and stood by her.

"Can either of you tell me anything more?" she faltered, her eyes riveted on the calm, fixed, white face which would never tell anything more to her.

"I can," answered Harry Passmore, softly. "I heard his last words."

"O Harry, tell me!" pleaded Celia.

"I was stationed just opposite," he said, "and it was my regiment that received the charge. A shot killed the horse of the officer in command, and he too fell. I knew not whether he had received injury himself, and I was so much struck by his youth and bravery that I pressed forward to aid him. But as soon as I saw his face, I found that the shot had struck more than the horse. At this moment my adjutant spoke to me, calling me 'Colonel Passmore.' When he heard that, he saith from where he lay, 'Are you Harry Passmore of Ashcliffe?' 'Yes,' I said, wondering that he could know me. 'You are Celia's brother, then,' quoth he, with the ghost of a smile, 'and so am I. Take this to her. The address is on the fly-leaf.' I was so amazed that I could but utter, 'Are you Philip Ingram?' 'I am,' he saith, his breathing now very quick and short. 'Tell my mother gently. Take care of Celia.' His voice now failed him, and I bent my head close that I might hear anything more. I heard only as if he whispered to himself, 'The uttermost!' Then came a long sobbing sigh, and then all was over."

"God forbid that we should limit that uttermost!" murmured Edward, softly.

"O Edward!" sobbed his sister, "do you think he is safe?"

"My sister," he replied, very gently, "can I tell you more than God does? 'To the uttermost'[20] and 'he that believeth.'[21] But if you had known Philip as I knew him, you would feel with me that something must have happened to him, which had made an immense difference between what he was and is. I cannot think that something anything short of the redeeming love of Christ. God knows, dear, what are the boundaries of His uttermost. I can scarce think they are closer than our uttermosts."

"Yet outside the fold is outside," said Celia, falteringly.

"I did not mean for one moment to deny that," said he; "I expressed myself ill if you thought so. But we are told--'According to your faith be it unto you,'[22] and of what may come from 'faith as a grain of mustard-seed.'[23] And it seems to me that the words on that leaf had never been penned by such a hand as Philip's, unless his faith were at least equal to a grain of mustard-seed. Remember, dear heart, that in His hand who will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax,[24] are the keys of Death and of Hell.[25] I can trust Him to do right, even to the brother I loved so well."

Lady Ingram returned to consciousness on the following day, but Thérèse reported that she was very weak and low, and desired to see no one but herself. On the Sunday morning she suddenly sent for Celia and Edward. They found her lying propped up by pillows, her eyes sunk and heavy, and her face very pale. She recognized her step-children with a faint smile.

"Come and kiss me, Edward," she said, in a low soft voice: "I have scarce seen you yet. And Celia, too. You loved him, both of you. Now listen to me, and I will tell you what I shall do. As soon as my health and strength admit, I shall take the veil at the convent of Sainte Marie de Chaillot. I have no more to live for. You are both old enough to take care of yourselves. And, after all, life in this world is not everything. I shall make my retreat, and after some years of penance and prayer, I trust I shall have grace to make my conversion. You, Edward--do you propose to remain in the army?"

"I do not think I shall, Mother."

"You will keep up your estates?"

"I should prefer living in England."

"And Celia; what will you do, my dear?"

"I shall go back to Ashcliffe if nobody want me. If Edward wish me to live with him I will willingly do so, especially in England; but even then I should like to pay a long visit to Ashcliffe before settling anywhere else."

"I should be very happy to have you with me, dear," said Edward, quietly, to this; "but I do not wish to be any tie to you. There is no necessity for your living with me, for I am about to marry. So pray do which you prefer."

"Whom are you about to marry, Edward?" asked Lady Ingram, turning to him with a look of some interest in her languid eyes.

"None whom you know, Mother. One with whom I met on my travels."

"I am glad you are marrying," she said, "And how is Celia to return to Ashcliffe?"

"Oh! with Harry," replied Celia, quickly.

"He is not at liberty yet," observed Edward, gravely.

"But you will set him free to go with me?" entreated his sister.

"I have nothing to do with it. You will, I suppose. I make you a present of my prisoner."

"Oh, thank you! If Harry's liberty depends on me, he shall have it directly."

"Edward," said Lady Ingram, "I have a favor to ask from you."

"Name it, and take it, Mother."

"Will you see that a small pension is settled on Thérèse; and, should she wish to continue in her present position, interest yourself in obtaining for her another situation?"

"I will attend to her interests as honestly and thoroughly as I think you would yourself."

"I do not recommend Patient to you, since she is already rather your servant than mine, and you will be careful of her, I know. Celia has a great liking for her: I dare say she will wish to take her to England."

"Do you object to that, Madam?" asked Celia.

"Not in the least," replied Lady Ingram.

"Do you?" continued Celia, this time addressing Edward.

"For a time, certainly not. I should not like to part with her altogether; but, on the other hand, I should not allow you to travel to England without a woman in your company. Patient shall go with you, and after my marriage let her return to me, wherever I may resolve to dwell."

"Thank you. You will write to me, then?"

"I will come to you, if you are willing to receive me. We have seen very little of each other yet."

"Very little," said Celia, rather sadly.

"Now, my children, leave me," requested Lady Ingram, faintly. "I am too weak to converse much. Send Patient to me."

Ten days later saw them journeying in company by easy stages to Paris; and ten days after that witnessed a solemn ceremony in the convent chapel of Sainte Marie de Chaillot, at which Queen Maria Beatrice, Madame de Maintenon, and a brilliant crowd of distinguished persons were present, when Claude Ingram took upon herself the white veil of a postulant. Edward and Celia were there, the latter with a slight misgiving whether she were not sanctioning idolatry to some extent, even by her appearance: a suspicion not laid to rest by the manifest disapproval and uncompromising speeches of Patient. "'Can a man take fire in his bosom, and his clothes not be burned?'"[26] asked she. But Celia was determined to see the last of Lady Ingram; and Edward promised to lead her out before anything objectionable began. To her it was an inexpressibly mournful ceremony. The different stages of the rites--the shearing off of the glossy hair, the taking of the vows, the white veil of the postulant--all seemed to her as so many epitaphs on the grave of a living woman. When the brother and sister went down to the guest-chamber to take leave of the novice, Celia was sobbing hysterically.

Lady Ingram parted from both with a very warm embrace. She appeared much softened.

"Farewell, my child!" she said to Celia. "And you will not live always in England? You will come and see me at least once more? And when you pray to God in your _prêches_, do not quite forget Soeur Marie Angélique."

Celia turned from the convent-gate with a sadder heart than she ever thought she could have felt at her parting from Claude Ingram.

Only for three days longer did she remain in Paris. The house was very painful to her now. In everything Philip lived again for her; and she became very anxious to get home to Ashcliffe. Of the warmth and cordiality of her reception there it never occurred to her to doubt. So on the 14th of August, Celia, Harry, and Patient left Paris on their way to England, escorted by Edward as far as Havre.

[1] Isa. xlviii. 16; Eph. i. 4.

[2] Rev. xvii. 8; xxi. 27.

[3] John x. 29; xvii. 6.

[4] Matt. xv. 13.

[5] John vi. 44.

[6] Ibid. 37.

[7] Ezek. xxxiii. 2; 2 Pet. iii. 9.

[8] Ps. ciii. 19.

[9] Eccles. viii. 4.

[10] John xvi. 12.

[11] Rom. xi. 6; Gal. ii. 16.

[12] Col. i. 10.

[13] Le Quesnoy was taken on the 3d of July.

[14] Sismondi, "_Histoire des Français_," vol. xxvii., p. 162. Lacretelle, "_Histoire de France pendant le XVIII. Siècle_," vol i. p. 43. The exact day of the battle is disputed. I have followed Lacretelle.

[15] Mrs. Browning's "Aurora Leigh."

[16] Heb. vii. 25.

[17] Mark ix. 24.

[18] Staylace--

"Oh, cut my lace asunder,
That my pent heart may have some scope to beat,
Or else I swoon with this dead killing news."
--Shakspeare, "Richard III.," act iv., sc. 1.

[19] Shakspeare, "All's Well that Ends Well," Act i. sc. 1.

[20] Heb. vii. 25.

[21] John iii. 36.

[22] Matt. ix. 29.

[23] Matt. xvii. 20.

[24] Isaiah xlii. 3.

[25] Rev. i. 18.

[26] Prov. vi. 27.