"'The faithful Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ give us all a happy end. Amen.'"
There was the usual pause after Meredith had done reading. Flora, however, could not keep back long her expression of opinion.
"I protest!" she said. "Those people were utterly fanatical! Mr. Murray, isn't it true?"
"O Uncle Eden, do you think so?" cried Maggie. "I think it is beautiful."
"Maggie is too young to understand," remarked Esther. "Those people were very unnatural, I think."
"How?" said Meredith.
"Yes, how?" Mr. Murray echoed. "I should like to hear the arguments on both sides."
"A man who is dying, and has a wife and four children," said Flora solemnly, "has norightto give his last six groschen away. I don't know how much a groschen is, but that don't make any difference. He has no right to to do it!"
"You emphasise, 'a man who is dying,'" said Meredith. "Would the case be different if he were a man living and going to live?"
"Why, of course."
"How?"
"He would work then, and earn more. How stupid to ask, Meredith!"
"But an accident might happen to him; or he might fail to get work; or he might miss his pay."
"Yes, of course. I think it would be fanatical even then. But when he was dying, and couldn't do anything!"——
"But if in any case he must trust for a day—what does it signify? God can send help in a day."
"I should not think He would, when people throw away wantonly what they have got already."
"What is given to Jesus isn't thrown away," said Maggie.
"And He always pays it back with interest," said Mr. Murray. "And what is entrusted to Him is never neglected. I think that old German peasant was very safe in his proceeding."
"But so unnatural!" cried Esther. "Not to be sorry to leave his wife and children!"
"I have no doubt he was very sorry to leave them. The only thing is, he was more glad to go to Jesus."
"I cannot understand that."
"Not till you know the Lord yourself; and I do not deny that one must know Him well, to be so eager to go to Him. One does not easily leave the known for the unknown."
"Let me read another bit of a story, or history," said Meredith. "We cannot come to an agreement by talking; these things must belived in—must they not, Mr. Murray?"
"Yes, read. But see the sky!" said Mr. Murray. "And the colours along the shore! Wonderful, wonderful! What a Sunday evening this is."
Meredith sat silently looking for a few minutes. With every quarter of an hour of the descending sun, the world was growing now more like a fairy-tale world. The lights and the shadows and the colours were making such exquisite work, that the bit of earth the gazers were looking upon seemed not to belong to the earth of history or the life of experience, but to be something unearthly, and glorified. With all that, the Sabbath stillness! There was the lap of the water at the foot of the rocks; the rustle of the dry leaves down below where Fenton was prowling about; the call of the bugle sounding out some order for the dragoons on the other side at the post; between whiles the absolute repose of nature.
"I wonder if the new heavens and the new earth will be anything like this!" said Mr. Murray with a long breath.
"This is not like our common world. Well, Meredith—it is hard upon you, but it is better than too much talking."
"It is not hard upon me, sir. I am getting all my ideas cleared up.
"'Holy Scripture saith, that the hearts of the children shall be turned to the parents, and the hearts of the parentsto the children. I will tell you a story about that, which, I hope, may be of use; so much the more, that in this regard one sees so much that is senseless.
"'I knew a man once, who was the very ideal of a just living, upright, honourable man; but Jesus he knew not. Among his fellow-men he was held in general, well-deserved esteem; for he was pleasant and winning in intercourse with them, and in his whole character there was something naturally noble. No prayer was ever heard in his house, neither at table, nor mornings and evenings, nor was ever the morning and evening blessing read. But love and peace reigned in the house, between parents and children, and master and mistress and servants; and nothing dishonourable was tolerated. In other things, however, the way of the house was the way of the world; card-playing was had there, now and then dancing, and sometimes it might happen that an oath came out, when the angry vein was swollen; nevertheless, worldly gaiety was never permitted to go beyond bounds; the man would not suffer that. Nobody read the Bible; though the man had a Bible which he had inherited from his pious mother and held in high honour; it had the chief place on his book-shelf; but it was made no use of, only now and then taken down to have the dust brushed off it. This man had a whole flock of children; and a wife who clung to him with such inmost affection, that many a time when she heard his step on the floor she would call him into the room where she was, and when he came in and asked what she wanted, would answer him, "Oh, I only just wanted to see you, and now you may go off again." In outward things he was pretty comfortable; made a living, but also had a good deal of a burden to carry; was a diligent worker, however, and by little and little got on in the world. He was not often seen at church or the Lord's Supper; yet did not absolutely neglect them. Nevertheless, the man had a special spite againstpious people, of whom in his life he had known a few. Those pious people of his acquaintance can indeed not have been of the right sort; for from their example he had come tothe firm persuasion that pious people, all and sundry, were no better than hypocrites. He used often to tell of a pious man he had known, who used to read a great deal in the Bible and in religious books, and used also to hold meetings for prayer in his house, while at the same time he was a miser and put out his money to usury. Another one he had known, who in externals made as fair pretences; but with that was of such ungovernable temper and such unmeasured brutality that on more than one occasion he had beaten a man nearly to death. Therefore, as I said, he held all pious people to be a humbug.'"
Meredith paused a moment, and Flora spoke up.
"There!" she said, "Iknow such people. Don't you think, Mr. Murray, that sort of good people do more harm than good?"
"What sort of good people are they, Miss Flora?"
"Why, sir, I mean, like these Meredith was reading about. I know such people. They are selfish, and envious, and get angry, care for nobody in the world but themselves, and are not at all particular about telling the truth."
"Thereforenotgood people."
"But they are members of the Church, sir, and they go to the Communion."
"Don't you know, the Lord forewarned His disciples that a large portion of His so-called Church would be none of His? You need not be surprised at it. It is just what He told us would be."
"Then how are we to know?"
"You can know with certainty about yourself," said Mr. Murray with a smile. "It is not difficult to find out in your own heart whether Christ or self comes first. For other people, you can afford to wait till the judge comes, cannot you?"
"You are thinking, Flo, are you not, that this man and his family were just about the right pattern?" said her brother.
"I think such people are pleasant," Flora confessed."They make no pretences. That man seems to have been just and kind and nice."
"Ah, you make a mistake," said Mr. Murray again. "We all make pretences, of one sort or another, true or false. Such people as you are speaking of pretendnotto be Christians; and no doubt with perfect truth."
"But is not God pleased with justice and kindness and benevolence?"
"Withdisobedience?"
"Surely He commands us to love one another?"
"He commands first that we loveHim."
"Isn't that loving Him?"
"Love always shows itself towards the beloved one;afterwardstowards the objects the beloved one cares for."
"May I go on?" said Meredith as Flora paused. "I think my story will illustrate this."
"Go on, by all means. Perhaps an illustration will make it clear to everybody."
"'This man was a scholar in the law; and was already pretty well on in years, when one of his sons, a special favourite with him on account of his fine parts and who was just studying law at the time, at the University, learned to know his Saviour, and turned to Him with all his heart. The instrument of his conversion was a faithful minister, whose preaching he had attended diligently, and with whom he afterwards came into very intimate terms of intercourse. Now when this son's heart was filled with intense love to his Saviour, such as I have seen equalled in few men, nothing was more natural than that he should send longing wishes towards the parents and brothers and sisters whom he loved so tenderly; wishes that they too might learn to know the Saviour; and so, in his letters, he poured his whole heart out, told them without reserve what had gone on in his own heart, and how he was now rejoicing in the certainty that his sins were forgiven and in the sure hope of everlasting life. "Oh that all men were as happy as I!" he cried out in his letters. For a long time he was left without an answer. At last came a letter from his father, it ran thus: "My son,your letters were wont always formerly to be a refreshment and a delight to me; now, on the contrary, they are a vexation and a bitter grief. I see that you are exactly in the way to become like those hypocrites of whom you used to hear me tell. I beg that you will either write as you have been accustomed to do, or not write at all."
"'The son answered, "Father, you have always enjoined it upon me to tell the truth; you always impressed it upon me that there is no more contemptible and cowardly being than a liar, for he has not even the spirit to be honest; and now do you want to compel me to be untrue? Either I must write you what is according to my heart; for lie I cannot and will not, neither will I make believe; or I must indeed do as you say and not write at all." This startled the father, for he had in former times said to his friends,—"The lad will not tell a falsehood; he would sooner let his head be taken off;"—and he was honest enough to write to his son, "Well, write what you like; if you are not a hypocrite, you are a fanatic; but you shall tell no lies; there you are right and I was wrong."
"'Soon after this the time of the holidays came about, and the son took his journey to his parents, to spend the holidays with them as it was his wont to do; for it has been already remarked that love and peace reigned in that house. As he came in, his mother met him with tears, and looked at him in a very critical way, as if she feared he were not right in his head; but he caught her heartily round the neck and kissed her and hugged her, whispering at the same time, "Mother, don't look at me with such a doubtful face; I have got all my five senses yet." Then he went to his father in the sitting-room, and would have fallen on his neck too but the father at first kept him off with all his strength; till his son asked him, "Thou art my dear good father always, and always wilt be so; am I thy son no longer? and why not? what have I done that is wrong? is reading the Bible and praying anything wrong?" Then the father kissed his son and spoke—"I must honour the truth, thou hast done nothing wrong, my son!" For an hour or so they talkedtogether about the professors at the University, and about the lectures the son had been attending there; and in the meantime the mother had got supper ready, and they went to table. The son stood up, folded his hands and prayed. With that the father thrust his chair back till it cracked, and ran out of the room, and the mother full of anxiety ran after him. The son, however, did not follow them, but after he had heartily prayed for his father and his mother, he sat down, and with tears ate his supper. When he found his parents did not come back, he sought his own room, and once more poured out his heart before his faithful God and Saviour; then he slept quietly until morning. Next morning naturally the first thing was to go at his prayers again; then he read a chapter in his beloved Bible; and went afterwards to the dwelling-room, as he was accustomed. His father was there, sitting in his arm-chair, and turned pale one minute and red the next. The son gave him his hand cordially and bade him good-morning, and to his mother as well. "My son," his father then asked him, "are you master in the house? or am I? The son answered, "Who but you, father?" "Why do you take upon you then to introduce prayer at meals, seeing you know that it is not our habit here?" "Father," the son answered, "did I then say that you and my mother were to pray? I asked expressly only, 'Come, Lord Jesus, bemyguest'—whereas elsewhere usually the prayer is, 'beourguest.' I knew it was not your custom to pray; therefore it would have been an untruth to say, 'our guest,' and that would have been assuming, too, for it would have been trying to draw you in." "But why did you not let the whole thing entirely alone? you knew very well we have no such regulation here." "Not for you, father; for me, however, there is such a regulation; and if I had taken my supper without praying, I should have been false to my God; and it is certainly not your pleasure that I should be false towards God, since you cannot endure any falsehood towards men." "No," said his father, "you are not to be false; well, pray away, for all I care; but only when we are alone, not when strangers areby, else we should become a laughing-stock." "Father, I could not be untrue to God for my own dear father's sake; should I for the sake of strangers? I am not ashamed of my God and Saviour before any man, neither before strangers nor before the king himself; and I will be faithful and true to my God. If it is not your pleasure to have this thing done when strangers are present, then do not call me to table." The father said, "Boy, where did you get your pluck?" "I love the Lord," the son answered, "who has redeemed me; I would go into death a thousand times for Him." "You are no hypocrite, my boy," said the father; "well, for all I care, you may be pious, if you only will not be a hypocrite."
"'From that time the ice was broken; and I have myself seen it with my own eyes, how father and mother and son used to read together in the Bible, pray and sing together, and how the brothers and sisters one after the other turned to the Lord. Rarely have I known a house in which the Lord Jesus was so fearlessly acknowledged as in that house. And do you know what of this history I would like to inscribe in your hearts, yea, would like to burn into your hearts with letters of fire? It is this. Let your Christianity be no lip work; let your religion not consist in words; lip-work Christianity is hypocritical Christianity. True religion is a fact. The genuine believer is upright and makes no pretence, neither to God nor man. The heartfelt conviction—"Boy, you are no hypocrite"—ought to be forced upon the beholder by the walk and behaviour of every real believer; if that had been the case, the world would present a different aspect from what it offers now. But most people's Christianity is a fashion of speech; and so it is lying and hypocrisy; therefore it can at one and the same time, like Pilate, chastise and set free, pray and neglect prayer, confess and not confess, just as happens to be convenient in the circumstances. It is not required that you should preach to everybody you fall in with, as if it were your vocation to set up lights for everybody's guidance; much more would often be spoiled than mended in that way. But to be a Christian,to walk as a Christian, and thus to confess one's Christianity honestly in action, just because it is so and you are not going to be false either towards God or towards men; that is the way in which the hearts of the parents are turned to the children, and the hearts of the children turned to the parents.'"
The sun had got low, in fact, he was dipping behind the dark line of Eagle Hill; and everybody looked and watched. The bright ball of fiery gold disappeared, leaving a trail of glory; lights glowed against shadows on the hazy hill shore; little flecks of cloud in the west grew gorgeous, and a low-lying rack of vapour in the south-east took on the loveliest changes of warm browns and purples and greys. And as the sun got further below the horizon, the cloud scenery became but the more resplendent.
"Mr. Murray," Flora began, "you will think I am always taking objections."
"Well, Miss Flora—what now?"
"Please to criticise this story Ditto has been reading. I would rather you did it than I."
"By 'criticise' you mean, find fault?"
"If you see reason."
"Suppose I do not see reason?"
"But do you not, really?"
"Wherein?"
"Mr. Murray, I like things kept to their proper places."
"We are agreed there."
"And I think it is a pity to make religious observances, or what are meant for them, repelling and disgusting to other people."
"Certainly. As how, for instance, Miss Flora?"
"Well, I never like to see people—Ihaveseen it—make a show of praying at table, where no general blessing has been asked by the person at the head of the table or a minister. It just makes them conspicuous, and as good as says that they are the only right people there."
"That is not a pleasant impression to receive."
"No, and I did not receive it. I thought it was a mistake. And quite ill-bred."
"But perhaps those people felt that they wanted a particular blessing, where there was no general blessing asked as you say."
"They might ask for it quietly, secretly."
"Yes. Would they get it?"
"Why, Mr. Murray! Doesn't the Lord always hear prayer?"
"No. It is written—'He that turneth away his ear from hearing the law, even his prayer shall be abomination.'"
"But what law is there about saying grace at meals, in public?"
"There is this, Miss Flora. 'Whosoever shall confess Me before men, him will I also confess'"——
"But everywhere, Mr. Murray? Must we be confessingeverywhere?"
"What places would you make the exception?"
Flora was silent.
"Public places in general?"
Still Flora was silent.
"Allow me to ask—Do you approve of the custom anywhere of asking a blessing upon our meat?"
"Certainly—in one's own house. Papa did it always. Meredith does it."
"Then, Miss Flora, if it is a right thing to do at home, how is it not a right thing to do abroad?"
"Everywhere, Mr. Murray? Would you do it in a restaurant?"
"If it is a right thing to do, Miss Flora?—why not in a restaurant?"
"Or in somebody else's house perhaps, where it is not the custom?"
"Why not?"
"Why it seems to me like a sort of preaching to people; like saying to them that you are better than they are; setting one's self up."
"Pardon me—how can it be setting myself up, to thank my Father in heaven for what He has given me, and to askHim to let me have also a blessing with it?"
"Why couldn't you do it quietly?"
"I should always in such places do it quietly; not aloud."
"But I mean—without letting anybody know it?"
"Why should not people know it?"
"Excuse me, Mr. Murray; but I always think it is making a show—making a pretence."
"If it is a pretence, the worse for me, whether at home or abroad. But ashowI want it to be, Miss Flora; a show that I am a child of God, and love to own my Father's hand everywhere."
"You are very good to let me talk just what I think, without being offended," said Flora. "You will not think me rude, Mr. Murray? I really want to know your opinions. Don't you think that in such things there is a tacit implied reproof of the other persons present who do not as you do?"
"How can I help that?"
"But is that polite?"
"That question sinks before the other—Is it duty?"
"I cannot see it to be duty," said Flora.
"I have always been a little confused about it," said Meredith; "in such cases and places, I mean."
"It makes one very disagreeably singular," Flora added.
"It is impossible to follow Christ fully, Miss Flora, and not be that more or less."
"Disagreeablysingular, Mr. Murray?"
"I agree with you, I am sure, in thinking that it is disagreeable to be singular."
"But must one? I always thought it was such bad taste."
"You perceive it is not a question of taste."
"Why then of necessity?"
"Because whoever follows the Lord fully will live in a way the very opposite of that which is followed by the world. He will be marked out from it—even as the Lord was Himself."
"Still, one is not to make one's self unnecessarily odd," said Meredith; "and I have until now been in doubtwhether people did not do it in this very matter of asking a blessing at tables where nobody else followed the practice."
"I am sure it is not unnecessary," said Mr. Murray. "I am sure that thought is a temptation of the enemy. I am sure that the simple fact of having, though in so small a matter, shown one's colours and confessed Christ, is a help all through the day to go on confessing Him, as occasion may serve."
Silence fell after this, and some of the party noticed how the sky and clouds were changing. The sun had sunk below the actual horizon now; long since he had dipped behind Eagle Hill; and the gold and the purple were fading from the racks of vapour which had caught and given the colours so brilliantly. Pale purple, pale fawn, ashes of roses, then soft greys succeeded one another. The eastern hills had lost their light; the shadows were gone, night was softly letting her mantle fall on the world. Still the little party sat on the rock, and looked, and felt the soft breath of the air, and watched the fading glory. Nobody wanted to move, and twilight would last long enough to let them get home; and so they waited. Fenton, I suppose, had gone home, for they heard the rustle of his footsteps no longer. By and by, as they watched the grey strips of vapour which had been so brilliant a little while ago, they began to change again. The greys took on a purplish warm hue, which brightened and brightened, and then pure carmine began to touch the soft under folds and edges of the clouds, increasing in vividness, until over all the sky every speck and mass of vapour was glowing in brilliant crimson. For a few minutes this; and then it too faded, and rapidly the crimson sank to purple and the purple back to grey, and all knew that the reign of night and shades would be broken no more till the sun rising. Slowly the little party got up from the rock; unwillingly they turned their backs upon it; lingeringly they left the place which had been so pleasant, and took their way down the hill through the gathering dusk. The walk was still very pretty; Maggie held her uncle's hand, the others clustered round, and they went runningand skipping till the level land was reached, then slowly again, as if loath to have the evening quite come to an end.
It was pleasure of another sort to gather round the tea-table, bright with lights and covered with good things.
"I do not think," Meredith observed, "that I ever enjoyed more in one day."
"Lucky for you!" said Fenton. "I don't see the use of having Sundays, for my part."
"How can you help having them?" said Maggie. "They must come, just like Saturdays, or Mondays."
"That's deep!" said Fenton. "But if they must come, as you have originally discovered, why can't one use them reasonably."
"As how?" said Mr. Murray, preventing an eager outbreak of Maggie's.
"Like other days. Why shouldn't I fish, for instance? or shoot partridges? The fish don't know the difference. Why should one mope on one particular day?"
"I never do," said his uncle. "I am sorry you have such a bad taste."
"As what, sir?" (fiercely).
"As to mope."
"How's a fellow to do anything else?"
"Depends on himself."
"Well, what's the use of my not fishing? Why shouldn't I fish on Sunday?"
"Don't you know?"
"No, I don't," said Fenton. "That's just it. If I knew any good reason, of course it would be different." And he sagely muttered something about "priestcraft."
"There are two reasons," said Mr. Murray calmly, while Maggie flushed up and even Esther stared at her brother.
"I never knew any," responded Fenton.
"Do you care to know them?"
"If theyarereasons," Fenton rejoined impudently, "it would be unreasonable not to care."
"Very true," said Mr. Murray smiling. "I will begin with the lesser of the two. It is found in the nature ofman, Fenton. Man is so constituted that he cannot, year in and year out, stand a seven days' strain. Neither brain nor muscle will bear it. That has been tested and proved. In the long run, man cannot do as much working seven days, as he can do working only six days."
Fenton knew that what his uncle gave as a fact was likely to be a fact; he had no answer ready at first. Then he said, "I spoke of fishing, sir; that is play, not work."
"As you do it, I suppose it is. But we are talking of the fact of one day in seven being set apart from the rest, and the reasons. You see one reason."
"What's the other?"
"The other is still more difficult to deal with. It consists in this—that God says the day is His. As Ruler and King of the world, He lays His hand upon that seventh day and says, This is mine."
"I don't see any reason in that," said Fenton.
"No. But you see the claim and the command. Those must be met, or disobeyed at our peril."
"What's the use?"
"One great use is, to remember and acknowledge that GodisRuler and Owner of all. So when we cross the boundary between Saturday and Sunday, we step over on ground that is not ours."
"There is no good in being stiff and pokey," said Fenton.
"No. It is only a stranger on the ground who can be that. One who knows the Lord and loves Him is specially at home and free on the Lord's day."
"But I thought the Jewish Sabbath was done away?" said Flora.
"The formal Jewish Sabbath. But not the spiritual. If you study the matter, you will see that Christ made careful exceptions to the literal rule in only three cases—where mercy, or necessity, or God's service demand that it shall be broken."
"Don't you think a farmer ought to get in his hay on Sunday, sir, if he saw a storm coming up?" Fenton asked.
"I dare not make any other exceptions than the Lord made," his uncle answered.
"Don't you think trains ought to run on Sunday, Mr. Murray?" said Flora.
"I must say the same thing to you, Miss Flora."
"But in cases of sickness and accident, sir?"
"Have you the notion that Sunday trains are filled with persons who have been summoned somewhere by telegraph?"
"No—but there are such cases."
"Yes; well. Do you think, honestly, that thousands of people ought to break the Lord's rule every Sunday, in order to give relief here and there to the anxiety of one?"
"I can tell you," Fenton broke out, "your doctrine is furiously unfashionable. There is not a fellow in our school that doesn't do as he has a mind to on Sunday."
"Other days too, I suppose."
"Of course."
"That is just what, in your sense, a Christian gives up; not on Sunday more than on other days. That is the difference between a Christian and another man; one does his own will and the other the will of God, which is also his own."
Fenton muttered something to Esther, who sat next him, about an "old foggy," but the subject of conversation was carried no further. Mr. Murray purposely changed it, and the evening passed in very pleasant talk, alternating with some Bible reading. Only, towards the close of the evening Fenton started the question, "where they would go the next day?"
"Suppose we leave that for Monday to take care of," Mr. Murray answered.
"But, sir, there might be some arrangements to make."
"To-night?"
"Perhaps; but at any rate I might want to give some orders in the morning."
"I don't think we should have a good time, if we consulted about it now."
"Why not, sir?"
"You forget. It is the Lord's time. And if we want Him to give us His favour on our expedition, it seems to me we had better not offend Him about it beforehand."
"But, sir!"——
"But, Mr. Murray!" put in Flora. "Just tospeakabout things?"
"Time enough to-morrow, Miss Flora. And this is the Lord's time, you know."
"But justtalking—not doing anything?"
"Doing a good deal in imagination. What's the difference? Study the fifty-eighth chapter of Isaiah, the last two verses. Sir Matthew Hale gave it as his testimony, that he found business concocted on Sunday did not run off well in the week. No, we will leave the question till to-morrow at breakfast, if you please."
"I can't understand it!" said Flora, as she went upstairs.
"Study those verses in Isaiah," said Meredith, who overheard her.
A bright little party gathered round the breakfast table Monday morning.
"Now, Uncle Eden," cried Maggie, "where shall we go to-day? It is Monday now."
"What is proposed?"
Several plans were ready.
"Down in the cove of the bay," said Fenton, "where the lower brook comes in—then I can fish off Old Woman's rock till lunch is ready."
"I propose the Indian falls," said Esther. "Flora and Meredith have never seen them."
"Isay, Fort Montgomery," said Maggie.
"Fort Montgomery!" There was a general exclamation.
"Where is that?" Meredith asked.
"Seven miles down the river. Oh it is just lovely!" Maggie explained. "We go down with the tide and come back with the tide, and spend the day down on the hill there, opposite Anthony's Nose. I showed you from the front door which Anthony's Nose is, Ditto."
"That would be delightful. The day is going to be perfectly quiet and warm and sunny—just the thing."
"Seven miles," Fenton grunted. "Who's going to do the rowing?"
"I," said Meredith.
"And I," said Mr. Murray.
"And we can take Fairbairn," said Maggie; "and we had better, for there will be the baskets to carry."
"Nonsense—I can carry baskets," said Meredith; "and get wood, and all that."
"I think we can do without Fairbairn," said Mr. Murray."I like the plan. It is just the day for it. If it only turn out to be just the time of tide also!"—
"We'll soon see about that," cried the boys. There was a rush and a whoop and a race to the boat-house, and then a more leisurely return.
"It's all right," said Meredith. "Couldn't be better. It is half-past eight now, and the tide just beginning to turn. It will be running down till two o'clock—and just give us a nice current home."
"And a good pull, too," said Ponton.
"That'sall right, old boy. Come! don't you pull backwards. Now, how soon can we be ready?"
"Just as soon as we can get our lunch ready, and the things," said Maggie. "You might pack the things, Ditto, and get them into the boat, while we see about lunch."
"What are 'things'?"
"Why, cups and saucers, and tea-kettle, and matches and plates, and paper to light the fire, and everything, you know."
"Go off," said Mr. Murray, "and see about victualling the ship. I can manage the cups and saucers."
So Maggie and Esther ran to consult Betsey, who now held a nondescript position of usefulness in the family, and was acting cook while Mrs. Candlish was away—cook proper being absent on leave.
"O Betsey! we are going out, to be gone all day; and now, what can we have for lunch?"
"Lunch, Miss Maggie!"—
"Yes, and you know we want a good deal. There are six of us."
"You know, it's Monday."
"Well, what of it?"
"There h'aint so much as if t'was any other day. You see, yesterday it was Sunday."
"Oh well! what have we got, Betsey? I know you have got something."
"There's bread, Miss h'Esther."
"We want more than bread. And butter, and tea andcoffee and all that. We must have something more, Betsey. Whathaveyou got?"
"The chickens is nothing left of 'em; and that 'am bone h'aint got much on it. I do think, Miss Maggie, ye consume a great deal in the woods!"
"Of course we do. And we want a good, hearty lunch to-day, because the boys and Uncle Eden will have a long way to row. Come, Betsey, make haste."
"There h'aint a living thing in the 'ouse, but h'oysters, and h'eggs, and potatoes. That is, nothing cooked. And ye want dressed meat."
"Oysters?" said Maggie doubtfully.
"Capital," said Esther. "And sweet potatoes. We can bake them in the ashes. And eggs are good. Meredith will make us another friar's omelet."
"There's nothing else for ye," said Betsey, summing up.
So Fairbairn carried a great bag of oysters down to the boat, and a basket with the potatoes and eggs, and the kettle, and a pail to fetch water in. And into other baskets went everything else that everybody could think of as possibly wanting from the house. Affghan and worsted, finally, and the merry party themselves.
Ten o'clock, and a soft, fair, mild day as could ever have been wished for. Not much haze to-day, yet a tempered sunlight, such as October rejoices in. No wind, and a blue sky far more tender in hue and less intense than that of summer. Little racks of cloud scattered along the horizon were, like everything else in nature, quiet and at rest; no hurry, no driving; no storms, no ripening sun-heat; earth's harvests gathered in and done for that year, and nature at rest and at play. And with slow, leisurely strokes of the oar, the little boat fell down with the tide; she was at play too. Sunshades were not opened; shawls were not unfolded; in the perfection of atmosphere and temperature there was nothing to do but to breathe and enjoy. At first even talking was checked by the calm beauty, the grand hush, of earth and sky. The boat crossed over to Gee's Point, and from there coasted down under the shore. There the coloursof the woods showed plainly in their variety; dark red oaks, olive green cedars, dusky chestnut oaks and purple ashes; with now and then a hickory in clear gold, or a maple flaunting in red and yellow. They all succeeded one another in turn, with ever fresh combinations; on the opposite shore the same thing softened by distance; overhead that clear, pale blue of October.
"I do not realise that I am living in the common world!" said Flora at last. "I seem to be floating somewhere in fairy-land."
"It's October—that is all," said Mr. Murray.
"Then I never saw October before."
"Aren't you glad to make his acquaintance?" said her brother.
"But how can one come down to November after it?"
"Oh, November islovely!" cried Maggie. "It is lovely here."
"At Mosswood? Well, I can believe it. But at Leeds November comes with a scowl and a bluster and takes one by the shoulders and gives one a shake—to put one in order for winter, I suppose."
"I don't think shaking puts anything in order," remarked Esther.
"No. Nowthis—" said Flora, wistfully looking around her—"this comes as near making me feel good, as anything can."
"Take a lesson—" said Mr. Murray.
"But after all, the months must be according to their nature," said Flora.
"Certainly. The difference is, thatyoumay choose what manner of nature you will be of. It all depends, you know," Mr. Murray went on smiling, "on how much of the sun the months get. And on how much of the sun you get."
"How can I choose?" said Flora.
"How? Why, you may be in the full sunshine all the time if you like."
Again the boat dropped down the stream silently. The way was long; seven miles is a good deal in a row-boat; sothey took it leisurely and enjoyed to the full the consciousness that itwasa long way, and they should have a great deal of it. By and by they came to a little rocky island or promontory, connected with the mainland by marsh meadows at least if by nothing more, to get round which they had to make quite a wide sweep. When they had passed it and drew into the shore again, they were already nearing the southern hills which from Mosswood looked so distant and seemed to lock into one another. They had the same seeming still, though standing out now in brighter tints and new and detailed beauty. On and on the little boat went, coasting along. No further break in the line of shore for a good while; only they were nearing and nearing that nest of hills. At last they came abreast of one or two houses, where a well-defined road came down to the river.
"Do we land here?" asked Flora.
"Not yet. Round on the other side of that bluff we shall come to a creek, with a mill; that is the place. Are you in a hurry?"
"I should like to sail so all day!"
They floated down with the tide and a little movement of the oars; there was absolutely no wind. The sloops and schooners in the river drifted or swung at anchor. Hardly a leaf moved on a stem. The tide ran fast, however, and the little boat slipped easily past the gay banks, with their kaleidoscope changes of colour. This piece of the way nevertheless seemed long, just because the inexperienced were constantly expecting it to come to an end; but on and on the boat glided, and there was never a creek or a mill to be seen.
"Uncle Eden," said Maggie, "thereusedto be a creek here somewhere."
"Certainly."
"There is none here now," said Flora.
"That you see."
"I can look along the shore for a good way, Mr. Murray. Are we going quite down to those mountains?"
"No. You will see the creek presently."
"The banks seem without the least break in them."
"It will not do to trust to appearances. Have you not found that out yet?"
"I tell you what, I'm getting hungry," said Fenton, who was taking his turn at the oars.
"Eleven o'clock. You will have to control your impatience for some time yet," said Meredith.
"I can tell you, this boat is awfully heavy," said Fenton. He had meant to use a stronger word, but changed it. "Can't we get lunch by twelve?"
"Oh no! we shall have some reading first, I guess," said Maggie. "Lunch at twelve? Why, you never have it till one, Fenton."
"Makes a difference whether you are pulling a dozen people and forty baskets along," rejoined her brother. "It's an awful bore, to have to do things."
There was a general merry burst at that.
"What sort of things, Fenton? Do you want to live like a South Sea Island savage?" his uncle asked.
"Uncommonly jolly,Ishould think," responded Fenton. "Dive into the surf and get a lobster, climb into a tree and fetch down a cocoanut—there's your dinner."
"A very queer dinner," remarked Maggie, amid renewed merriment.
"I never heard that lobsters were fished out of breakers, either," said Flora.
"You seem to think it is no work to fight the breakers and climb the cocoanut trees," remarked Mr. Murray. "However, I grant you, it would not occupy a great deal of time. Is your idea of life, that it is useful only for eating purposes?"
"It comes to that, pretty much," said the boy. "What do people work for, if it isn't to live! I don't care how they work."
"Some people's aim is to get where they will do nothing," said Mr. Murray. "Do you see a bit of a break yonder in the lines of the shore, Miss Flora?"
"Is it?—yes, it is the creek!" cried Maggie joyously. "It is the creek. Now you can see it, Flora."
It opened fast upon them now as they came near, quite a wide-mouthed little creek, setting in among wooded banks which soon narrowed upon it. Just before they narrowed, an old mill stood by the side of the water, and there were some steps by which one could land. There the boat was made fast, and the little party disembarked, glad after all to feel their feet again; and baskets one after another were handed out.
"What is all this cargo?" said Fenton, grumbling; "and who's going to carry it to the top of the hill? Suppose we stay down here?"
"And lose all the view?" said Maggie.
"And the walk? and the fun?" said Esther.
"Fun!" echoed Fenton. "Just take that sack along with you, if you want fun. What ever have you got in it? cannon balls?"
"Oysters."
"Oysters! In the shell! Why didn't you have them taken out? What's in this basket? this is as bad."
"Cups and saucers, and spoons and plates, and such things."
"We could have done without them."
"How?"
"Eat with our fingers."
"You had better go to the South Sea Islands, and done with it," said Esther. "Come—you take hold of one side of the basket and I of the other."
"No, Essie," said her uncle; "that would be very unchivalrous. Do not ask Fenton such a thing. In the South Sea Islands men may make women do the work for them; but not here. Come, my boy, here are three of us and only a basket apiece; take up your burden and be thankful, and be brave."
I am afraid Fenton was neither; but he shouldered his basket; and being an athletic fellow, managed to reach the top of the hill without more muscular distress than theothers showed. Of the state of his mind I say nothing further; but the truth is, the way was rather long. Nobody knew the shortest cut to the place they desired to reach; so they wound about among thickets of low cedar, sprinkled here and there with taller pines, going up and down and round about for some time. At last they found their way to the top of the ridge, and wandering along in search of a suitable place for their rest and pleasure, came out upon an open bit of turf and moss on the highest ground, over which a group of white pines stretched their sheltering branches. The view was clear over a very long stretch of the river with its eastern shore; indeed they could look up quite to the turn of the river at Gee's point; Gee's Point itself hid Mosswood from them.
With acclamations the party deposited their baskets and threw themselves down on the bank. The gentle warmth of the sun was not shorn of its effect by the least stir of wind; the moss and grass were perfectly dry; and the lookout over river and shores was lovely. Sugarloaf showed now true to its name, an elegant little cone. The sails of the two or three vessels the party had passed in coming down the river were so still that they served to emphasise the general stillness; they hung lazily waiting for a breeze and could not carry their hulls fast or far.
For a while the pleasure party could do nothing but rest and look. But after a while Meredith roused himself to further action. He began wandering about; what he was searching for did not appear, until he came back with an armful of green, soft, pine branches.
"Now if you will just get up for a few minutes," said he, "I will give you a couch to rest upon." And he went on to lay the branches thick together, so as to form a very yielding comfortable layer of cushions, on which the party stretched themselves with new pleasure and strong appreciation. Meredith had to bring a good many armfuls of pine branches to accommodate them all; at last he had done, and flung himself down like the rest.
"When do you want your fire made?" said he.
"Somebody else is hungry, I am afraid," said Flora.
"I cannot deny it. But I can wait as long as you can!"
"I amveryhungry," said Flora.
"I believe I shall be," said Mr. Murray, "by the time our luncheon can be ready. Here's for a fire!"
They all went about it. To find a place and to arrange stones for the kettle, and to collect fuel, and to build and kindle the fire. Stones for the chimney-place were not at hand in manageable size; so Mr. Murray planted three strong sticks on the ground with their bases a couple of feet or so apart and their heads tied together; and slung the kettle to them, over the fire. This was very pretty, and drew forth great expressions of admiration. Then while waiting for the kettle to boil, they all threw themselves on their pine branches again and called for a story; only Fenton sat by the fire to keep it up. Meredith took his book from his pocket and laid it on the pine branches, open before him.
"You could not attend to anything very deep till you have had something to eat," he said. "I will give you something easy."
"Most of your stories are so profound," added Flora.
"Never mind; listen."
"'The story that I am going to tell now happened here in Hermannsburg.'"
"A great many things seem to have happened in Hermannsburg," Flora remarked.
"Yes. Just think what it must be to live in a village with a history.
"'It is, for one thing, a beautiful story for passion week; and then it gives a lovely picture of the relation in which princes and their vassals at that time stood to one another. The Thirty Years' War had brought frightful misery over our country. Havoc and devastation had come even into the churches. So, for example, in this place; the imperial troops had not only plundered the church and carried away everything that was of value; for to be sure the people here were Lutheran heretics; but they had even broken to pieces all the bells in the tower, and driven off no less than five baggage waggons full of brass metal, to be recast for cannon. And the last one, the big bell, was broken up and about to be carried away by the Croats; the horses were even put to the waggon; when suddenly the blast of trumpets and the battle-cry, "God with us!" announced the coming of Lutheran troops, and scared the Croats away. So the metal was left behind. After the Thirty Years' War, gradually the people gathered together again; but the number of them was very small, and many a farm had to lie waste for want of both farmer and farming stock. There are said to have been at first only ten families come back to our parish village, with four oxen and two cows. Besides all that, towards the end of the war epidemics were constantly prevailing, so that, for example, in this parish, in the thirty yearsfrom 1650 to 1680, three pastors died one after another of contagious epidemics; namely, Andreas Kruse'" (that was the fellow who stood out so for his church vessels), "Paulus Boccatius, Johannes Buchholz; and the fourth Justus Theodor Breyhan, who died in 1686, was three times at death's door. Those were troubled times!
"'This Breyhan was a childlike good man, whom his parish held in great love and honour, for both in spiritual and in material things there was no better counsellor for them. Like a true father he stood by the bedside of the sick and the dying, to show them how to die happy, and like a good father he comforted the survivors, and by the live and powerful words of his preaching, poured new strength and fresh courage of faith into all hearts. With all that, this man was a singular lover of thesound of the bell. In his opinion it was a remarkable thing, that the heavenly King would allow his bells to be cast of the same metal in which earthly princes cast their guns; and his highest wish was, to get a great church bell again. The metal indeed was still on hand; but who would have it cast? There was only a little bell still hanging up in the tower, which was called the Bingel bell, and dated back to the year 1495 (it is there still) and had been too insignificant to tempt the Croats. With that on Sundays people must be rung to church, and with that the tolling for the dead must be done at funerals. It did, it is true, give out a fine, lovely, clear note; but the good dear Breyhan often wept great tears when he heard the sound of it; it seemed to him that it was too disrespectful to the great King in heaven, that he should have no better bell than that. He could hardly sleep at last for thinking of it. Especially at the high festival days and in Passion week, and on occasion of funerals, he was in great uneasiness. Then it was in the fast season of the year 1680, he was again sick unto death, and in his fevered fancies he was continually praying to the dear Lord that He would not let him die before he could have the bell properly tolled at his burying. He recovered, and on Good Friday was again able to preach. The congregation wept for joy at havingtheir beloved pastor among them again, and never perhaps have more ardent thanks gone up to God from the parish than did that day. The time of the Easter festival passed by, and they rejoiced with one another over the glorious resurrection of the Lord Jesus. The third day of the Easter festival (at that time there were still always three feast days), he told the congregation that they must pray for him faithfully; for the next day he was going on a journey after a bell which in his illness he had promised to the Lord.
"'The next morning his honest old parish farmer Ebel was at the door with a little farm waggon, and asked him where they were to go? and whether it was to be a long or a short journey? You must know the man was under obligation to take several long journeys for his pastor, lasting some days, and several short expeditions of a day only each. "It shall be a short one for to-day," the pastor answered. "I think with God's help to ride to Zelle." So after Ebel had attended morning worship in the parsonage, for he would not willingly have missed that, Breyhan mounted into the waggon, set himself down upon a spread of straw, took his hat off and said reverently—"In God's name!"—and then they went forward, step by step, as the manner was then; for in those days people were not in such a hurry as they are now. Before the city they stopped, and with prayer and thanksgiving ate the breakfast they had brought along with them. Then Breyhan took his vestments out of a clean linen cloth and put them on, and one could see by his lips that he was speaking to himself or praying. Good Ebel felt himself growing quite devotional at the sight, and he drove into the city with twice the spirit he had had before, because now everybody might see that he had a pastor in his waggon.'"
Meredith paused a moment to glance up at the river and hills opposite, and Maggie broke forth,
"The people in that country seem to be very unlike the people in this country?"
"You mean, nobody here would care so much about carrying a minister in his waggon," said Meredith laughing.
"Well—he wouldn't, would he?"
"I am afraid not. More's the pity."
"Why, Ditto?" said his sister. "What are ministers so much more than other people?"
"They are the King's ambassadors," said Mr. Murray, taking the answer upon himself. "And you know, Miss Flora, the ambassador of a king is always treated as something more than other people."
Flora looked at him. "Mr. Murray," she said, "ministers do not seem like that?"
"When they are the true thing, they do."
"But then besides," Maggie went on,—"how could anybody, how could that good man care so much about abell? What difference did it make whether the bell was big or little?"
"Superstition"—said Flora.
"No, not exactly," responded Mr. Murray.
"That other man cared so much about his silver service, and this one about his bell—they were both alike, but I don't understand it," said Maggie.
"How would you like your father to have his table set with pewter instead of silver?"
"O Uncle Eden! but that—"
"Or to drive a lame horse in his carriage?"
"But, Uncle Eden—"
"Or to wear a fustian coat?"
"But that's different, Uncle Eden."
"Yes, it is different. This concerns our own things; those matters of the vessels and the bell concerned God's things."
"Then you approve of building very costly churches, sir?" asked Meredith, whose head was running on churches lately.
"No, I do not."
"How then, Mr. Murray?" said Flora curiously.
"Becausethetemple of the Lord, the only one He cares much about, is not built yet. I hold it false stewardship to turn aside the Lord's money into brick and mortar and marble channels, while His poor have no comfortable shelter,His waifs want bread, and a community anywhere in the world are going without the light of life and the word of salvation."
"What do you mean bythetemple of the Lord, Uncle Eden?" said Maggie. "I thought there was no temple of the Lord now?"
Mr. Murray pulled out his Bible from his pocket, opened and found a place.
"'Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God; and are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner-stone; in whom all the building, fitly framed together, groweth unto an holy temple in the Lord; in whom ye also are builded together, for an habitation of God through the Spirit.'"
"How lovely!"—said Meredith.
"I didn't know that was in the Bible," said Flora.
"The literal Jewish temple was in part a type of this spiritual one. And as in Solomon's building, 'the house was built of stone made ready before it was brought thither; so that there was neither hammer, nor axe, nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building,' but the walls rose silently,—so it is in this temple. The stones are silently preparing, 'polished after the similitude of a palace;' silently put in place; 'lively stones built up a spiritual house;' so the Lord says, 'He that overcometh, will I make a pillar in the temple of my God.'"
There was silence for a few moments, when Mr. Murray added, "Thatis the temple, Meredith, that I think the Lord wants us to build and help build. I think any diversion of the money or strength needed for this, a sad, sad waste; and no honour to the Lord of the temple, though it may be meant so. Come, go on with Pastor Breyhan; I like him. His was a true-souled care for God's honour. I hope he got his bell."
Meredith went on.
"'To Ebel's question, "where he should drive to?" the answer was, "To the Stechbahn;" that was a road which lay opposite the ducal castle. Ebel's wonderment grewgreater and greater, but Breyhan kept still, slowly dismounted, gave orders to Ebel that he should drive to the inn, but he himself went straight on to the ducal castle. As he had expected, for it was just eleven o'clock, he found the duke sitting in front of the entrance to the castle. For about this hour the duke was wont to sit there and allow everybody, even the lowest of his vassals, to have free access and speech of him. If there were no petitions, or complaints, or the like on hand, he would converse in the kindest and most affable way with everybody, and many a peasant could boast that in all simple-heartedness he had shaken hands with his liege lord. Breyhan found the duke (it was George William) surrounded by a number of people. However there can have been nothing of consequence going on, for when the duke saw the pastor approaching, he signed him immediately to come near. Breyhan presented himself; and related simply and in childlike wise how things stood in Hermannsburg, and how the people had not yet been able to get their affairs rightly under way since the terrible war. George William listened kindly, and many a tear came into his mild eyes as Breyhan told him of the sick beds and the dying beds.
"'"You want to ask some help in your need?" demanded the duke.
"'"No," was the answer; "we can manage as yet to get along with these earthly troubles. But we have a spiritual trouble, that we feel more keenly, and which we cannot deal with by ourselves, and in that you must help us, my lord duke; this is what I have come for to-day." He told him now all that he had on his heart respecting the bell; how that the beautiful metal was there yet, but no means to get it cast, and that that was for the duke to do. The duke was delighted with the childlike, honest nature of the man, and his hearty confidence that the duke's help was certain; and he could not help putting Breyhan's faith a little to the test.
"'"Dear pastor," said he, "you are suffering in a small way from the after effects of the Thirty Years' War; on theother hand, I am suffering the same thing on a great scale. Your village treasury is empty, my castle treasury is empty, and the country's treasury to boot. So I cannot shake down the money for you out of my sleeves. If all the people in the land came to me to get their bells cast for them, what would be the end of it?"
"'Breyhan was of opinion that the case was somewhat different with Hermannsburg. Since one of the duke's ancestors had founded the church there, one of the descendants might well have a bell cast for it. The duke, however, would not yet give in, but teased the petitioner with all sorts of objections, just to see what he would answer; he loved clever and witty speeches. Breyhan did what he could to satisfy the duke's objections. At last it got to be too much of a good thing, and he said, "My lord duke, I have now been a good while asking a boon of you, as a humble vassal may ask his prince; but as asking does no good, I will noworderyou to have the bell cast. Perhaps you are not aware that I am lord of the manor to you, and that you are my liegeman. A liegeman must stand by his feudal lord with his goods and with his blood, with life and honour. The bell we must have; it is needful for our holding of divine service. You are not obliged to give us the whole bell; you are only to have it cast. Now it does not indeed stand in your title-deed that you must have a bell cast for us; therefore I cannot put you out of your farm for not doing it. But it does stand therein written that you must make hay for me three days in every year, and do a day's work for me in every week, for which service each time you are to get a half gallon of beer. Hitherto your bailiff has put a man to do it, and I have consented; but if you do not have the bell cast, then you must come yourself and make hay and cut wood."
"'You should have seen the duke then. "My dear pastor," said he, "that is something I did not know before, that you are my lord of the manor; in that case, I must take shame to myself that I have let you stand here all this while. Come into the castle with me." He seized his handand led him into the house, sent for his wife, and said in a solemn voice, "See here, my dear wife, until now I have supposed that I was the first man in the country; and now to-day I have come to know that the Hermannsburg pastor stands highest, for he is lord of the manor to me. Let preparation be made for his dining with us." While the servants made ready, the duke sought better information, and learned now that he actually held a farm in Hermannsburg from the Hermannsburg benefice, the contract for which on every occasion of the coming of a new pastor, or of a new duke's assuming the government, must be ratified over a cup of wine, and upon which, besides the yearly service money, the above obligations rested. The duke was so delighted at this, that he not only promised Breyhan to yield obedience and have the bell cast, but he begged him in the humblest manner that he would spare him in the matter of the hay-making and wood-cutting, for he was not exactly in practice in the matter of those two exercises; then jestingly he begged his wife to apply to the pastor herself for him, to let grace take the place of right. And as he was not slow to do this, all was soon settled. At table Breyhan was requested to make the prayer, and the conversation went on most charmingly about things of God's word.
"'The faithful carter Ebel meanwhile did not know at all where his pastor could be staying so long; and as he certainly understood so much as that the duke had taken him into the castle, he got into such trouble, because he thought something evil had befallen him, that he ran into the castle and demanded to have his pastor back; not a little wondering when he found him sitting at table with the duke. Still more was he comforted, when from the duke's table itself a draught of beer was given him.
"'After the meal was over, Breyhan drove joyfully back to Hermannsburg. The duke had not only granted his petition, but also declared that he would come to the consecration of the bell, and would be a guest with his lord of the manor. Breyhan promised him a friendly reception,but made the stipulation that he should bring only his lady duchess along with him, for his house was not prepared for entertaining guests. And now the business went forward according to his wish. The bell was cast in Hannover, and was, as Breyhan had desired that it might be, ready by the fast time of 1689. It was adorned with a threefold inscription. At the top stood:
"'"Praise him upon the loud cymbals; praise him upon the high-sounding cymbals. Let everything that hath breath praise the lord.Ps. cl."
"'In the middle of the side stood:
"'"George William, by the grace of God duke of Brunswick and Lüneburg, patron of our churches."
"'And below (this is a verse—I will translate it as well as I can):
"'"Through the grace of God I am alive again, and give you the call to church by my voice. Come willingly, be brisk and ready, then will I also speak out gloriously when you are going to the grave."
"'"Anno 1681, Nicholas Greue in Hannover cast me."
"'Our ringing is still done with this bell, which has a very fine tone, and whoever likes can still at the present day read on it the above inscription.
"'The Friday before Palm Sunday was fixed for the consecration of the bell; the duke arrived the day before with his wife; spent the night with his lord of the manor, attended the evening and morning worship and the preaching on Friday the fast day, and was present at the consecration of the bell, which took place immediately after divine service. When the bell was drawn up into the tower, and hung upon its scaffolding, ready for its first ringing, and when the first stroke softly sounded, then Breyhan and the duke and duchess beside him, the nobleman of Hermannsburg, who was called Von Haselhorst, and the bailiff, whose name was Pingeling, together with the whole congregation, fell upon their knees in the churchyard; and while the bell continued to be softly rung, the prayer of consecration was spoken. After the Paternoster, the full, sonorous notes ofthe bell pealed out, and there was not an eye but had tears in it as the long-missed tones floated off so gloriously through the air. The dear Breyhan's heart was bounding, and full of joy he spoke out—"Lord, now lettest thou Thy servant depart in peace." The afternoon they spent at home, only the duke could not refrain from making a trial at the wood-cutting, which however did not succeed very well; whereupon then the pastor magnanimously promised that he would content himself with the observance hitherto rendered, and never demand of the duke personally that he should make hay or do days' works. Then the duke requested that for his sake the evening worship might be held earlier to-day, for he wished to get back again to Zelle.
"'From that time he came again once every year, either for Good Friday or for Easter; and in the year 1686 he followed to the grave the remains of Pastor Breyhan, who died in the thirty-fourth year of his age. The evening of Wednesday before the sixth Sunday after Trinity (the date is not given in the church book), when he felt his end drawing near, he had the great bell rung once more; and while it was ringing, at which time the greater portion of the parish, either in their homes or standing in front of the house, were in prayer, with a glad gesture he fell asleep. His dying lips prayed, "Christ, Thou Lamb of God, who takest away the sin of the world, have mercy on me, and give me Thy peace, O Jesus. Amen."