After Him came the chief men of Jerusalem, the Sanhedrists, with, perhaps, the High Priest at their head, followed by the chief priests and scribes, and a great crowd of people.

Now they reached the Hall of Judgment; and the foremost of them were dragging the poor Man up the noble flight of stairs.

The Roman knight scowled as they approached, and darted at them a look of bitterest resentment.

What faces they had! Did ever any one see features so distorted by wicked passions? How he would have liked to drive them all away! But he must not. They were evidently in a fury; and what might they not do, if he opposed them?

He turned to look at their prisoner, expecting to see some murderous-looking fellow, who had been taken in some act of wicked outrage. But what a different sight met his view!

Instead of a defiant thief or murderer, a pale and weary Man stood before him. A world of suffering was in His sorrowful eyes; but there was no trace of violence there. He had the purest, noblest, most open countenance that Pilate had ever beheld; and the governor's attention was arrested. In the face of that poor, worn-out sufferer were expressed the meekness and gentleness of a lamb, the deepest tenderness and pity, the most ineffable sweetness and perfect calmness, the majesty of a king, the perfection of a god. Who could He be? Was He really only human? Or had the spirit of some of the Roman gods come down and taken up its abode in Him? Pilate could not tell; but he was amazed and confounded; and in his contemplation of that wondrous countenance he forgot for a while his trouble and vexation.

All too soon, however, he was recalled to the business before him. The Jews were clamouring outside the Hall to have sentence of death passed upon their Victim.

But it was not so easy to gain their point as they had expected. The Roman knight, who had not hesitated to order his soldiers to fall upon the ignoble Jews, could not condemn, without trial, that Man who was undoubtedly the one perfect type of the human race. And he sternly demanded, "What accusation bring ye against this Man?"

Then came a storm of bitter invective and false accusations. He had been stirring up the people against the Roman government, they said. He had been forbidding them to pay tribute to Caesar; and proclaiming Himself a King.

As Pilate looked upon Jesus, he felt that there was no sedition in Him. They were rioters, he knew too well; but as for that Man—well, there might be some truth in His kingship, there was something so noble, so majestic about Him. And entering the hall, into which Jesus had been led, he asked, "Art Thou the King of the Jews?"

"I am a king," Jesus, acknowledged, as He thought of the myriads of bright-winged angels who in the Better Land had flown to do His bidding, and of the thousands upon thousands of faithful followers, not yet born, who would some day share His throne. "I am a King, but not of this world." And at His simple words Pilate's heart misgave him still more.

Who could this strange man be, who was so far above all other men? Where had He come from? And where was His kingdom? Was He in some mysterious way connected with the heavens?

Oh, how he wished that those Jews had settled the matter amongst themselves, and that he could avoid having anything to do with it! They were resolved, he could see, on having His blood; and he dared not go altogether against them. Yet how could he condemn a Man like that?

But, suddenly, his face brightened. Some one in the crowd said that Jesus belonged to Galilee. Then he could send Jesus to Herod, the tetrarch of Galilee, who was then in Jerusalem, having come up to the feast. By doing so he should throw the responsibility on to Herod, and should then not be compelled either to vex the Jews, on the one hand, and thus bring about his own punishment, or to crucify this Man, who was so great a mystery to him, and, perhaps, bring down upon himself the anger of the gods.

Pilate heaved a great sigh of relief, as Jesus was led away to Herod. Now he was free, he thought, and, if that more than innocent Man were put to death, as He would be, he, at least, would be guiltless of his blood, and very cleverly he had managed it, without stirring up against himself the wrath of the Jews.

But it was not to be so.

Before long the dreaded mob returned. Herod had sent Jesus away, finding no fault in Him. And the Jews brought him again to Pilate.

Heavily as lead the hooting and the yelling fell upon the governor's ears. What should he do? What could he do? Oh, if only he had not acted so wrongly in the past, he might have dared to do right now! If only he had not violated the Roman law he might now have vindicated its majesty! He might have told the Jews that he, a Roman governor, could not think of so gross an injustice as condemning such a Man, and that they were only actuated by envy and hatred. Oh, if he could only wipe out his past offences, and stand clear concerning the Jews, he might, also, stand clear concerning this Jesus, who was called the Christ!

But his hands were stained with crime; and, like a child who tells a second falsehood to get out of the trouble of having told a first, he must make the guilt of a still deeper dye.

But could he not in some way conciliate the Jews, and save Jesus as well? he wondered. Yes; he would pretend to look upon Him as guilty; but would remind them of the custom of releasing some prisoner at the Passover; and try to persuade them to have Jesus set free. But they preferred Barabbas; and Pilate tried another plan. He would inflict upon Jesus the painful and humiliating punishment of scourging and let Him go.

But what right had he to do that to an innocent Man? How fast he was yielding! And what a coward a guilty conscience had made of him!

But much as he was to blame, there was sent to him a warning that could not be despised.

That morning, a troublous dream had come to Claudia Procula, Pilate's wife, who was a Jewish proselyte. And now, messengers from her came running out of breath, and standing before the golden bema, delivered the message she had sent; "Have thou nothing to do with that just Man; for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of Him."

This troubled Pilate more and more; and his face paled, and his strong limbs trembled. He remembered how, not very long before, when Caesar's enemies were plotting against his life, a dream had come to his wife, Calpurnia, who had sent to warn him not to go to the meeting of the senate, on the Ides of March. But he went in spite of the dream, and was murdered! And now, a similar warning was sent to him to strengthen him to do right. Should he heed it, and let the innocent Jesus go free? It was still in his power to refuse to crucify Him; and what remorse he would save himself? and what bitter anguish! But notwithstanding the warning dream, he took the last fatal step.

"Ibis ad crucem," "Thou must go to the cross," he said to Jesus, and to the attendant, "I miles, expedi crucem," "Soldier, go prepare the cross."

Unable to shake off that ominous dream, he called for water, and washed his hands, saying, "I am innocent of the blood of this just person." But he could not wash away his responsibility, or that last greatest crime of giving up to the fiendish malice of a cruel mob the Innocent One about whom he had had such misgivings and such a warning.

From that day all peace of mind fled from him; and before long he was pining away in bitter exile and poverty; the very punishment having come upon him that he had tried to avert.

H.D.



BIBLE EXERCISES FOR SUNDAY AFTERNOONS.

37. Who was the only woman to whom it is recorded that Jesus used the tender word "Daughter"?

38. Where does St. John tell us that those who are untruthful shall have no part with the people of God in the holy city?

39. Which of the greater prophets prophesied that God's people should be "named the Priests of the Lord?"

40. Where, in the book of the Revelation, are we shown that Jesus still appears in heaven as the Lamb once slain?

41. Where are we told that children, as well as grown-up people, are known by their works?

42. Where are we assured that if, in difficult circumstances, we are influenced by the fear of man, we shall bring trouble upon ourselves, while, if we trust in God, we shall be safely kept?

43. About whom did Jesus use the only word of unmixed contempt that He is recorded to have spoken?

44. What four things does Solomon speak of as being "little upon the earth, but they are exceeding wise"?

45. Where is the custom, followed by Pilate, of washing the hands as a sign of innocence of crime, spoken of in the Old Testament?

46. What wise man exhorts us to keep our garments always white; and who tells us that a part of pure religion consists in keeping ourselves unspotted from the world?

47. What great heathen king called God "a revealer of secrets"?

48. Where are we assured that, to the upright, light arises in the darkness?

ANSWERS TO BIBLE EXERCISES (25-36.—See p. 156).

25. Twice. In St. Matt. vi. 9-13 and St. Luke xi. 2-4.

26. In Job xxviii. 28.

27. From the words, "I went into Arabia" (Gal. i. 17), coupled with his speaking of Sinai in iv. 24, 25.

28. In Prov. xvi. 32.

29. In Ps. lvi. 8.

30. Only in the New Testament (Acts vii. 60; 1 Cor. xv. 6, 18; 1 Thess. iv. 13-15; 2 Pet. iii. 4).

31. As giving up the ghost, and being gathered to their people (Gen. xxv. 8, xxxv. 29, xlix. 29, 33; Numb. xx. 24, 26, xxvii. 13, &c).

32. St. Matthew and St. Mark (St. Matt. xxvi. 36—45; St. Mark xiv. 32-41).

33. In the genealogy of our Lord, given by St. Matthew (St. Matt. 1. 6).

34. Seven (Gen. vii. 7-10). God himself (Gen. vii. 16).

35. Ten (2 Sam. xviii. 15).

36. It was first placed in David's tent, and afterwards in the Tabernacle at Nob, whence it was given again to David (1 Samuel xvii. 54, xxi. 1, 9).



CONTENTMENT.



Sweet Summer-time dawns with a flush o'er the skies, The bees and the butterflies come in her train, While the dear little children, with joy in their eyes, Stand watching the lark as he mounts to the skies, While singing his joyous refrain.

The meadow is sprinkled with beautiful flowers, The hedge with its sweet-scented blossoms of snow. How bright is the sunshine! how fresh are the showers! How happy the children, these holiday hours, As shouting and singing they go!

But Summer (who stole on the footsteps of Spring) Is driven in turn far out of our view, When ruddy-hued Autumn her mantle must fling O'er meadow and orchard, till each growing thing Is transformed to a beautiful hue.

Then the little ones, laughing, must hie them away To the blackberry wood and the nut-growing ground; But in the home-garden our dear little May Sits calmly at rest, on this beautiful day, Contented with what she has found.

D. B. McKEAN.



LITTLE FE.

So he was left an heir at the age of ten years—heir to all the fortune of his dead aunt, which consisted of two shillings and fourpence, a flower-basket, a pebble with a hole drilled through it, and a dying woman's blessing. "Truly," you will say, "he was rich."

He was small and thin, this little heir, and one poor leg was drawn up three inches higher than the other, which obliged him to walk with those wooden things called crutches. He was called Fe; but his name was of very little use to him, as he could neither read nor write it.

An old woman had promised "to see after him for a bit" at his aunt's death. She lived in a room in the same wretched lodging-house which had sheltered Fe and his aunt for the past six years.

I have not told you yet that my heir did not live in London, but in a large busy town in the south of England.

Fe's temporary guardian, Mrs. Crump, was short and cross, and not very young; her nose was slightly hooked, her eyes were black, and rather sharp. She wore a jet black frizzled wig, which contrasted well with the primrose-tinted skin; her voice showed her bad temper, for it was sharp and harsh, like the creaking of a door.

After having settled and arranged everything, she bade Fe follow her into her black little room, and that was the last he ever saw of his poor little old home, where for ten long grown-up years he had lived, to go to rest weak, hungry, and ill, and to rise more weak, hungry, and miserable still. Yet in that little home there had also lived a thin, worn-out woman, who had never spoken a harsh word to him, but had often tried to stay his tears with her kisses. And Fe knew now—and the knowledge was agony—that he would never rest his eyes upon that sweet mother-face again.

Mrs. Crump earned what she could get by selling flowers in the streets. She thought she could not turn poor Fe to better account than by making him sell them too, so she arranged half her bunches in Fe's basket, and tied it round his neck. Then she took him with her, and while she went round to the houses Fe stood in the principal streets, and offered his flowers to the passers-by.

Old Mrs. Crump soon made the discovery that "the heir" sold many more than she did during the day, but such was her vanity that she could not at first bring herself to believe that people preferred to buy of the pale-faced cripple boy than of her, with her jet black wig and creaking voice. When she found it was really the case, she was very angry. But besides being a very jealous old woman, she was naturally avaricious in the extreme, and she kept all Fe's earnings, and only gave him very scanty food in return.

She did not care to give up "seeing after him for a bit," yet she allowed a strong dislike to grow up against the boy in her own old cross heart.

One day, as Fe stood by the side of the street, with his basket hanging from his neck, and a bit of sunlight shining straight into his eyes, he felt some one touch his arm, and when he turned his head, he saw a young lady leaning towards him. She had long shining hair and blue eyes, there were dimples and bright pink on her cheeks; she slipped sixpence into his hand, whispering something about keeping it quite for himself, and then passed on, walking very quickly.

When Fe looked up to thank her, he saw only the flowing shining hair under a round black hat in the distance. Fe thought about the money for a long time: it was the first gift he had ever received, and he wondered if he might really keep it for himself. He thought how often, when he was so hot and thirsty, he might buy a little milk, and it seemed refreshing only to think of it. Then he remembered that Mrs. Crump took all the pence he earned, and he felt sure that she disliked him very much, and would take away his sixpence the moment she saw it. So at last he twisted it in a leaf out of his basket, and pushed it through a hole into the lining of his cap, for safety.

When he went back with Mrs. Crump in the evening, and she asked him for his earnings, that little sixpence in his cap felt like a stone, seeming to weigh him down to the ground; and when he went to the corner where he slept, he lay down on his little ragged bed, cold and miserable; and though he was tired out, he could not sleep for thinking of his great wickedness in concealing the sixpence.

Then he looked round the room, and thought how much whiter and sweeter his old home was; he remembered, too, how his kind aunt used to kiss him if he cried, and he held up his little pale wet face, almost hoping he should feel that kiss once more; he longed so intensely for a little love, poor little "heir!"

Mrs. Crump's room was, like herself, dirty and ugly: perhaps it may be silly to say so, but I do think that rooms generally resemble their inmates.

The ceiling of this one was brown and peeled, the walls were covered with old newspapers, with here and there a scrap of brown wrapping-paper, making unsightly and hideous patterns; the whole was splashed with dirt and mildew; the floor was rotten at places, and black, and quite slippery with grease and dirt; the window had four panes, two of which were stuffed with rags.

As little Fe's tired eyes wandered round this dirty room, they fell upon the figure of Mrs. Crump sleeping in a bed in the opposite corner of the room. She was breathing heavily, and after Fe had listened for some time to her short snores, he felt so miserable and lonely and wicked, that he formed the brave resolution of arousing her, and confessing to her the history of the sixpence.

It was strange that what Fe would have trembled to confess in the broad daylight he felt strong and brave enough to acknowledge by the light of the pale moon. He crawled up, after a few minutes' thought, and after diving about his ragged bed, he found his cap, and took from the leaf his precious sixpence; then he crept to the side of Mrs. Crump's bed, shivering, but determined. But suddenly he halted, and gave a scream of fright; a band of moonlight fell across the bed, and certainly there lay Mrs. Crump, but her nightcap had slipped off, and her black wig lay on a chair by her bedside. Poor Fe, in his childish ignorance, had never had a doubt about the wig; in fact, he had never understood that people wore such things. When he saw Mrs. Crump without hair, and the moonlight making her still more awful-looking, he was quite overwhelmed with fear.

The old woman rose up hastily at the scream, and she saw only little Fe quite motionless, with a wild, strained look of fright in his eyes. When she made out in a half-asleep way that it was the child she detested who had dared to disturb her, wigless and asleep, her wrath boiled up, and when the same moonbeam showed her the shining silver clasped in the little hand, it fell hissing and spluttering and burning hot on the poor child's head, as he knelt speechless and trembling with fright.

She made up her mind in one instant that it must be some money he had taken for the flowers, and had kept back from her. "You wicked, thievish boy!" she shrieked. "I'll teach you to thieve, and then pry about arter people be a-bed; so good as I've been to ye, too. Ye jest leave my door for good to-night."

And in a fit of passion she rolled out of bed, scolding and shaking poor Fe the while. She pulled him down the three creaking steps and out into the cold wet street—and there, with one more cruel push, she left him, friendless and alone.

With a sob and a gasp he saw her shut the door, but the fright and shaking had been too much for his weakened frame. He seemed for a few moments to feel again all the dreadful pain and anguish he remembered having felt when he was very ill once long ago. His aching, weary little head seemed too heavy for him to bear, and with a moan of pain he fell forward, and lay where he fell insensible.

The moon looked down on the child's small form, and sorrowed for the little heir, and for her own unkindness in throwing the beams of her light just across old Mrs. Crump in her bed, and she stooped and kissed the poor boy as he lay on the hard cold stones, and tried in vain to warm him with her silvery light.

Bad old Mrs. Crump slept late on into the next morning, and this was the reason that she knew nothing more of what happened to the poor friendless little heir.

A doctor set out very early next morning to see a poor invalid woman who lived in the same street as little Fe's cruel guardian.

He was a short, plain little man, but his beaming smile hid the ugliness, and made the face tell that he was true and kind and good, and the eyes seemed to think it best to tell their own tale, in case the smile alone might not be trusted, and they glistened and shone, and told of every kindly thought and feeling of which the little man carried a big heart-full.

He was a clever doctor, and this woman he knew was poor. He did not expect payment from her, neither did he from the white-faced, crippled boy lying in the street, with mud on his face and clothes, and clinging to his brown hair. But he lifted him into his carriage tenderly and lovingly, and ordered his servant to drive quickly to the hospital.

As he raised Fe's helpless little form, something fell with a chink on the stones; but he did not wait to see what it was then.

There in the hospital lay little Fe, and he was for many days unconscious, and they whispered that his life must be very short, and that he would never be strong again.

The kind little doctor, who attended him most regularly, was speaking to a young lady one day of the poor little heir. He said, "The boy has consumption, and the cold of the streets added to his weakness, and some sudden shock, has so increased the disease, that I fear his days on earth will be few."

The young lady begged the doctor to take her to see the boy as soon as he was able. And one day, when Fe was better and well enough to sit up in bed, to his great joy he saw once more the pretty face with the pink and dimples, and shining curling hair; and the sight seemed to refresh him, and make him stronger and happier.

Before she went away she told him that he should go away soon, and be made quite well again in some beautiful country place.

This girl with the shining hair spoke in a low sweet voice to the doctor about him; she said, "Move him to my home, doctor; don't let him die in this hot town, where there is no air." And the doctor said, "We will try it, but he cannot last long."

So after a few weeks my little heir was tenderly borne away from this hot, noisy town, where he had lived but to suffer; and on the day he left a poor starving woman found his sixpence on the muddy pavement, and she cried for joy, and prayed over it, and bought with it bread which helped to save the life of her poor half-famished child. So even little Fe's sixpence brought a blessing with it.

And now Fe, who had never heard the song of the birds, or smelt the sweet country air before, was well nursed and cared for at the home of this girl with the shining hair. He faded gradually day by day, but he felt at rest and happy, though his weakness was very great. At last, one day he begged for more air, as he was faint; and they carried him out into a hay-field, and there, with his head pillowed on the hay, with the soft blue sky above him, and the scent of flowers in the air, with the low of cows and hum of bees in the distance, and the sweet scythe music sounding near him, and the touch of the girl's fair soft hand on his brow, my little heir passed away without even a moan, only a little sigh of relief, of happiness, and rest.

Then a grand sweet smile fell upon his face, which there had never been room for during his life.

Over his little grave (the heir's grave) the beautiful girl placed a small grey stone cross, and the only inscription upon it—

In loving memory of Fe.



THE PRINCE AND HIS WHIPPING-BOY.

Whether or not it is a bad thing to get punished will largely depend upon the punishment, but when you deserve to be punished, and some one else is at hand to receive it in your stead, then punishment is apt to become a farce. Just consider this: I deserve the whipping, but you are hired to take it for me. Perhaps you think this is a joke, but I am really in earnest. I am alluding to a practice which was actually once in vogue—though never to a great extent—in this and other countries. By whipping one boy instead of another it was hoped that the feelings of the offender would be so worked upon, that he would refrain from doing wrong rather than have an innocent lad punished.

Well, the long retinue of servants in the households of kings usually included a whipping-boy, kept to be whipped when a prince needed chastisement. What a funny occupation! D'Ossat and Du Perron, who ultimately rose to the dignity of cardinals in the Roman Catholic Church, were whipped by Pope Clement VIII. in the place of Henri IV. And there stood for Charles I. a lad called Mungo Murray, whose name would seem to show that he was of Scottish birth. The most familiar example of whipping-boy is mentioned by Fuller in his "Church History." His name was Barnaby Fitzpatrick, and the prince whose punishments he bore was Edward, son of bluff King Hal, who was afterwards Edward VI., the boy-king of England.

The scene which the picture on the next page brings vividly before us represents one aspect of the use of whipping-boys. It tells its story well. The young prince would seem to have incurred his tutor's displeasure, and the birch is about to be employed upon the person of the unfortunate Fitzpatrick. But Prince Edward cannot bear to see poor Barnaby flogged instead, and is interceding with his grave guardian on behalf of the lad. By all accounts which we have the boy-king was a clever and amiable youth, and his untimely death in his sixteenth year would appear to show that he stood much more in need of the tenderest care than of the birch. It need hardly be added that as soon as he mounted the throne the services of Fitzpatrick could no longer be in request. You may whip a prince, but when that prince becomes king, even while still a boy, the rod must be banished forthwith. Shakespeare says "uneasy lies the head that wears a crown," and this must be especially true in such a case as that of the hapless young Edward, who had to discharge all the kingly duties without being old enough to feel much, if any, interest in them. His courtiers spoke of him as if he were a boy Solomon, and he cannot have needed much castigation, even through the medium of Barnaby Fitzpatrick.



STORIES TOLD IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

By EDWIN HODDER ("OLD MERRY").

IV.—CURIOUS CUSTOMS AND REMARKABLE INCIDENTS.

In my recent talks about the Coronations and the Royal Funerals, the scenes that passed before us were intimately connected with the history of England. The matters upon which I shall touch to-day are to a large extent more particularly connected with the Abbey itself. No mean personages were the abbots of the "West Monastery," or Westminster, in early times. They were independent of any English bishop, and therefore once in two years had to present themselves at Rome. Some of the abbots were old, and some very fat, and were perhaps tempted to think their independence dearly purchased by a journey so long and toilsome. The monastery was exceedingly rich—it had possessions in ninety-seven towns and villages, seventeen hamlets, and 216 manors. William I. gave the Abbey some lands in Essex, in exchange for one of its manors, to which he took a fancy, and upon which "Royal Windsor" has since risen.

The Abbots of Westminster claimed a tithe of all the fish caught in the river between Gravesend and Staines. When St. Peter (according to the legend I have already told you) consecrated his own church on Thorney, he said, on parting with Edric the fisherman, "Go out into the river; you will catch a plentiful supply of fish, whereof the larger part shall be salmon. This have I granted on two conditions: first, that you never fish again on Sundays; secondly, that you pay a tithe of them to the Abbey of Westminster." And as long as it was possible the monastery kept its grasp on the Thames fisheries. In 1282, the abbot, in defence of his claim, defeated the Rector of Rotherhithe in the law courts, and the original grant by St. Peter was put forward as authority for the rights of the convent in the matter. Almost to the end of the fourteenth century it was the custom for a fisherman once a year to take his place beside the prior, bringing a salmon for St. Peter. The fish was carried in state through the refectory, the prior and all the brethren rising as it passed.

The Abbey and its precincts for a long period comprised a vast group of buildings, quite cut off by pleasant meadows and gardens from the neighbouring city. From King Street the approach was under two grand arches and past the Clock Tower, where once hung and swung Great Tom of Westminster, now in St. Paul's Cathedral. The entrance to Tothill Street marks the site of the gatehouse or prison of the monastery, in which many illustrious prisoners were confined before its demolition, in 1777. Amongst them may be named Sir Walter Raleigh, John Hampden, and Lilly the astrologer.

There is so much that is interesting connected with the sanctuary, the cloisters, and the chapter-house, that I shall devote my next talk specially to those buildings. The abbot's house, now the deanery, saw many notable scenes in the Middle Ages. Especially was it so with the Jerusalem Chamber, of which the low rough wall runs off from the south side of the western portal of the Abbey. There is an entrance to it from the nave. It was in this chamber that Henry IV. died. He was purposing a journey to the Holy Land, when, in 1412, fearfully afflicted with leprosy, he came up to London for his last Parliament. Soon after Christmas, he was praying at St. Edward's Shrine, when he was taken so ill that his death before the shrine seemed probable. He was, however, carried to the Jerusalem Chamber, and on learning its name, praised God that the prophecy that he should die in Jerusalem would be fulfilled. His son, the gay and dissolute Prince Harry, attended his father in his last moments, and then retired to an oratory, and spent a long day on his knees. Henceforth the latter was a changed character, and every one was astonished at the way in which he shook off the past, and devoted himself to his new duties as an English king.

Round the shrine of St. Edward are several small chapels, but of their dedication or the special devotions originally carried on in them very little seems to be known. We know that there were altars with perpetual lamps burning, and venerated crucifixes, and an abundance of relics. Those placed here by Henry III. I have already spoken of; besides these, there was a "Girdle of the Virgin" and other fragments of holy dresses, given by Edward the Confessor. Good Queen Maud gave a large portion of the hair of Mary Magdalene; and amongst other relics deposited here at various times were "a phial of the Holy Blood" and the vestments of St. Peter. At the porch of the Chapel of St. Nicholas was buried, in 1072, a Bishop Egelric, who had been imprisoned for two years at Westminster, but who by his "fastings and tears had so purged away his former crimes as to acquire a reputation" for sanctity. His fetters were buried with him, and his grave was a place of great resort for pilgrims in the time of the early Norman kings.



But it was the shrine of Edward the Confessor, with its beautiful surroundings, its grand musical services, and its abundant holy relics, that formed the chief attraction to pilgrims, and yet only the barest hints and allusions have come down to us as to what was going on for centuries in the great centre of English religious life.

Of one event that took place at the beginning of the sixteenth century we have full particulars. Islip (under whom Henry the Seventh's Chapel was completed) was abbot when the red hat of a cardinal was sent from Rome to adorn the head of Wolsey. The Pope's messenger rode through London with the hat in his hand, and with the Bishop of Lincoln riding on one side of him and the Earl of Essex on the other. A grand escort of nobles and prelates accompanied. The Lord Mayor and Aldermen on horseback and the City guilds were ranged along Cheapside. The hat was carried triumphantly at the head of the procession to Westminster, and received at the Abbey door by Abbot Islip and several other abbots, all in their robes of state. For three days the hat reposed on the high altar, and then came Wolsey with a grand retinue from his palace at Charing Cross to the Abbey, and a goodly company of archbishops, bishops, and abbots, performed a solemn service. Wolsey knelt on the altar steps, and the Archbishop of Canterbury put the hat on the new cardinal's head. "Te Deum" was sung, and then the assembled nobles and prelates rode back in state to a grand banquet at Wolsey's palace.

In 1539 the monastery was dissolved, and as the Reformation advanced, various changes took place in the Abbey services. Instead of an abbot, a dean now bore sway. Much of the property of the Abbey was transferred to the great city cathedral, which gave rise to the proverb of "robbing Peter to pay Paul." The hallowed relics disappeared, as well as Llewellyn's crown and other historic mementoes; monuments were damaged, and Edward's bones ejected from their ancient shrine. For a time the Abbey was in real danger, and some of the outlying property was given up to Protector Somerset to induce him to spare the sacred edifice. We read in the convent books of twenty tons of Caen stone being given him from some of the ruined buildings. A few years afterwards it seemed as if the old order of things were going to be restored, and the Spanish husband of Queen Mary attended a grand mass of reconciliation in the Abbey, to signalise the return of England to her ancient faith. Six hundred Spanish courtiers, in robes of white velvet striped with red, attended the king from Whitehall, and the Knights of the Garter joined the procession. The queen was absent, from indisposition. After the long mass, which lasted till two in the afternoon, the king and courtiers adjourned to Westminster Hall, where Cardinal Pole presided over a solemn reconciliation of the English Church with Rome. Soon afterwards King Edward's Shrine was restored and his body replaced therein, several altars were re-erected, and masses and processions went on as of old. But Abbot Feckenham—the last mitred abbot in England—had only ruled for a year when Queen Elizabeth came to the throne, sent Feckenham to prison, threw down the stone altars and transformed the Abbey into the "Collegiate Church of St. Peter, Westminster," which is still the lawful name of the edifice.

Henceforth the Abbey was academic as well as ecclesiastical, and Elizabeth was very proud of her Westminster College.

The old Abbey witnessed some strange scenes in the times of the Puritans. The ecclesiastical vestments had been already sold, the tapestries removed to the Houses of Parliament, the college plate melted down, and Henry VII.'s Chapel despoiled of its brass and iron, when, in 1643, the Abbey was subjected to actual desecration. The Royalist stories of soldiers smoking and singing round the communion table, and playing boisterous games about the church and chapels, have not been proved. But Sir Robert Harley, who had taken down the Eleanor crosses at Cheapside and Charing Cross, destroyed the richly-ornamented altar erected in memory of Edward VI. The crown, sceptre, and coronation robes were brought out of the treasury, and Wither, the poet, was arrayed in them for the amusement of the party engaged in the affair. Soon afterwards these historic national treasures were sold.

For nearly six years the celebrated Westminster Assembly of Divines sat in the Chapel of Henry VII. and the Jerusalem Chamber, compiling catechisms and confessions of faith, which are still of authority amongst the Presbyterians. Whilst the assembly was sitting, Bradshaw (who sentenced Charles I. to death) was living at the deanery. He used to be fond of climbing up into a solitary chamber in the south-western tower, which was long reputed to be haunted by his ghost.

At the Restoration the Protestant services, of course, replaced the Presbyterian ones, and we catch a glimpse of Charles II. conducted round the Dean's Yard by the famous Westminster schoolmaster, Dr. Busby. On this occasion, as the story goes, the doctor kept his hat on his head for fear his boys should think there was a greater man than himself in the world. The Stuarts had learned nothing from adversity, and on May 20th, 1688, an occurrence in the Abbey shows us what was the feeling of the nation. On that day Dean Sprat began to read King James's Declaration of Indulgence. Immediately, there was such a tumultuous noise in the church that nobody could hear him speak. Before he had finished, the congregation had disappeared, and only the officials and Westminster scholars remained gazing at the dean, who could scarcely hold the proclamation for trembling.

I want now to call your attention once more to the Chapel of Henry VII., in which the banners of the Knights of the Bath form a conspicuous feature. We first heard of these knights in connection with the coronation of Richard II. They rode in the coronation processions till the end of the seventeenth century. It was originally the custom at each coronation for a number of knights to be created before the royal procession started from the Tower. For a long time they were not connected with any special order, but as the bath formed a conspicuous feature in the ceremonies of their creation, they gradually assumed in consequence the name of Knights of the Bath. The king used to bathe with them, all being placed in large baths and then wrapped up in blankets. In 1725 the order was reconstructed; membership in it was henceforth to be the reward of merit. William, Duke of Cumberland, afterwards known as the "Butcher of Culloden," was the first knight under the new rules. He was only four years of age, and was accordingly excused from the bath, but presented his little sword at the altar. To suit the number of stalls in the chapel the number of knights was limited to thirty-six. After the installation ceremonies the royal cook stood by the Abbey door with a cleaver, and threatened to strike off the spurs of any unworthy member of the order. Extensive alterations were made in the order in 1839, and no banners have since been added to those hanging in the chapel. The banner of Earl Dundonald was taken down in 1814, and kicked down the chapel steps in consequence of charges of fraud brought against him. In after years these charges were disproved, and on the day of his funeral in 1860, the banner, by command of the Queen, was again placed in its ancient position.



THEIR ROAD TO FORTUNE.

THE STORY OF TWO BROTHERS.

By the Author of "The Heir of Elmdale," &c. &c.

CHAPTER X.—EDDIE'S ENEMY.

Mr. Clair was very much surprised the next morning by a visit from Mr. Murray. Bertie had quite forgotten to mention anything about his meeting with him till he heard the visitor announced, and then it was too late for explanations. It was quite enough for Uncle Clair and Aunt Amy to know that he was a friend of the boys' to ensure a kindly and cordial welcome, but Eddie looked rather black at the visitor, and greeted him coldly.

As the children were on the point of going out, Mr. Murray said they ought to be off, and not lose another moment of the morning sunshine. "The sun and fresh air you get before noon, and the sleep before midnight, are what make strong, healthy, wealthy men and women of you," he said; "so be off, and perhaps I shall find you on the beach later on."

Rather reluctantly Eddie followed Bertie, who was already half-way down the stairs. "I wonder what he wanted?" he grumbled, when they reached their favourite haunt beside an old boat just above high water mark, where Agnes almost directly afterwards joined them. "To see how badly off we are, I suppose. I don't like meeting any one who ever knew us at Riversdale."

"Why, Eddie?" Bertie asked, in open-mouthed wonder. "I thought you would be delighted to see an old friend. I was, I can tell you, when I met him yesterday."

"Oh! you saw him before? I suppose you asked him to come and see us," Eddie cried angrily.

"No, I didn't; he said he would come himself, and asked for Uncle Clair's address; and he was always very good to us, Eddie: he gave me a steam-engine, don't you remember? and you a box of paints. He used to call you a little genius when he came to Riversdale. He's a dear old man, Agnes," Bertie added, turning in search of sympathy from his brother's gloomy face.

"I don't like any one who knew us when we were rich to see us now," Eddie cried suddenly. "They must despise us!"

"Eddie," Agnes cried, a world of reproach in her voice, and sudden tears in her soft eyes, on hearing what he had said, "Eddie dear, how can you say so? how can you ever think such dreadful things? as if it matters a bit whether people are rich or poor, so long as they do right!"



"But we're not poor," Bertie cried exultantly: "that's the fun of it! Why, we have everything we want, haven't we? Everything," he repeated, with a comprehensive glance all round, and an eloquent wave of his somewhat tarry hands. "Why, we're never cold or hungry, or anything. Eddie should come to the City for a while, if he wants to see poor people. Why, I know a fellow in a warehouse near us—Watts his name is—who has only one arm, and gets eighteen shillings a week. He has a wife and a number of children, and he has to walk four miles every morning to work, and four home again, because he can't afford fourpence for a 'bus.' Oh, yes!" he continued; "if Eddie wants to know what it is to be poor, let him come to the City!"

"I thought people in the City were rich," Eddie said, looking interested for a moment. "Uncle Gregory said you were to make your fortune."

"Yes," Bertie replied, slowly and thoughtfully, "there's a lot of rich people; but it seems as if there were twenty thousand times more people very poor. I don't understand it at all."

"Nor I," said Agnes, in a very low voice; "but I agree with you, Bertie: we're not poor a bit; but oh dear! I was poor before poor papa died; we often had nothing to eat but bread for days, and such a little mite of fire. But why didn't you tell us, Bertie, that you met the gentleman yesterday?"

"Just at first I forgot. You remember when I went up for that fishing-line and hooks, and Teddy said we might fish from the chain pier; I found you all gone there, and I ran after you as fast as ever I could. While we were fishing I forgot everything, though I caught nothing, and then, when I did think of it, I thought perhaps you wouldn't care to know that our cousins are here."

Bertie spoke quickly, with flushed cheeks, averted eyes, and a good deal of confusion.

"Our Cousins Dick and Harry Gregory?" Eddie said quietly.

"Yes; they and aunt were with Mr. Murray; and he asked me ever such a lot of questions and said the funniest things. Of course he never had heard a word of poor papa's death, and how we had to leave Riversdale; and how he did pucker his eyebrows over it! And when I said I was in Uncle Gregory's office, and you were with Uncle Clair learning to be an artist, you should see how he wrinkled his forehead and scowled! Then he asked me how I came to be here, and I told him, and how near I came to missing you all, and I wondered whatever I should have done if I had. He said I might have had a very happy time with my cousins: gone in a yacht to the Isle of Wight and round the Land's End; and I couldn't help looking surprised. It showed how little he knew of Aunt Gregory, though he was with her; and then he said he'd call and see Uncle Clair, and I forgot to tell him, and that's all. Let us go and have a swim, Eddie, and perhaps Agnes will like to rest here for a while."

For answer, Eddie threw himself on the smooth pebbly beach, and hiding his face on his folded arms, sobbed bitterly, wildly almost. Bertie looked and listened in dumb, helpless amazement. Eddie crying! it seemed absurd, impossible! The rough, hardy, resolute boy would not have cried in such a place for anything, "not," he said afterwards, in confidence, to Agnes, "not if he had a tooth pulled out!" and that, in Bertie's idea, was the climax of human misery, the height of human endurance. But Eddie's sobs continued for a long time without either Agnes or Bertie attempting to offer any consolation, for the simple reason that they did not know in the least what was the matter with him. Once, indeed, Agnes ventured to ask timidly if he were ill, and the answer was such a rough "No, leave me alone!" that she sat and looked at Bertie for what seemed two hours, and was in reality about nine or ten minutes.

The pains and passions, as well as the pleasures of childhood are very fleeting, after all, and Eddie Rivers, in spite of his fifteen years, was a very child, so that he recovered himself quickly, and looked round with an expression of shameful defiance; but on Bertie's puzzled and Agnes' sorrowful face he saw neither contempt nor amusement, and he stammered out a sort of apology.

"I'm very sorry, Bertie, but I could not help it."

"Poor Eddie!" Agnes whispered sympathetically.

"I'm glad you are all right, Ted," Bertie cried, with an uncomfortable feeling in his throat. "I thought you were going to be really bad."

"So I was, 'really bad,' Bert," Eddie answered, with a very unusual accession of gentleness and humility. "I didn't like anybody or anything a moment ago; I thought you were very selfish. I quite disliked those unkind Gregory boys; I thought Mr. Murray came to see us just to make fun of us. I was as wicked and miserable as ever I could be, and I do wish we had our dear ponies, and could ride every day like other boys, instead of moping down here on the beach."

"I thought you liked it, Eddie. I do, over anything," Bertie replied, looking quite serious; "and I'm sure if Uncle Clair knew you wanted a pony badly, he would let you have one. Why didn't you tell him?"

Eddie flushed angrily, and turned aside a little impatiently. "Uncle Clair is far too good to me already. You don't understand me a bit, Bertie: you never did; or you either, Agnes—no, you don't. You are both quite happy and contented, but I'm not."

"Why?" Bertie asked. "Do, tell us, Eddie! Oh, I know! it's because you have an enemy, and I believe he makes you think all kinds of absurd things. Just tell me who he is, Ted, and I'll thrash him," Bertie whispered eagerly.

"Thrash whom? I don't understand you, Bert." Eddie looked up with a sudden appearance of interest, and Agnes drew a little away: she did not quite understand the turn matters were taking; but Bertie meant to talk the "enemy" question over thoroughly, and pulled Agnes back to add her persuasions to his.

But Eddie looked so thoroughly amazed, that Bertie was quite at a loss how to go on. If his brother had an enemy, he did not seem to know anything about it; still, there were Uncle Clair's words: they must mean something; and at last he repeated them, and said he was determined not to have poor Eddie worried by any one in the world.

"Do you know what it means, Agnes? I don't. Do you know what Uncle Clair meant?"

"I think I can guess," she replied, without looking at either of her cousins. "I believe uncle meant that Eddie's enemy was himself, because you know, dear, very often you won't let yourself be happy, and make yourself quite miserable about nothing at all."

"Oh!" Eddie said, after a long silence, "do you think Uncle Clair meant that?"

"Here he is, and Mr. Murray too," Bertie said, jumping up, and springing forward, forgetting that poor Eddie's face still bore traces of his recent distress, and that Agnes too looked very sad, and not a bit inclined for company. They had not Bertie's happy knack of shaking off unpleasant sensations and being cheerful in a moment. However, Uncle Clair and Mr. Murray were standing beside them, and there was nothing for it but to make the best of the situation, though Eddie, at least, would have gladly been alone, to think over Agnes' words, and ask himself if he really was his own enemy.

CHAPTER XI.—BERTIE GOES BACK TO BUSINESS.

Mr. Murray's conversation with Mr. Clair had been a long and interesting one, as far as the boys were concerned. Mr. Murray heard every particular of Mr. Rivers' losses which Mr. Clair knew, and also gained a good insight into the character and temper of the lads. What he heard of Bertie pleased him greatly, especially as it agreed exactly with what Mr. Gregory said; about Eddie he looked a little grave, and puckered up his forehead for full five minutes, as Mr. Clair described his restlessness, discontent, and want of application, and, worst of all, the foolish idea that he was really very clever, and very much misunderstood and unappreciated by his relatives.

"The boy is fairly clever, but he's not a genius," Mr. Clair said. "If he would only work, he might get on; but Eddie prefers to dream noble things rather than do them; he will spend hours looking at beautiful pictures, and then nearly break his childish heart because he can't do something equally good. His ideas, his ambitions, are excellent, but he will not work."

"Is there no other profession he might get on better at? Would he make a lawyer, or a doctor, do you think?" Mr. Murray asked.

"I'm afraid not; he really wants to be an artist; besides, he's so proud and sensitive, that he never would make his way in the world if he had to mix with people, and fight for a place. Poor Eddie, I am sorry for him," Mr. Clair said, kindly. "He has such an unhappy disposition."

"And the little girl?" Mr. Murray said. "How is she provided for? She is Frank Rivers' child, I think you said?"

"Yes; and she's the worst off of them all. Being a girl, and so delicate, I really do not see what's to become of her if anything should happen to us. It's a great pity she is not stronger," Mr. Clair remarked; "she has a wonderful talent for drawing, and is the most patient, painstaking, intelligent pupil I ever met. If Eddie had only half her diligence, he would get on much better."

Then he heard of the peculiarly solitary life Bertie led at Kensington, and listened in wonder, while Mr. Clair said Eddie was never asked to his uncle's, had never seen his cousins, and that he did not even know the Gregorys were in Brighton.

"You see, we are very different sort of people, Mr. Murray: our tastes, habits, and manner of life are so widely apart, that it is perhaps all for the best that we should not meet frequently. Still, he is Eddie's uncle: the boys are his first cousins; it seems a little odd that they should be complete strangers."

"Odd! why, it's very strange. I can't comprehend it!" Mr. Murray cried, looking quite fierce. "I must make them better acquainted. Ah! I've hit on the very thing. I'm going to take the Gregory boys for a trip in my yacht along the south coast; the Rivers lads shall come too. You must all come: there's nothing to make people acquainted and set them at their ease like a few days at sea in a small craft. Promise me you will join us. We start on Monday morning, and will land you anywhere, and at any time you like. A week's cruise would do you all good."

"I'm afraid you must excuse us, Mr. Murray. We should not be a very welcome addition to your party," Uncle Clair said, coldly. "I have no desire to force my acquaintance on Mr. Gregory."

"He's not coming with us, in the first place, and even if he were, I suppose I am at liberty to choose what guests I please to accompany me on my trip?" Mr. Murray cried, almost fiercely; "but"—turning to Mrs. Clair—"we need not discuss that point: it's the children we were talking about. It would be a first-rate opportunity for both lads to make friends with their cousins."

"Yes," Aunt Amy answered, thoughtfully. "They have so few friends in the world, poor children, that it would be a sad pity to miss a chance of increasing them. I feel half inclined to accept your kind invitation for the children's sake, but we have arranged to return home a week from Monday, and I almost fear my husband's engagements will not permit him to remain another day."

"Very well, Mrs. Clair; a week will, I think, be sufficient for our purpose. I'll find out in that time what the lads are really made of. I've had so many boys grow up under my eye, that I can read them pretty accurately now, and what's more, study them when they least imagine I'm thinking of them. As for your husband, he wants three months' complete rest, and a cruise to the Mediterranean in my yacht; and he shall have it, later on!" and Mr. Murray seeming as if he were in a fearful passion with some one, frowned quite terribly, and shook his head fiercely, whereas he was only making a very kind and generous proposal to a poor artist, who could never afford more than a brief holiday, and always had, so to speak, to carry his profession along with him. Mr. Clair, however, did not seem very pleased with the suggestion, however much he might like it—and in his own mind he felt that he really needed just such a complete rest and change of scene, soft climate, and freedom from all care and anxiety, to enable him to shake himself free from a strange feeling of dulness and languor that had been stealing over him lately, and a sort of mental depression that was harder to bear than actual illness. But three months away from his pupils and work seemed absolutely out of the question to Mr. Clair, therefore he did not let his mind dwell on it, but returned to the question of the children.



"While I thank you for your very kind proposal, Mr. Murray, I'll make no promises; let the boys choose for themselves. Bertie, of course, must obtain his Uncle Gregory's permission, as he promised, without fail, to be back at the office on Monday morning. I will not ever stand in the way of the boys' pleasure or profit, but I think it is truer kindness to have them go along quietly on the paths they have chosen. Bertie is happy and contented enough now, but he's a high-spirited lad, fond of the sea almost passionately; a voyage, be it ever so short, may unsettle his mind for the office. Eddie is discontented enough already; I don't really see what good can come of it. Of course, I don't really think that either of the boys is going to make his fortune, recover Riversdale, and live there in peace and plenty, ease and indolence, ever after. That's a pretty poetical little romance, and serves to cheer the children, and make their sudden change of circumstance more bearable, but I know they will have to fight the battle of life each by himself, and quite unaided. Neither possesses a magic wand to conjure up a fortune."

"And why not, pray? Has not many a London 'prentice lad found that magic wand in honest hard work and strict integrity? Why not Bertie Rivers as well as another? But let it be as you say: leave it to the boys' own choice. Suppose we go out and find them."

Mr. Clair went very willingly, and seemed as if he would be glad to have the whole matter settled. Aunt Amy smiled encouragingly; she was really anxious that the young cousins should know and love each other, and felt almost sure that Eddie would be much happier if he had some friends of his own age, especially if they were clever boys, who would make him feel anxious to shine in their eyes, and excel at least in his beloved painting, and that he talked so much of and performed so little.

Mr. Murray and Mr. Clair had not joined the children on the beach many minutes before Uncle Gregory came along with his two sons, one walking demurely on either side. When they came to the little group sitting and lounging in somewhat undignified fashion under the lee of the old tarry boat, they paused, Mr. Gregory looking somewhat astonished and scandalised at seeing his old friend Mr. Murray—Murray and Co., one of the most respected "houses" in the City of London—sprawling full-length, with his hat over his eyes, while Mr. Clair made an accurate two-inch sketch of him; but no matter what Mr. Murray did or said, he was in a sense privileged, and Mr. Gregory greeted him cordially, shook hands with Mr. Clair a little more stiffly, and introduced his sons. Bertie, at the first approach of his uncle Gregory, had edged to the other side of the boat, and watched the proceedings with an amused twinkle in his eyes, that peered about half an inch over the keel. Eddie was gravely polite, Agnes painfully shy, and Uncle Clair seemed to have become quite a grand gentleman too in a moment; but Mr. Murray never moved, and actually asked Mr. Gregory to sit down, pointing to a vacant scrap of pebbly beach, and indicating the tarry boat as something to lean against. At the proposition Bertie disappeared altogether: it was too absurd to see Uncle Gregory's expression of wonder, and he had to stuff his cap into his mouth to avoid laughing aloud, but Mr. Murray did not seem to mind a bit.

"Rather stand, eh? Yes, of course; I dare say you do get sitting down enough. I was just wanting to see you, to ask a favour. Can you give this lad—where is he, Bertie"—Bertie emerged solemn-faced, and rather scared, from the other side of the boat, and bowed to his uncle—"can you give this youngster another week's holiday? I want him and his brother, and this lassie here, to come for a sail with your boys. Mr. and Mrs. Clair have also kindly promised to join us for a week, so that we shall be quite a pleasant party, eh, lads? You would like it."

Dick and Harry Gregory instinctively drew nearer to their father, and their faces expressed anything but lively satisfaction at the proposal. On the other side, Eddie and Agnes had glanced at each other, and edged behind Uncle Clair, who had resumed his sketching; only Eddie and Mr. Gregory looked straight at each other, and old Mr. Murray from under his shaggy eyebrows watched them both.

"Well, Bertie, would you like to go on this excursion very much?" Uncle Gregory asked, in his hardest voice, and with his most chilling smile.

"No, thank you, uncle. I would rather go back to the office on Monday morning."

"Thank you, Bert," Eddie whispered, giving his brother's hand a hearty squeeze. "Of course we can't go without you."

Indeed, Bertie's words seemed to have brought a sort of relief to the whole party. Mr. Gregory's smile was quite pleasant as he laid his hand on the boy's head.

"You're quite right," he said, genially. "You and I are business people, and can't afford taking holidays at random. We will go up to town together, Bertie, on Monday morning, and I hope the others will enjoy their trip."

"I'm sure Eddie will not care to go without Bertie," Uncle Clair said, rising. "We must only wait for some more favourable opportunity for becoming better acquainted with your lads, Mr. Gregory. Now, children, it's dinner-time, and your Aunt Amy will be waiting. If you will join us"—turning to Uncle Gregory—"it will give us much pleasure."

"Not to-day, thank you, as I have an engagement; but Mrs. Gregory will take an early opportunity of waiting on Mrs. Clair;" and after a great many ceremonious bows and smiles, they separated; Mr. Gregory, his sons, and Mr. Murray (frowning, shaking his head, clenching his hands in the most ridiculous manner) going one way, Uncle Clair, with Agnes clinging to his arm, and Eddie and Bertie behind, hurrying away in the opposite direction; but not a single word was spoken till they reached the house, and then Aunt Amy saw by their faces that the old gentleman's good-natured plan had failed, for that time, at least; but if she thought for a moment that Mr. Murray gave up an idea so easily after once forming it, it showed that she knew nothing whatever either of his goodness of heart or force of character.

CHAPTER XII.—AN EXCITING ADVENTURE.

Though Bertie looked cheerful enough as he walked with Uncle Clair and Eddie to the railway station on Monday morning, he could not help feeling very sorry at having to leave Brighton. The weather was so glorious, the sea all rippling and dancing in the morning sunshine, the streets so full of merry pleasure-seekers, that going back to the office in Mincing Lane was dull enough. They Were very sorry to lose him, too: there could be no mistake about that; ever since he had so promptly declined for them all Mr. Murray's invitation, they felt a sort of respectful admiration for him, though from very different reasons. Uncle Clair thought it was very sensible to return to town when his Uncle Gregory so clearly wished it; Eddie and Agnes thought it was quite splendid of him to have saved them from becoming more intimately acquainted with their cousins; while the latter, in their lofty, patronising way, considered Bertie was not such a bad sort of fellow, and they would be kinder to him when they got back home, but they certainly did not want to have to introduce him to their Eton friends, Lionel and Arthur Delamere, whom Mr. Murray had given them leave to invite. They would be sure to ask where Eddie and Bertie went to school, and so, of course, hear all about the office; besides, Eddie looked so proud and reserved, he would hardly prove an agreeable companion, nor was Mr. Clair regarded very favourably. Mr. Murray was more annoyed by the failure of his plan than any one else, and yet he felt in a way that Bertie was quite right, for his Uncle Gregory would not easily have forgiven him had he acted differently.

Mr. Gregory was not at the station when they arrived, but just as the train was starting he came up, and after one quick glance up and down the platform, entered a carriage without having recognised Uncle Clair or Eddie, and Bertie found himself in a compartment with several strange gentlemen, who each had a newspaper that he turned over eagerly, and Bertie could not help wishing that he too had something to read, though I think he would have preferred either Don Quixote or Robinson Crusoe. Then he fell to wondering what Eddie and Agnes were doing: whether they were on the beach reading or sketching, and thinking how nice it would be to meet them at the station on next Saturday afternoon, when they purposed returning home, have the cabs all engaged, and then go back with them to Fitzroy Square. After a time his head fell back into the corner, and from thinking, Bertie fell into a pleasant dream, from which he was aroused by a gentle touch. A gentleman was searching for a small bag, which had slipped behind Bertie.

"Sorry to trouble you; thanks," he said, when he had found it. Then leaning forward towards the gentleman opposite, he took out a packet of papers neatly tied up. "It's very provoking," he said. "I came down here on Saturday to get the governor's signature, and could not find trace or tidings of him. He left an hour before I arrived, and if I don't find him somewhere in town to-day, it will be a serious loss to our firm."

"You can afford it," the gentleman said, smiling.

"Yes; but our manager will be none the less angry about it. However, I can't help it;" and then they talked about the money market and other matters, till Bertie fell asleep again, and did not awake till they reached London Bridge. There Mr. Gregory saw him, and gave him a seat in his hansom, and the last thing Bertie saw as he left the platform was the gentleman with his little black bag in his hand, hurrying along as if for his life.

Bertie was very busy that morning: there were a great many letters to be addressed and notices copied out; his uncle seemed hasty and impatient, spoke harshly, and once or twice said he believed Bertie had left his brains in Brighton. Then the office was very stuffy and gloomy, for though the day was bright enough outside, very little sunshine found its way through the dusty ground glass windows of the office in Mincing Lane. Never in his life had Bertie so longed for luncheon-time; his head ached, and more than once a great lump seemed to grow suddenly in his throat as he thought of his past holidays; but the City at luncheon-time is not the best possible place for dreaming or moping, and before he had gone a hundred yards from the office door he came into violent collision with a gentleman running down the steps of another office, who, without pausing even to apologise, sprang into a cab that was waiting, without observing that he had dropped a small leather bag he held in his hand. Bertie, whose hat had been knocked off in the encounter, stooped to pick it up, picked up the bag at the same time, and glanced at the hansom fast disappearing amongst the crowd of others. It was no use to shout, much less to run, but having begun to learn to think, he acted with a good deal of decision. Hailing another cab that chanced to be near, he bade the driver follow the one that had just started, as the gentleman had dropped something, and the cabby, who had witnessed the whole transaction, nodded and drove on; but a few minutes had been lost; the first vehicle was a private one, with a good horse, Bertie's was a worn-out old creature, that ought not to have been in harness at all, so that it was just as much as the driver could do to keep it in sight. In the City, owing to several blocks, they almost lost it; and when they got into more fashionable regions amongst the less-frequented streets and quiet squares of the West End, matters were still worse, but at length, turning suddenly round a corner, they saw the identical cab standing before a large, gloomy-looking house, and its occupant speaking hurriedly to another gentleman on the steps. Bertie sprang out and ran up, flushed, breathless, and excited.

"If you please, sir, you dropped this in Mincing Lane," he said, "and I followed you as quickly as ever I could."

One of the gentlemen uttered a little cry of dismay, and almost staggered against the railing for support. In his hurry and confusion, his eagerness to deliver a pressing message, and get the documents back to the City, he had not discovered their loss at all. The other gentleman caught the boy by the arm, and then uttered an exclamation of still greater astonishment. "Oh! Bertie Rivers, I see. So you found my clerk's bag?"

"Yes, sir," Bertie replied, very much surprised to discover in the same moment that one speaker was Mr. Murray, the other the gentleman who had come up in the train with him that morning, the bag the very one that had excited his curiosity on two previous occasions, and caused him to be disturbed from his pleasant dream.

"How did you know the person it belonged to? Why did you come here with it?" Mr. Murray asked, after a keen, searching glance at Bertie's face. He was a shrewd, suspicious old gentleman, who had been deceived many times in his life, much imposed upon, and therefore very cautious of whom he trusted. Still, Bertie Rivers' face was truthful and frank enough to satisfy anybody as he replied that he did not know in the least to whom the bag belonged; "but I was going to my luncheon, sir, and I ran against this gentleman; my hat got knocked off, and when I stooped to pick it up I saw the bag. I felt sure the gentleman dropped it, and I called; but he had driven off, so I just hailed another hansom, and told the driver to follow the one just started. He said, 'I saw it all,' and drove as quick as he could, and—that's all, sir."

"No, no, there's something more; you must tell me all about it presently," and Mr. Murray pushed Bertie before him into a magnificent library. "You sit there for ten minutes, while I see to this business," and he turned to the clerk, who had followed him. "Give me the papers, and while I sign them thank that lad. He has done you a good turn to-day."

The clerk thanked Bertie cordially, and at length Mr. Murray stood up, thrust the papers into the bag, and with a curious glance, which seemed to say plainly, "I'll see you later on about this," dismissed the man by a wave of his hand, then he turned to Bertie, and caught him glancing at the clock with much uneasiness.

"Now then, boy, you have done me a very great service to-day; what can I do for you in return?"

Bertie flushed, hung his head, and then looked up resolutely. "If you would be so kind as to pay the cabman," he stammered. "I forgot when I engaged him that I had spent nearly all my pocket-money, and it takes three days to get any from the savings' bank, and I—I couldn't ask Uncle Gregory."

"Of course not; besides, the cab came here on my business: it's my duty to pay him, else I would not do it. Here, run out and give him this," and Mr. Murray handed him a sovereign; "then come back to me."

"Please, sir, will you excuse me?" Bertie said earnestly. "I am so afraid to be late."

"It can't be helped this time, Bertie. You must have something to eat, and I'm going into the City presently, and will call and explain matters to your uncle; but you must go in first and tell your own story, because I don't want to deprive you of his praise when he hears what a shrewd, honest boy you've been. Come on, and have luncheon with me, and tell me why you said you preferred returning to the office to going for a week's cruise in my yacht. I am really very anxious, Bertie Rivers, to know what good reason you could have had for that very strange decision of yours. Were you afraid of offending your Uncle Gregory?"

(To be continued.)



ALL ABOUT SNAILS.



German country children have a quaint little rhyme to ask the snail to put out his horns. Translated, its meaning is like this:—

"Snail, snail, your four horns show, Show me the four, and don't say 'No,' Or I shall pitch you into the ditch, And the crows that come to the ditch to sup, Will gobble you up, gobble you up!"

In some parts of the south of England the children invite the snail out still less politely. They chant over and over:—

"Snail, snail, come out of your hole, Or else I'll beat you as black as a coal!"

This sounds very cruel, but they can't mean it, can they? Near Exeter the country children have a more fanciful rhyme:—

"Snail, snail, shove out your horns, Father and mother are dead, Brother and sister are in the back-yard, Begging for barley-bread."

The snail's parents and relations are meant, not their own. This reminds us of what the little brown Italian children say in Naples; they sing to the snail to look out and show his horns, as the snail-mamma is laughing at him because she has now a better little snail at home. In some parts of the south of Ireland there is a prettier rhyme than any of these, and it asks him to come out to see a great visitor:—

"Shell-a-muddy, shell-a-muddy, Put out your horns, For the king's daughter is coming to town, In a red petticoat and a green gown!"

The children who sing these rhymes think that if only they sing them often enough, the horns will be put out at last. They have picked up the snail, and he has tucked himself into his shell. After awhile, when his first fright has worn off, perhaps he puts out his head just to see where he is, or to look if the big live thing that startled him has gone away.

The four snails in the picture have come out for a walk by the light of the moon; they like to go out on fine dry nights, because when the weather is dry they have been all day hidden in some corner of a lane or garden. On wet days in summer weather they go out at all hours, always carrying their little shell-houses on their backs, and ready at a moment's notice to tuck themselves in, horns and all. One notices the two long horns most, but they have another pair of very small ones as well. In winter they sleep all the time in some crevice of an old garden wall, or in a little hole in the ground covered with moss and leaves.

We often hear of "fattening-up" geese and turkeys, but how funny it sounds to talk of fattening up a snail. The Romans, long, long ago, kept snails in special gardens and fattened them on meal and boiled wine, and ate them at their feasts. There are still snail-gardens in many places on the Continent, but they are not fed on boiled wine now. In England, as late as James the First's time, they were made into a favourite dish with sauce and spices. The Italian peasants think large brown snails a great treat; and the gipsies in many places make dinners and suppers of the common little "shell-a-muddies." A larger kind are sold still at Covent Garden Market, London, to be taken as a cure by people who are ill.



LITTLE MARGARET'S KITCHEN, AND WHAT SHE DID IN IT.—X.

By PHILLIS BROWNE, Author of "A Year's Cookery," "What Girls can Do," &c.

"Apple fritters to-day," said Margaret.

"Yes, apple fritters to-day," replied Mary. "Won't it be delightful, miss?"

"Let me see," said Mrs. Herbert, coming into the room at the moment, "we are going to make something special to-day. Whatever is it?"

"Apple fritters!" said both the children in one breath.

"Oh yes, to be sure! It is apple fritters. You would not like to broil a mutton chop instead, would you, Margaret?"

"Certainly not, mother!"

"Then we must take broiling for our next lesson. It will be all the better, for I see cook has put the apples and the materials for the batter ready for us. So let us set to work."

"But, mother, what do you think?" said Margaret, as she came up to the table and looked round, "cook has made the batter for us; and we wanted to make it ourselves. Is it not a pity?"

"Cook has partly made it, dear, because I told her to do so. Batter is best when mixed some time before it is wanted. The whites of eggs, however, are not put in until a few minutes before the batter is used; so that part of making the batter has been left for you."

"It does not signify very much," said Mary; "we learnt how to make batter when we made pancakes."

"This batter is not made in the same way, though, as pancake-batter," said Mrs. Herbert. "This is frying-batter, and it is mixed differently. I will tell you how to mix it, and you must try to remember."

"We will write it down," said Margaret. "I have written down all the recipes you have given us, so far, in a copy-book, and I am going to keep them as long as I live."

"A very good plan. Listen then. Put a quarter of a pound of flour, with a pinch of salt, into a bowl, pour in two table-spoonfuls of salad-oil, stir a little of the flour with this, and add a gill (which is a quarter of a pint, you know) of tepid water. Beat the batter till it is quite smooth and no lumps remain. Thus much cook has done for us."

"Tepid water is water that is not hot enough to burn, is it not, ma'am?" said Mary, inquiringly.

"That is not at all a safe rule to lay down. I should say, tepid water is made by mixing two parts of cold with one part boiling water."

"Shall I strain off and beat the whites of the eggs, mother?" said Margaret; "I can do that, you know."

"Yes, dear. You will need the whites of two eggs, and they must be beaten till very stiff. When they are ready you mix them lightly into the batter. Meantime Mary can peel the apples. Peel the skin off very thinly, Mary, and stamp out the core with the little instrument called the apple-corer. You see, it does the business very quickly. If we had no apple-corer, we should either have to scoop out the core with the point of a knife, when we should be in danger of cutting our fingers, or we should have to take it from the slices separately. These apples must be cut in slices across the core, you understand, before we can make the fritters."

"How thick must the slices be, please, ma'am?" said Mary.

"Not thick at all. They must be as thin as you can cut them to keep them whole. You will do very well if you can cut them all evenly, thin as a shilling. Do you see that we wish to cook the apple inside, as well as the batter outside it, and the thinner it is the more quickly it will cook?"

Very busily Mary worked, but Margaret had beaten her egg-whites, and stirred them in, long before she had finished.

"May I help Mary, mother?" then said Margaret, who did not enjoy waiting.

"Yes, dear; you can prepare one apple, if you like. Before doing so, however, put the fat on the fire. It was strained into a fresh saucepan to be ready for us. It will take a little time to boil; but we must use it the moment it boils. Remember that every minute, I might say every second, that fat remains on the fire after it boils, and without being used, it is spoiling."

"You will have to be quick, mother, if you are going to use the fat as soon as it boils;" said Margaret after a minute or two. "It is boiling already; see, it is bubbling all over. What shall I do? Shall I take it off the fire?"

"It does not boil yet, dear; wait till it boils."

"But, mother, look. It is bubbling fast. Oh, no, it is not; it is quieting down. How very strange! and I had not lifted it from the fire."

"This is exactly what I wanted you to find out. Water, when it boils, bubbles and spirts; fat is still when it boils. If you watch this fat, it will become quite still."

"How shall we know, then, when it boils?"

"By watching it carefully. When you see a thin blue fume rising from it, it is hot enough. That is the sign. If you do not look closely it may escape your notice, for it is only a thin fume you want, not a thick smoke. If we were to let the fat remain till it smoked it would be spoilt."

"Oh dear, how careful we have to be!" said Margaret.

"The slices of apple are quite ready, ma'am," said Mary.

"And the batter is quite ready," said Margaret.

"I see too, that cook has put a dish with kitchen paper on it for us to put the fritters on as they are fried. And there is the fume. Do you see it, children?"

"No, I see nothing," said Margaret.

"And I see nothing," said Mary.

"Look closely. Hold this piece of black paper behind, that will help you. Be quick, we must not let the fat burn."

"Oh yes, I think I see something," said Margaret, who seemed rather bewildered. "But I thought——"

"Think and work together, dear; we have no time to lose. Take a slice of apple on a skewer, dip it in the batter, and when it is completely covered, lift it up and drop it in the fat. Now do the same to another, and another. You can fry two or three at once if only you are careful that the fritters do not touch. As the batter blows out and forms fritters, turn them over that they may be equally coloured on both sides. They must be very pale brown, or rather fawn-coloured; on no account let them get very brown."

"How shall we get them out?" said Margaret.

"Lift them by the skewer, and put them straight away on the paper to drain. You should put everything on kitchen paper after frying before you dish it; do not let things lie one on top of another, or they will be spoilt."

"There, all the first ones are out," said Mary. "Shall we put some more slices of apple in?"

"Wait a moment. You see there are two or three little specks of batter which have got away all by themselves in the fat. We must take them out at once with the skimmer, or they will burn and spoil the colour of our fat. Also we must let the fat get hot again, watching for the fume between each relay, because the cold batter and the cold apple will make our fat a little cool. It will heat in a moment or two, but we must have it properly hot, or the fritters will be greasy."

"I should have thought they would have been greasy with being put into such a quantity of fat," said Margaret.

"No fear of that, if only the fat is hot enough. If the fat is not hot, they will be most unpleasant; but if the fat is hot the heat will cook the outside so quickly that the grease cannot get in, while that which is on the surface will dry instantly."

"How quickly the fritters are cooked!" said Mary. "I never saw anything like it."

"I thing frying fritters is even more interesting than frying pancakes," said Margaret.

"How pretty the fritters look, and how crisp they feel when we take them out!" said Mary.

"They will not remain crisp very long, though, not more than five minutes," said Mrs. Herbert. "We must send them in to grandmamma as quickly as possible, if we wish her to have them in perfection. That is why we make so much haste in frying, for fritters have lost their excellence when they have lost their crispness."

"I suppose when we have dried them on the kitchen paper we had better dish them and put them in the oven to keep hot, ma'am."

"No, put them in the screen; they will keep crisper than in the oven. We shall not need to put them anywhere for more than a minute, however, for they are just done. Dish them in a circle, sift a little white sugar on, and they are ready."

"I have enjoyed making apple fritters very much," said Margaret.

"That is well. The best of it is that when you have learnt to make apple fritters you can make fritters of any kind of fruit, for all the fruit fritters are made in the same way. Some fruits are dipped in sugar before being put in the batter, and it needs practice to keep the batter over them. Sometimes fruit is soaked in syrup. Then it must be dried before being dipped in the batter."

"I suppose it would not do to fry meat in batter, would it?" said Mary.

"Certainly it would. You can try it, if you like, one day."

"I should like, very much."

"Very well. Never do anything of this sort unless I am with you though, dear, for fear you should burn yourself. Hot water is very hot, and a little spilt on your hand would pain you very much, but hot fat would pain you much more, and when it is used, a little carelessness might end in a serious accident. Therefore I think small cooks like you ought not to practise frying unless an older person is present to see that everything is safe."

Cook passed through the kitchen as this was said, and the remark evidently met with her approval.

(To be continued.)



WHAT THE MAGIC WORDS MEANT.

A FAIRY STORY.

"It wasn't here last night? and how did it get here? and who nailed it up? and what does it mean?" said Lilla.



"I didn't nail it up," answered a Magpie, who hopped about from morning till night in Lilla's garden, and never left off chattering.

"Of course not," returned Lilla; "I did not suppose that you did. But I should like to understand the meaning of it."

And she gazed up at a great white board that had been fastened to the garden wall. There were several words upon the board, and Lilla softly repeated them.

"Air, all, and, and, earth, go, if, know, me, of, sea, so, through, will, you, you."

"What nonsense! No sense in it at all," said Lilla; "yet they are arranged alphabetically, air, all, two and's, and two you's to finish with."

"Oh, don't begin to calculate the words, or do it quicker," said the Magpie impatiently. "Four fours sixteen. There are just sixteen of them: that is multiplication."

"But not four of each sort," replied Lilla; "only one of most of them. I wish I knew the exact meaning of it all. The only bit of sense I can make out is 'Through will you,' but then there are two you's."

"That is one you for you, and one you for me," answered the Magpie. "What you have got to do is to put all the words into a box, and shake them well up, and we'll go through together."

"Oh!—where?—why—?" exclaimed Lilla, as her foot struck against a silver box with the lid open; and on the ground lay a heap of cards with the words she had read printed upon them. She looked up at the board. There were no longer any words there, so of course they had fallen down.

"Pick them up, and put them in, And you will then the game begin,"

said the Magpie, who thought he was wonderfully clever as he said this to Lilla.

"Is it like making words from letters?" asked Lilla.

"Not at all. There you have to think and find out. Here you have nothing to do but to shake, and when you have shaken long enough, the result will come."

"How shall I know how many times to shake?"

"You won't know," returned the Magpie; "no one will know but the box itself, and the box can tell to a quarter of a shake the right time. Now—through!"

"Through what?"

"Through the board, of course," replied the Magpie. "What else is it meant for?"

"But the thick wall is behind the board, and then the houses! This is not country; it is the town."

"Pooh!" said the Magpie. "Have I learned human speech for nothing? Now——"

And he flew at the board, giving it a gentle peck; and as he did so the board split in two, and the crack widened, until it made an opening large enough for Lilla, with the Magpie on her shoulder, to pass through.

II.

Where?

Ah! that cannot be told until one has heard about the little boy who lived far away in a country that Lilla had never heard of, for she knew nothing about geography. She only knew about the town in which she lived, and that there was a long street in it, and a great cathedral, where she heard music issuing forth as she stood outside it; but she had never been inside, nor had she ever been in any of the grand toy-shops in the street. She had stood gazing in at the windows, and wishing for the dolls, and the dolls'-houses, and the boxes of lambs, and the work-baskets with silver thimbles in them; but there was no one to give her any of these fine things. She lived with an old woman, who was always scolding her, and who was especially angry if she tore her frock or soiled her paletot.



Now, with Rollo, the little boy, it was quite different; he had a mother who was very kind to him, and gave him as many playthings as he wanted. He had also a good old grandfather and a little sister who used to pull his long curls and kiss his rosy cheeks. And Rollo was very happy.

But one day these three died, and Rollo was left alone. Of course Rollo sat down and cried very bitterly: there was nothing else for him to do, as he was but a small boy then. He cried for a long time, and then the sun looked in upon him, and pitied him, and also dried the tears upon his cheeks. Then the sea rolled up on to the shore, and sang "Lullaby, lullaby," so sweetly, that Rollo fell fast asleep. And when he was asleep, the Wind came, and took him in his arms, and carried him away over the hills and valleys, and the great shining lakes and rivers, away, away.

And when Rollo awoke from his sleep, he found himself in a beautiful country, where fruit was ever to be found upon the trees, and the flowers were always in bloom. The sun, the wind, the earth, and the sea had said, "He shall be our child."

So Rollo was well taken care of, and nothing harmed him.

And it was in this very same beautiful country to which Rollo had been carried by the Wind that Lilla suddenly found herself when she stepped through the board with the Magpie on her shoulder.

III.

"It isn't the town, you see," said the Magpie; "there's not a house near, and there's nothing but country, country everywhere."

"Oh, it's lovely!" said Lilla, clasping her hands; and then suddenly remembering the silver box, she said—

"Shall I shake it?"

The Magpie nodded, and repeated these words—

"Ay, shake away; ay, shake away; You p'r'aps must shake for many a day, Before the end comes to our play. But shake away, 'twill make us gay, And help to cheer us on our way."

"The box?" exclaimed Lilla.

"No, what's in it. It's a magic spell, and when you can spell it out the spell will be accomplished." As "accomplished" was a long word for the Magpie to say, he said it twice or thrice, whilst Lilla kept shaking the box, for she was very impatient to know what the end would be.

The Magpie fluttered his wings, and put his head on one side, muttering—

"Not yet, not yet."

IV.

There came a burst of low sweet music, as if the south wind were murmuring through the strings of many Aeolian harps. And chiming in with the music came the far-off roar of the ocean. Then a flood of sunshine fell over the earth, and the roses burst into bloom, so did the eglantine, that had been hiding away till the sun gave the signal.

"Rollo passes by," said the Magpie.

"Rollo?"

"The child beloved by earth and sea and wind," said the Magpie. "Give the box a shake, and look up."

Lilla did as she was desired.

"I only see a purple cloud," she said. "Does Rollo come from the clouds?"

"Rollo lives here, so do not fear, The Multiphobus his course can steer,"

answered the Magpie, looking straight at Lilla.



"Multi——" and here Lilla stopped. She had never heard the word before.

"The Multiphobus," said the Magpie; and he spelt it over for her.

"Yes, the Multiphobus. What is a Multiphobus?"

"A creature that can do many things. He can live on the earth or in the sea or in the air. He can run, swim, or fly, just as Rollo wishes. Rollo is riding on the Multiphobus now. If you look up into the air you will see him."

Lilla looked up, and perceived that what she had taken for a great purple cloud sailing through the sky was in reality an extraordinary animal, partly like a panther, partly like a hippopotamus, partly like a bat and an eagle, for it had wings, claws, and feathers. And seated on its breast, with one arm round its neck, and nestling close to it, was a boy with a deerskin bound round him, and a crown of gay feathers on his head.

Though the Multiphobus had an ugly face, yet he was evidently amiable, and he and Rollo appeared to be talking together.

The Magpie nodded approvingly, but Lilla felt a little alarmed at so enormous and nondescript an animal; and she trembled so much that the box shook, and the words rattled violently inside.

"They want to get out," she said; "shall I open the lid?"

"Certainly not," replied the Magpie; "they will come out of themselves when it is time. Stand still, and watch the Multiphobus descending."

It was easy to say "stand still," but not so easy for Lilla to do so; she shook and shivered, and could only keep herself steady by supporting herself against the trunk of a tall pine-tree.

Suddenly the Multiphobus ceased to work his wings, but he stretched them out to their full extent, and then dropped quietly to the ground. When he touched the earth, his wings fell off, and he looked like an ordinary quadruped.

"He has only to say 'Wings,' and they come to him at once," explained the Magpie.

But Lilla scarcely heard him; she was in a greater fright than ever. Not only did the Multiphobus look more huge, but at that moment a sharp-nosed Wolf appeared in sight, and Lilla's box rattled so loudly that she was afraid he would hear it, and look round at her.



She could not keep it still.

"No matter, no matter, If it does make a clatter,"

said the Magpie.

"Will the Wolf hurt Rollo?" asked Lilla.

But the Magpie only whistled.

V.

And the Wolf, who walked slowly along, drew nearer and nearer to Rollo. And Rollo, having taken off his feather crown, advanced to meet him.