Chapter III: The Beginnings of Love (1)

"Marjorie, I've met the new man."

"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age, the Dean's only child.

"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father ask him in the train. Oh--don't think I did it out of charity," she said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead--you know we've been there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up the three-year-old and kissed him.

"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been making mud-pies in their hovel."

"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.

Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.

"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd--I gathered that from mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast as their fat legs would allow.

"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."

"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you, but it wouldn't stand much work."

"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie--hateful word! Don't distil Mrs. Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely--a sort of baritony tenor, that floats, and melts--I can't describe it. What stupids we've all been about him!"

"How?"

"Thinking him so deep down in Blackton smoke. He knew all the people at Oldstead. Blackton seems the fashion there, like an East-End. It was too silly having to be introduced, when he lives on the other side of the road. He seemed to know you, Marjorie."

"Yes--I went there."

"You went there? To call?"

"To apologise, as usual," laughing; "the boys had been in mischief."

"Why, he said what jolly boys they were, and that his baby was quite happy with them; and he was so glad she should have some companions. I thought he little knew.'

"Yes--he forgave them."

Her visitor laughed. "Now, Marjorie, don't be so hoity-toity. Why did you go if you didn't want to be forgiven?"

"Why? To save father bother." Unconsciously, the young voice took a pathetic tone. "Do you think we would have demeaned ourselves otherwise?"

There was the sound of the clatter of voices. Marjorie sprang up to try and stop an excursion into the drawing-room. Her friend leant back in her chair, and looked after her.

"If Marjorie were well-dressed," she thought, "she'd be a beauty. That girl they were fussing after isn't in with her--only she's got clothes; clothes mean so much. Why, Sandy, what have you got there?"

Sandy panted to her side, both his arms laden with a baby. She did not appear to mind her uncomfortable position; but when deposited upon Charity's lap, bent her brows in a scowl, as she studied Miss Francklin's dainty finery.

"It's the baby from 'The Ridges'--she's got a name a mile long; we call her Barbe. We found her, so we brought her. We wanted a girl down here."

"You don't mean," said Marjorie, overhearing, and turning to David, "that you've brought her without leave? Oh, David!"

"She was sittin' in her carriage, all silks and satins, and we saw the nurse's petticoats whisk in; so we just ran the pram down the hill, and left it inside the gate. That nurse finks a deal too much of herself," explained Sandy.

"You'll have to go this very minute and say where she is," said Marjorie. "Go, David, both of you--run!" she urged, remembrance coming of the father's face as he looked at his child.

"I'll go with you," Charity exclaimed good-naturedly, springing up. "Come, boys--hadn't we better take her back with us, Marjorie?"

"Perhaps you had," said Marjorie. "But why should you trouble?"

"It's no trouble. I wanted to go to the Green, and I am ready."

The four disappeared, chattering and laughing, and Marjorie once more applied herself to her poem. Her eyes rested vaguely on the flowers before her. Her thoughts would not come. Instead, came others--on dress, and the inequalities of life. Charity looked very fluffy and soft--very different her dress was from Marjorie's green linen. Marjorie looked down on her skirts disparagingly, not exactly envying the soft summer dress of her friend, but seeing the contrast. Charity could have everything she wanted. Money was never lacking, and she had an indulgent father. Marjorie's father--here the girl's face took on a tender look--had no money to spare. The two boys at Winchester cost so much, and there were the others to follow. But not for a moment would Marjorie have parted with one of them--pervasive, noisy, unsettling, costly, too, though they were. Her thoughts ran on, finishing at last with: "You've got to face facts. Charity is Charity, by herself. And I am I, one of seven. I had better brush my frock."

The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated his choice of companions for his little daughter.

"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs. Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just left off mischief herself--if she has. There's nothing they're not capable of--nothing!"

"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning. Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar manner. And their sister--ah! there she is!"

The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them, gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well, distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful, soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness. Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang, knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like that"--the unspoken wish arose in his heart--"may my little one grow up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.

He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.

"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.

"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.

"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see, good-looking, and fancies himself a little." Charity laughed lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie. I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you wouldn't think it, would you?"

Mr. Pelham, as he turned with Charity to the piano, felt a sudden wrath at the man--a man much older than himself--who had the insolence to pretend to claim that slim girl.

A little later he made his way to the sofa, where Marjorie was sitting with Mrs. Lytchett. That lady, full of kindliness to Marjorie, fully intending to chaperon her during the winter to all the festivities, yet liked to remind her pretty frequently of her, as yet, unintroduced and unimportant condition. The skirmishes between them were hot; and Marjorie had just flashed out, "After all, mother has her wits, even if she has to lie on her sofa," when Mr. Pelham said:

"The Bishop has asked me to persuade Miss Bethune to play to us."

"Yes, Marjorie, go and play one of your little pieces," Mrs. Lytchett said, dismissing Marjorie and her flash of temper as she would have sent off a child.

Marjorie got up immediately.

"No, thank you," she said, sitting down before the piano, and smiling up at Mr. Pelham standing beside her. "My little pieces are here," lifting slightly the slender hands resting on her knee.

Wondering what this girl could have to say in such a language, unwilling to hear anything crude or jarring that should spoil the perfection of simplicity he was beginning to see in her, Mr. Pelham moved aside, his eyes resting disappointedly on her bent head. She raised her hands, and struck the opening notes.

The Bishop sank down into a large chair near, with a soft sigh. The buzz of conversation slowly died away. A delicate melody, in some unaccustomed minor mode, stole through the vaulted room, and Mr. Pelham drew a breath of relief. He need not have feared. There was nothing crude or jarring here.

After a few minutes her hands fell, with the lingering soft repetition of an unfinished phrase, and Marjorie lifted her eyes, liquid and dreamy with the thoughts that filled her mind. They met a look from dark unfamiliar eyes, never again through all her life to seem to her as the eyes of a stranger. They held her own, fascinated, arrested, almost like a voice speaking through the silence.

Her lips parted, as with a soft little sigh, her eyes fell.

"Is that all?" the Bishop asked, disappointedly.

"Yes, that is all."

Antony Pelham's heart, as he walked up the hill in the moonlight, was full. He was only twenty-eight, and desperately lonely, after the year of brightness and delight he had shared with his young wife. Marjorie reminded him of her in some strangely familiar way--in her simplicity, her immaturity, her withdrawals. He turned to look at the cathedral, shining white in the moonlight, remembering that she had stood there with him, and that their talk had been about a home.

"I will win her," he said, as he turned, and set his face to climb the hill.

END OF CHAPTER THREE.

A NEW CREATION

By

The Rev W.W. Tulloch, D.D.

"In Christ--a new creature."--2 CORINTHIANS V. 17.

I fancy that we have all felt the need of a change of air, of life, of our physical surroundings, our mental and moral environment; and we have experienced the good that such a change has done us. We have toiled on through the bad weather, the hard work, the much worry of a long winter; or we have been kept at our post and laboured listlessly through a hot and oppressive summer. The wheels of life have dragged slowly. We have felt below par. Everything has been more or less a trouble to us. The routine of daily duty has become dismally monotonous. The zest has departed. Our very sleep is not refreshing. We lie down with our weariness and trouble about us and in us, and when we awaken we are still surrounded and dominated by it. The burden seems no lighter for our repose. No new strength seems to have been gained to face the calls of the new day--a day which it is a trouble even to think about.

Well, we are ordered a change, or, driven by our instincts, we seek one, or the blessed holiday season comes round at last. We go away, and in fresh air, in a change of occupation, amid new interests and associations, we begin to feel quite different. The old lassitude and weariness have passed away. We have not been long in our changed place of abode, when we begin to say to ourselves and to write home that we feel quite new persons--a different man, a different woman. And when we return our very appearance, our talk, the whole attitude in which we regard life, the eagerness with which we take up the old task, tell to all who are interested in us how much improved we are, how much healthier and better we look. More to the purpose, we ourselves feel better in every way. The change has done us ever so much good. In it we have found our old self and yet a new self, and we rejoice and are glad.

A somewhat similar experience often comes to us after reading some book which has influenced us strongly. It has opened to us a longer vista and a higher reach of life. It has given to us new views, new ideas, new aspirations, and made us live with a higher ideal before us. "It has made a new man of me," we say. Old things have passed away. Or we have come under the influence of some pure love, some self-sacrificing devotion, such as made the late Professor Tyndall say in writing of his wife to a friend that she had given him quite a new idea as to the possibilities of human nature. Or in daily association with some active brain, some large-hearted companion, we have formed at once new motives and new interests. All things have become new.

Or, again, we have found a new vocation. The consciousness of the possession of higher powers, of perhaps our real powers, has come to us. We have discovered that we have been endowed with the possession of some gift of which we were not aware. Some power has been lying dormant. It has now been awakened, and upon the very threshold of what we feel must now be a better and a higher life, we realise that we are new creatures.

I was lately reading the life of a famous singer, Jenny Lind, "the Swedish Nightingale," as she was called. She had been singing in public for some time, but she had only been feeling her wings, as the saying goes. But on a certain day there came the moment of moments. "I got up that morning one creature," she herself often said; "I went to bed another creature. I had found my power." And all through her life she kept that day with a religious solemnity. She would ask to have herself remembered on it with prayers. She treated it as a second birthday. And rightly, for on that day she awoke to herself. She became artistically alive. She felt the inspiration and won the sway she now knew she was given to hold. And this consciousness was not merely the recognition that she was singing better than ever. It was more of the nature of a new fact in her life, a disclosure, a revelation. "It was a step," says her biographer, "into a new world of dominion. She knew at last where it was that she stood and what she was to do upon the earth. She learned something of her mission. For to her religious mind the discovery of a gift was the discovery of a mission. She saw the responsibility with which she was charged, through the mere possession of such a power over men." The singer with the gift of God--that was what she became on that evening. She became a new creature.

Well, all these are only illustrations of the greatest truth in the world--that in Christ we may all become new creatures or a new creation.

We are prone by nature to do what is wrong rather than what is right; we are born with passions wild and strong, and early give the reins to evil desires. By the strength of our animal propensities we are often carried to ruin unless we are arrested in our headlong and miserable career. Sometimes--nay, thank God, often--we are thus arrested. For a time, the voice of conscience may have been hushed. Our heart is cold and dead, and there is no spring of life in it at all. But something happens. We are led to think. We come to see the evil of our ways, the ruin that we are bringing on others as well as ourselves--on the wife whom we swore to love and cherish, the children whom we are neglecting, perhaps starving.

And then, all at once, it is borne in upon us that we must change our life's course. A bolt from heaven descends on us in the shape of some punishment or affliction. Our darkness and distress are revealed to us.

We seek the only refuge for the sinner. We flee to Christ, as the belated and weary traveller would flee to a hiding-place from the wind, a refuge from the storm, a covert from the tempest, the shadow of a great rock in a weary land. We become converted. In Christ we become a new creation. Oh, happy is it when we do so! Appalling and terrible it is when we do not. How sad and awful is the fate of one given over to the slavery, the bondage, the tyranny of some wicked habit! Unless such an one is visited by the grace of God, unless the heinousness of his guilt is brought home to him, unless divine light strikes in upon his darkened life, he will sink deeper and deeper into degradation, until, perhaps, he is driven to self-destruction like one of whom I lately read, and who left these terribly touching words behind him. "I am now about to finish a revolting, cruel, and wretched existence by an act of my own. I have broken every law of God and man, and can only hope that my memory will rot in the minds of all who knew me. Drink has brought me to this fearful end. I am dying hopeless, friendless, penniless and an outcast." And it might have been so different! Oh, that all who are giving way to any sin would listen to these terrible words of warning, that they would close at once with Christ's offer to make their lives different, to make them new creatures--once more fresh and fair creatures of God, that the old man with his corrupt affections and desires, be put off, and the new man in Christ Jesus be put on, that they would be in Christ!

To be in Christ--you know what is meant by that. You are in Christ if you are living in and by His Spirit; if you are breathing it into your life; giving it forth again, if your life is engrafted on His life as a branch is engrafted upon a tree. He is the Vine; we ought to be as the branches which thus derive their vitality, their beauty, their power of bearing leaf and fruit from the tree. The same soil nourishes it; the same dews feed it; the same breezes fan it. So we ought to have our life fed through Christ from God. If we are in Christ, we shall have the same hatred of sin as He had. We shall be removing ourselves further from evil; we shall ever be getting more like Christ, ever increasing in personal holiness and helpfulness to others, ever also willing to accept whatever He sends us, subordinating our weak, wayward wills to His holy and perfect will. If we let these words of charm, "In Christ," be written over our lives, we shall feel the old fetters fall off, the old unhappiness disappear, the old insubordination cease to assert itself.

THE REV. W. W. TULLOCH, D.D.]

We shall hardly know ourselves, the joy of the new life is so great. It is a joy, too, which we cannot keep to ourselves; we wish others to share our happy experience. We are constrained to wish this by the new and imperial impulse by which we are dominated. Because we carry heaven in our hearts we wish that others should do so, too. We look upon the sinner as upon some streamlet of water which is dwindling away day by day and will soon be dried up and the rocky channel left bare. Why? Because it is cut off from the fountain head, from the source away up in the hills near God's sky. And what we wish to do is to open the connection between the two, so that the stream may be fed and do what it is intended to do--flow along in full volume, making melody as it goes and fertilising the region through which it passes. In Christ, we are like the stream connected with its source: like it, we live melodious days and carry music to others. Or look at that branch separated from its parent stem; it is withering, it is dying. Again, a planet cut off from the central force and power--the sun--rushes through the dark night and is lost. So--if we be not in Christ, if we be separated from the true fountain, the living root, the centrifugal force--we shrivel up, we wither, we go to ruin here and hereafter, we die to all that makes existence tolerable and of value; and it might have been so different!

Shall we for the future, if need be, try to make life different to ourselves and others?

Then, if any of us become new creatures, the fact is at once recognised. People ask--What has come to So-and-so? His very appearance is changed; his gait, everything about him is altered for the better. He is regularly at his work and in his place in church. He has a pleasant smile and a kind word for everybody. His wife, who used often to look dull and unhappy, is now bright and cheerful. His children are better dressed than they were; they are more frank and free with him; they take his hand; they go to meet him when he comes home; they consult him about their little joys and sorrows. He is altogether quite different. What has come over him? Oh, the explanation is a very simple one: he has ceased to do evil, he has learned to do well. He has left some course of sin; he is following after a life of holiness. He has left the service of a bad master--the worst of all masters; he is now serving a new master--the best of masters. He has made the friendship of the best of friends; Christ is his master, his friend, his example. He is in Christ. That is the reason of the change, of the new creation. That is the reason of the sunshine he carries about with him, and which he scatters on others. He is like Christ Himself, for all true Christians carry Christ with them, wherever they go; just as every leaf we take off some plants, put into soil, will become a plant exactly like the parent stem from which it is taken, so the Christ-life in a man, if it be genuine, will reproduce its source and origin. The least tiny speck of musk, carry it where you may, diffuses the same kind of fragrance as the plant from which it came. So lives thus hid in Christ with God will be redolent of Him in all places and at all times.

Let us, then, if we would be happy in our present lives--happy in the memories we leave behind us--happy in the great Hereafter--see that we are now in Christ, that we now know the glory and joy of feeling a new creature. It is a great joy to think that old things have passed away, that all things have become new. Then the very earth upon which we live will have a new beauty for us. We shall look upon it as the creation of our Heavenly Father, as the place in which we are to work for Him, making our little corner of it better, happier, more blessed than we found it. Then, too, we shall regard our fellow-men and women quite differently. We find that they are related to us in new ways and with holier, more sacred ties; they are our veritable brothers and sisters in Christ Jesus. We can do them no harm, injure them in no way; rather shall we find it to be our highest duty and privilege to be helpful to them. Then, too, will pain and sorrow assume a different and new aspect. They cease to be altogether evils; they are seen to be blessings in disguise--crosses, indeed, but only sent to bring us nearer to God and to Christ; bitter medicine, indeed, but needed for our spiritual health.

Lastly, death itself, the old foe of the human race, as he is supposed by many to be, takes a new form. The awful and awesome shroud in which he seems to be enveloped falls off, and what we recognise is not the spectral skeleton with the hollow eyes coming to consign us to darkness and to death, but a radiant angel, a sweet, blessed messenger from the Father, bidding us come with him to our happy and eternal Home to meet our loved and lost, to be in Christ and with Christ for ever, with no chance any more of breaking off from Him or losing Him. And, recognising this, we shall go with him with the eagerness of a child to begin a new life, to enter upon a higher existence, to do nobler work with a more untiring zeal and energy, to love with a greater love; and as we stand for a moment to look back upon our earthly life, in the freshness of the Eternal Morning, in the beauty of our new Home, we shall realise that in Christ's Heaven, which through His great mercy and sacrifice we have reached, we are to be new creatures for evermore.

_Told in Sunshine Room._]

Donkey Boy to the Queen.

A True Incident. By Alfred T. Story.

One dull though calm afternoon, when the century was younger by nearly half its years than it is to-day, two bright-faced, handsome boys, dressed in Highland costume, were quietly fishing in a mountain stream, when they were disturbed in their contemplative pastime by the piteous cries of a dog. Barely had they time to look round before a poor, miserable little cur ran past them, followed by an irate youth brandishing a stout cudgel. As the dog turned and cowered behind their creel, and seemed to crave their protection, the elder of the brothers--for such they were--stepped between the poor brute and its tormentor, asking the latter what the dog had done that it should be so ill-treated.

Said the lad gruffly, resenting the boys' interference:

"What's it to ye? She's ma dug, an' I'll do what I like wi' her."

"You shan't hit her with that stick," replied the sturdy youth, who, though tall for his age, was not so thick-set as his opponent, and was evidently a couple of years his junior.

"Mebbe I will, mebbe I willna," returned the lad, who, though not ill-looking, was poorly clad, and, for the time being, ugly with passion. "But I'll hae th' dug," and with the word he tried to push past the obstructer. A scuffle ensued, in which the younger boy wrested the cudgel from the dog's tormentor, but, as his share, received a blow on the nose which brought blood.

"Gie me ta stick," said the owner of the dog, surprised that he had so far underrated his antagonist.

The latter's answer was to cast it into the stream.

This still more astonished the peasant lad, who seemed as though he would again fall upon his antagonist. But there was something about the youth's straight, well-knit figure, his handsome face, and flashing eye that caused him to reflect; whereupon he lowered his fists, which had risen to the bravado of attack, and, in a less defiant tone, said:

"Weel, let me hae Meg, an' I'll say naethin' aboot ta stick."

"Promise me not to beat her then."

The young callant gave the required undertaking, and the next minute he had the shrinking little animal in his arms and was walking away with it the way he had come. But, turning round when he had gone a few rods, he saw the youth who had withstood him bending over the stream, laving his face in the cool water.

Now, for the first time, Tam, as he was called, noticed something about the boys which in his anger he had failed to mark. It was not their dress--though that betokened rank above the common; it was something more intimate than that; something in the air, in the manner, of them which made him uneasy in his mind, and caused him to steal home with lagging gait and eyes that sought the ground.

His home was a little bracken-thatched one-storey cottage, or hut, with stone walls, planted in a green oasis of a few yards square, amid a wilderness of rock and shingle, overgrown with moss and heather and other rough vegetation, from which a few stray sheep and stunted cattle gathered a scanty subsistence. These were Tam's charge. For not far from the little two-roomed cot which he called his home were other huts like it, inhabited by poor, hard-working people like his grandparents, each having a few sheep, or a cow or two, and one or another a donkey or wild-looking Highland pony; and he, having to look after his grandfather's little stock, was paid a trifle by the others to tend theirs too.

Tam Jamison had done this since he was five, at which age he was left an orphan by the death of his mother, who died broken-hearted at the loss of her husband, fighting in a distant land against Britain's foes.

He was now twelve; and though he loved the braes and the mountain streams, he was beginning to chafe at his narrow life, wanting to be off now with the drovers, now with the sportsmen and gillies, or the coachmen who drove their teams daily in the season past his grandfather's croft. It was a hard task for the old folks, Donal and Yetta Jamison, to retain him at home, impossible to make him content. They did their best to keep him under control; but it was chiefly done by coaxing, a good deal by petting. This in the end did not lighten their task. Every day Tam became more wayward and difficult; every other day there were complaints of his negligence on the one hand, of his mischief on the other; and then, to cap all, it came to the old people's ears that their Tam--it could be no other--had dared to raise his fist against one of the princes of the blood, no less than the Prince of Wales.

That very evening the news was all over the country-side. The next morning there was such a hubbub as never was heard. Everybody said Tam would certainly be sent to jail, if no worse thing befell him. Tam, braving the thing out, said he "didna mind"; but the old folks, greatly caring, put on their Sunday best, and set out to walk to Braemar to see and intercede with the Queen on the boy's behalf. They found her not at home, and so had their long trudge for nothing. However, one of the domestics drew from them what their business was; and the next day a little lady, very plainly dressed, riding on a wee, shaggy pony, stopped at the door, and, being helped to dismount by a man who was with her, entered the hut and asked for Tam's grandparents.

They were not afraid of the little lady, because she looked so good and kind, and spoke so gently, but when they discovered that she was from Braemar, and that it was to learn all about Tam that she had come, they were almost tremblingly anxious. Thinking that the Queen had sent her, they apologised very humbly for the boy's misbehaviour, saying it did not arise from any badness in him so much as from wilfulness and daring. They hoped the Queen wouldna be severe on the laddie; he was little more than a child, and though masterful and not to be said, he had not a bad heart. It was partly their fault, no doubt, as Tam, having no parents, had been left to them very young, and they, perhaps, had spoiled him just a little.

So the old folks went on, the tears often in their eyes.

In a few minutes the good lady from Braemar had made herself acquainted with all the circumstances of Tam's birth and rearing, had heard the catalogue of his faults and shortcomings, and been posted as to his restlessness and discontent. It was a long and interesting human inventory, wound up with the declaration, tearfully attested by both Donal and Yetta, that "he wasna sae bad as wilfu'"; albeit they confessed to being greatly afraid, if he went away from them, as he wished, lest his masterfulness should lead him into evil ways.

"And where is this masterful one, this Tam?" asked the Lady of Braemar. "One would like to see him."

Tam, however, could nowhere be found. The old man looked up and down for him, neighbours joined in the search; but it was only too plain that Tam had hidden himself away somewhere.

"Well," said the Lady, at length, "I cannot tarry any longer. But the boy cannot be far away; so when he is found bring him to Braemar, and we will see what can be done."

Donal and Yetta promised that such should be their care, and, as a last word, ere the Lady rode away, they begged that she would intercede on Tarn's behalf "wi' the gude and gracious Queen."

The Lady promised to do her utmost, and so departed.

The next day, the "sodger's laddie," as Tam was called, having in the meanwhile been found, the grey-headed old crofter and his wife, both of them bent with toil and drooping with care, once more made their way over the hills to Braemar; Tam, downhearted, demure, and in his Sabbath claes, padding the turf by their side.

Arrived at their destination, Tam hung a low head; for in front of the house was congregated a little party, chiefly of children, preparing to set out for a ride; among the number being the two young gentlemen whom he knew.

The elder of them, the Prince of Wales, at once recognising his antagonist of three days ago, stepped up to him and said, with a frank and kindly smile:

"Good-morning, Tam! You haven't forgotten me, have you?"

Tam uttered a barely audible "Nae."

"And you hold no grudge against me for throwing your stick in the river, do you?"

Another demure "Nae" found its way between Tam's half-closed teeth; but this time he allowed his blue eyes to meet the young Prince's in a surprised gaze.

"Then let us shake hands and be friends," said the Prince.

Tam extended his brown paw, and they clasped in token of mutual goodwill.

The little scene transacted itself almost as quickly as it can be read--so quickly, indeed, that Tam's grandparents witnessed it in mute astonishment; and before they had recovered their self-possession, the Lady who had called at the hut on Tam's account issued from the house, looking much as she had done the previous day, with the exception that a broad-brimmed straw hat covered her head in place of a sun-bonnet.

"So you found the little runagate, did you?" said she, addressing the old folks.

"Yes, madam," replied Donal. "Mister Fargus found him at night in a cave in the birch-wood above the burn."

"What made you run away, Tam?" said the Lady, turning to the youth.

Tam was silent.

"Tell me. You need not be afraid."

"I thought mebbe I had hurt him"--with a nod in the direction of the Prince.

"Oh, you didn't hurt me! You only brought a little of the red juice out of my nose, and that can hurt nobody," said the Heir-Apparent.

Prince Alfred, who was standing by, smiled at his brother's sally, as did also the Lady in the straw hat.

Tam laughed outright. He had never heard or known of a bleeding nose being treated so lightly, and at the same time so funnily. His poor grandparents, however, were shocked at his levity, and Yetta gave him a vigorous nudge to recall him to a due sense of his position.

"If you like," said the Prince, "I'll give you one of my sticks in place of the one I threw away," adding, with nice diplomacy, "but I can tell you it's too proud a stick to hit a dog."

Tam smiled, and said he would not use it in that way.

"And I think we must ask you to promise not to think of ever running away from your grandparents," said the Lady.

That seemed to strike Tam as a large order.

"I wouldna like to bide on the croft when I get bigger."

"Why, what do you wish to be when you grow bigger?"

"I want to be a soldier, like my father."

Yetta drew a pained breath; Donal's lips twitched.

"You would not like him to go for a soldier?" queried the Lady.

"Baith my sons focht and deed for their kintra," said Donal.

"And you would like to keep your grandson to comfort you in your old age?"

The old folks bowed; their trembling lips could hardly frame an audible "Yes."

"It is quite natural. You hear that, Tam? You would not like to go away to the wars, as your father and your uncle did, and be killed, and so grieve your poor grandparents."

"I dinna want to grieve 'em," replied Tam. "But I'd like to be a soldier and fight for the Queen."

At this answer there was more than one moistened eyelid in the little group, whereof Tam, for the time being, constituted the central figure.

After a brief pause, his interlocutor continued:

"But, my boy, there are other ways of serving the Queen than by becoming a soldier--many other ways."

That was a new aspect of things to the boy, and his eyes, when he lifted them up to meet the Lady's, contained each a large note of interrogation.

"For instance," she continued, "the Queen wants a donkey-boy now, to attend her or the children when they drive about in their little phaeton." The boy's eyes brightened, then fell.

"You think the care of a donkey beneath you?"

"Nae, but I doubt that the Queen wouldna hae me to be her donkey-boy."

"Why not?"

"'Cos I hae nae bin a donkey-boy, an' I might do things wrang."

"But you could learn--everybody has to learn. And if you did your best there could not be much fault-finding."

"I'd do my best."

"Nobody could say better than that," replied the Lady.

"Ah, if your leddyship," faltered Yetta, "could get her Majesty to mek' him her donkey-boy, or to 'point him to any sic position, he would still be near to us, an' a comfort in our old age."

"Ay, an' he would think nae mair o' running away," added Donal.

"You may be sure the matter will be taken into her earnest consideration," said the Lady. "And now, after you have had some refreshment, which I will ask them to give you, you had better go home, and in the course of a few days you will doubtless hear further."

TO BE CONCLUDED.

The Jeshurun[1] of Christ.

[1] "All the tribes are here summed up in one name, derived from
_jasher_, righteous. All the blessings of the Israel of God are
concentrated here in Him, through Whom alone we are justified before
God, Christ Who is the Lord our Righteousness."--_Bishop Wordsworth
on Deut. xxviii. 26._

"There is none like unto the God of Jeshurun."--DEUT. xxxiii.
26. "Peace--upon the Israel of God."--GAL. vi. 16.

_AN ORIGINAL HYMN_

_By the_ REV. S. J. STONE, _Author of_ "_Lays of Iona_," "_The Church's One Foundation_," _&c._

_Music specially composed by_ SIR GEORGE MARTIN, MUS.D.
(_Organist of St. Paul's Cathedral._)

_mf moderato_

1. On, o'er the waste, Jeshurun! Thy Help rides on the sky;
On, when thy hope seems farthest, Sure that thy LORD is nigh.
Sure of the sacred fountain, The mystic corn and vine;
On through thy "days," Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.

2. All things the sun makes precious! All fulness 'neath the moon;
The buds and blooms of morning, The fair fruits of the noon;
All chief things of the mountains, All wealth of shade or shine;
These are for thee, Jeshurun, There is no GOD like thine.

3. He is the shrine about thee,
His arms beneath thee spread;
His Excellence and Glory
The shield above thine head;
What tempests rave around thee,
What foes and fears combine--
Still thou art safe, Jeshurun,
There is no GOD like thine.

4. Bethink thee how from Sinai
His Law was seen as flame;
How, as He shone from Paran,
His saints in thousands came:
How these are thine ensample,[2]
Of fear and love the sign--
On then, in love, Jeshurun,
There is no GOD like thine.

5. Thine is sweet Hope made perfect;
On thee her ends have come;
Of all her silvern shinings
Thine is the golden sum;
The Church the vesture human
Wears now the robe Divine!
On through the years, Jeshurun,
There is no GOD like thine.

6. O Israel of JESUS,
O happy in thy King!
His Righteousness thy surety,
His Peace thy covering,
His Grace thy Fount of cleansing,
Thy food, His Bread and Wine--
On to the end, Jeshurun,
There is no GOD but thine. Amen.

[2] Cf. I Cor. x. 1-12. From this passage it is clear that a
warning, as well as an encouragement, is part of the admonition to
the Israel of God.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS.

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.

No apology is needed for opening a temperance department in THE QUIVER, for in the story of the temperance reformation the name of John Cassell will assuredly always hold an honoured place. At the time when he was enlisted in the ranks--1835--as a youth of seventeen, the movement had few friends and many opponents. Having once signed the "teetotal pledge," Cassell never deserted, but, on the contrary, became one of the most persuasive advocates the cause has ever had. He itinerated through the length and breadth of the land, and, under the name of "The Manchester Carpenter," gained a large number of adherents, some of whom subsequently achieved great reputations as temperance leaders. Even before Cassell had settled down in London as a publisher, he had learnt to value the printing press as an aid to temperance work, and not a few of the pamphlets, tracts, and broadsheets which played such an important part in the early days of the propaganda, owed their origin to his enterprising initiative. By-and-by he was in a position to command his own printing machines, and as early as March, 1846, he launched the _Teetotal Times and Monthly Temperance Messenger_, which was followed in July, 1848, by the _Standard of Freedom_, of which a temperance column was a leading feature. Anyone who takes the trouble to look over these early publications cannot fail to be struck by the comprehensive and statesmanlike grip of the drink difficulty which they present. It was to John Cassell that Richard Cobden wrote in 1849:--"I don't know how it is that I have never made the plunge and joined the teetotallers. Nobody has more faith than I in the truth of your doctrine, both from a physical and moral point of view, for the more work I have had to do the more I have resorted to the pump and the teapot. As for the moral bearings of the question, it is scarcely an exaggeration to say that all other reforms together would fail to confer as great blessings upon the masses as that of weaning them from intoxicating drinks." Cassell passed away at the early age of forty-eight, on April 2nd, 1865, on the same day as Cobden himself, whose friendship he had enjoyed for nearly twenty years.

(_Temperance Leader and Founder of "The Quiver."_)]

COMING EVENTS.

Among the important events fixed for this month may be named two meetings convened by the National Temperance League for November 2nd, in Oxford, to be addressed by His Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury and Professor Victor Horsley, F.R.S., the distinguished surgeon. One meeting is specially intended for undergraduates, while the other will be open to the townsfolk. On November 4th by permission of the Lord Mayor of London, the Mansion House will extend its hospitality to the Police Court Mission of the C.E.T.S., and Bishops, Members of Parliament, and Police Court Magistrates will plead the cause of this deserving charity. On November 27th the Nonconformist Churches will observe their annual Temperance Sunday, and on November 30th a function anticipated with keen interest, the first Lees-Raper Memorial Lecture will take place in the Church House, Westminster.

(_Photo: Elliott and Fry, Baker Street, W._)]

SUNDAY CLOSING.

Thanks to the munificent generosity of Mr. Arnold F. Hills, who has promised a donation of £5,000, conditional upon temperance friends making up another £5,000, a determined effort is to be made to press forward the Sunday Closing question in view of the reassembling of Parliament early in the new year. The whole-hearted ardour and enthusiasm which have marked Mr. Hills' temperance labours during the past ten years have made his name a household word. He started out with the settled conviction that the greatest need of the time was the union of the temperance forces; and in the face of difficulties and obstacles which would have disheartened ninety-nine men out of a hundred, he has ceaselessly concentrated his energies to this end. The United Temperance Council, with its network of county councils and district councils throughout the United Kingdom, is the creation of his active brain; while the Temperance Parliament, which has given an opportunity to all the friends of temperance legislation to discuss their various projects, is another child of Mr. Hills' parentage.

AN IRISH EXAMPLE.

Visitors to Belfast cannot pass along the streets of this thriving, go-ahead city without being brought face to face with the practical efforts of the Irish Temperance League to counteract the public-houses. The League has set up nearly twenty attractive coffee stands in various parts of the town, and these do a very large business and are extremely popular. The movement was commenced in 1874, the first stand being opened on a site granted by the Harbour Commissioners, for a nominal rent, near to the berths of the cross-Channel steamers. As many as 10,000 persons have patronised the stands in one day. The hours of opening and closing are regulated according to the locality. No intoxicating liquors are allowed to be consumed on the premises; the best of food is provided; the most scrupulous cleanliness is observed; and no bills of any kind are exhibited, or anything likely to jar on the religious or political feelings of the customers.

THE LEES-RAPER MEMORIAL.

It will be a long time before temperance folk will forget the shock which was occasioned in May, 1897, by the sudden deaths within ten days of each other, of Dr. Lees and Mr. J. H. Raper. These two devoted workers were known in both hemispheres, and it would be impossible in such limited space to give an adequate appreciation of their marvellous gifts. Dr. F. R. Lees was ever a fighter. From his boyhood up to his honoured old age he was always eager for the fray. As a keen controversialist he was literally without a rival. The winning personality of James Hayes Raper carried all before it. He was unquestionably a platform king. Nothing could be more charming than the extraordinary facility with which he rapidly placed himself in touch with an audience; and he possessed in a rare degree the gift of being able to make an acceptable "last speech" in a programme. The Committee charged with the promotion of a memorial to these temperance worthies is to be congratulated upon having raised nearly £1,700. Of this amount, £1,500 has been invested in a terminable annuity for a period of twenty years. A Lees-Raper lectureship has been founded, and, as already stated, the inaugural lecture will be given by Dean Farrar, of Canterbury, at the Church House, Westminster, on November 30th. The Archbishop of Canterbury will preside, and the Dean has chosen as his theme "Temperance Reform as Required by Righteousness and Patriotism."

(_Photo: Lambert, Weston and Son, Folkestone._)]

(_Photo: William Coles, Watford._)]

The HOUSE BEAUTIFUL

By Lina Orman Cooper, Author of "We Wives," Etc.

"In the fields of taste it is always much easier to point out paths which should be avoided than to indicate the road which leads to excellence."

Such are the words of a well-known artist of the present day. I feel them to be true as I begin this paper on the House Beautiful. Taste differs so widely that it would be futile to try to set up a positive standard of beauty. Furniture has its fashions, too, though they change but slowly. So we can only lay down broad general rules with regard to the plenishment of our homes. We cannot insist on detail.

There is no single point on which a gentlewoman is more jealous of disparagement than the question of taste. Yet it is a lamentable fact that this very quality is often--I may say generally--deficient even amongst the most cultured classes. The bubble of fashion is blown in our drawing-rooms just as surely and even more foolishly than elsewhere. Individuality is seldom seen.

In order to have lovely homes inside four commonplace walls we must remember that _simplicity_ is one true element of beauty. The best and most picturesque furniture of all ages has been simple in general form. Next, good design is always compatible with sturdy service, and can accommodate itself to the most fastidious notions of convenience. Thirdly, every article of manufacture to be really beautiful should indicate by its general design the purpose to which it will be applied. In other words, shams and make-believes must be utterly tabooed.

Taking these three principles as the basis of our plans for our own particular House Beautiful, let us consider how best we may secure such. Our halls and kitchens are perhaps the best instances of simplicity of design. In them we seldom have more utensils or articles than we need. Parquetry, or inlaying with various-coloured wood, is an ideal floor covering, even for our modern narrow hall. Next to it ranks tiling, and a plain linoleum is admissible. All these secure cleanliness. Warmth must next be suggested. To obtain this, we lay down rugs of various colours and hang heavy curtains. An oak chair, solid to look at (N.B.--Curves in furniture should suggest repose, which is out of place in a passage), a chest to hold rugs and cloaks, a small, narrow mirror to lighten up the gloom, and you have all that is necessary. A few brass dishes on the wall, a tall palm by one curtain, elks' antlers, etc., are permissible where space is obtainable. Do not, however, ever be tempted to hang muslin in the alcove or to drape with flimsy materials. Leave plenty of room for visitors to pass in and out, without finding entrance or exit blocked with exasperating detail. Colour is what really redeems a hall from monotony. This the wall-paper and curtains and rugs should give without help from trivial ornamentation.

Our kitchens are perhaps the most really beautiful spots in our homes, if we take true beauty to consist of absolute fitness for the work to be done therein. The severe wooden dresser, with its wide undershelf and commodious cupboards, is as picturesque an object as can be found. From time immemorial its shape has been unaltered, and its beauty consists in its suggestions of utility. Traditional work is mostly beautiful, as evidenced by the fact that the lines of a plough have always been the admiration of artists. Plainness is not ugliness, and the dresser, glorified, is now one of the necessary beauty spots even in our drawing-rooms. Then those Windsor chairs, with their slightly sloping backs and hollowed seats, are restful to both eye and body. The bright steel or copper range fitted with necessary knobs and useful doors is another example of the beauty of fitness. In fact, both stove and dresser are forms of truth and realism.