The sparkling waters danced and smiled. Like a broad sea of happiness; In thought he danced his happy child, Through the gay city's artful blaze A few days more, and on the shore, His home he reached, in desperate mood! Oh! Piteous wreck of anxious dreams! Alas! That Time doth work so well, So earthly joy with care enweaves; She came before the spring, and fell With the first Summer's falling leaves. That spark of life divine hath fled, In earth we tomb the lamp of clay, But with the Lord there are no dead, His children live in cloudless day, For still our Baby wakes and smiles, Still her pure spirit-sphere beguiles Our days of darkness, and at length Our humble space of Duty done, There the blest child, to woman grown, Shall claim the wanderers for her own With angel-rapture, heavenly mild. JoTow. OUR CURATE. CHAPTER III. In common with most of the seat-holders at St. Francis, as well as of modern Church-goers generally, I was only a "half-day hearer;" rarely, if ever, attending more than one service on the Sunday. It is wonderful how in this, as in so many other respects, we have improved on the religious customs of our forefathers; and have succeeded, with the aid of our modern phiosophy, in reducing the old-fashioned claims of public worship to a judicious and comfortable minimum. The "leading families" of our Congregation monopolised the pews in the morning, and received their weekly spiritual pabulum from the vicar himself. At night the Curate took his turn in the pulpit, and ministered to a more miscellaneous audience, consisting largely of strangers and children. generally chose the latter service, for two reasons. First, because in time I found Mr. Marshall's discourses-despite his fine presence and manner-undeniably dull, and powerless to compete with a morning in the fresh country air; and secondly, because the evening liturgy has always appeared to me surpassingly beautiful, and free from the vain and overladen repetitions of its predecessor. My readers will scarcely need to be told that I looked forward with special interest to the first sermon of my new acquaintance and fellowlodger, Mr. Staunton; and with the incident of the sheep and their persecutor fresh in my mind, I wondered, as I walked to Church on the following Sunday evening, whether our new Curate would there confirm the high opinion I had already formed of him. There was an unusually large attendance, many of the morning Congregation having allowed their curiosity to tempt them to a second service. The Vicar read the prayers in his usual slightly pompous style, and then I felt a sympathetic nervousness as his young assistant walked up to the reading desk, with hurried steps and slightly quivering lips, to give us the Old Testament Lesson. During the first few verses his reading was constrained and unsteady; but recovering himself as he went on, the natural beauty of his voice soon became apparent; and when by and bye the interest of the subject had evidently laid hold of him, to the exclusion of all external surroundings, he gave full play to his powers, and so entered into the spirit of the dramatic narrative, that a distinct relaxing of strained attention on the part of his hearers was manifest as he closed the book. First impressions go a long way, and I could see by the interchanged looks and smiles on all sides that my friend had scored a success. The second Lesson was of a very different kind, and consisted of a part of St. Paul's fervent and touching message to the Colossians. This time no preliminary nervousness was apparent, and our reader delivered the words of the eloquent Apostle with a pathos and feeling, which intimate acquaintance and sympathy with the mind of his author could alone have begotten. There was no exaggerated emphasis, no professional rhetoric; all was earnest, natural, and heartfelt; and this evening we had heard, almost for the first time at St. Francis, full justice done to the power of simple Bible-reading. But the crucial test was yet to come; and it was no slight ordeal for the young preacher, as he entered the pulpit and faced the eager regards of his new flock. The short invocatory prayer over, he rose and announced his text from the prophecy of Zachariah, "In that day shall there be upon the bells of the horses, HOLINESS UNTO THE LORD.” Probably he could have chosen no finer or more suggestive passage for a first appearance, and its novelty certainly did not lessen our quickened attention. I am not going to describe the sermon, even in outline. My thoughtful readers can easily see the drift of the lesson enforced by the prophet's beautiful image, and can understand what treatment it is capable of in the hands of a gifted teacher. And such Mr. Staunton very soon proved himself. As, step by step, he unfolded his conceptions of the every-day character of all true religion; how it ought to exhibit itself in the duties, the enjoyments, the courtesies of life, rather than in mere genuflections and periodical formalities; he struck a chord which, if not entirely new to us at St. Francis, had never before vibrated to so eloquent and masterly a touch. This was preaching indeed, in which all the gifts of the man's intellect, as well as the graces of his manner, were spent to their fullest in the service of his calling. No wonder that his Congregation, long accustomed to the somnolent platitudes of the Vicar, or the varieties of mental feebleness of the Curâtes, gave him so wrapt a hearing, and spoke so enthusiastically of him as they left the Church. It was my habit, after service, to indulge in a stroll countrywards before seeking my solitary supper-table. This evening, I took the path through the fields at the back of our Church, and sauntered along with my mind full of what I had been listening to. It was many a day since the deeper feelings of my nature had been so stirred as by the sermon of this fine, manly young fellow; and I felt strongly desirous of cultivating that more intimate acquaintance which he had himself offered. Presently I came to a gate which barred my further passage, and yielding to the meditative mood that had taken possession of me, I leaned my arms across its top and looked dreamily into space. I was recalled from my reverie by the sound of approaching footsteps, and turning round, Mr. Staunton himself greeted me. "I see we are both of a mind this beautiful evening," he said, as he held out his hand, looking rather flushed and excited, "I always take a walk after Church," I replied, and we continued our road together. "Do you object to my smoking a cigar?" he asked, producing his case and offering me one at the same time. "Not in the least," said I, as I helped myself, "but I won't answer for some of your parishioners if they should happen to meet us." And I tried to imagine the looks of our prim minister's-warden if he had passed this way. “Well, I'll risk it. I fully believe in avoiding the appearance of evil, but this isn't evil; on the contrary, it is a good of which I stand very much in need just now, for my nerves are asserting themselves rather unpleasantly." For some time we walked along in silence, each being busy with his own thoughts, and the fragrant smoke went circling aloft in graceful eddies. At length I broke out : "You've made a splendid beginning, Mr. Staunton, and I'm sure everybody must have been delighted with your sermon to-night." He looked pleased, and said "Well, all I can say is that I did my best, for I was particularly anxious to make a creditable first appearance; but really, the sight of those upturned faces as I stood addressing them haunts me now. It's a fearful responsibility that rests on us ministers, and when I think of the work that lies before me in that Congregation; how by my conduct and example, as well as by my teaching, I must be their guide into the higher life, I feel appalled at what I have undertaken. And as you know already," he continued, smiling, "there are flaws in my personal composition of a very un-parsonic kind, which I fear will stand much in the way of my proving an apostolic model." "Perhaps these very flaws as you call them," I replied, the scene in front of our residence once more recurring to me, "are nearer the Christian virtues in my estimation than you imagine. At any rate, I like my minister to be a man with some human impulses like myself, and with a kick for the deserving every whit as ready as my own." He laughed right out at this, and a pleasant laugh it was; one that did one good to listen to. But the serious mood was evidently uppermost to night, and again he became silent and thoughtful, puffing the smoke in short jets from his mouth, and throwing his head back as if to heighten the enjoyment of the process. Presently he addressed me again somewhat abruptly. "The fact is, Mr. Llewellyn, it was not altogether of my own choice that I entered the Church. It is true that I wanted in some way or other to be of use to my fellows, and after much consideration, had decided that the medical profession offered me the best opening. It seemed to me then, and does so still, that a doctor has opportunities for doing good, both physical and moral, which are denied to men of any other profession; and I should have adopted the healing art with real enthusiasm. But my dear old mother had set her heart on her boy becoming a clergyand as her wish, even in little matters, had always been my highest law, I yielded at once when I saw the depth of her feeling on the sub man; ject. God bless her! She has gone to her rest now, but while I was preaching to-night I felt as though her presence were hovering round the pulpit, encouraging me with a spiritual benediction, and that God had made her His special Angel to strengthen me at a moment when I sorely needed it. Surely if a man can't speak with some power at a time like that, the gift of tongues isn't in him, and he has mistaken his vocation most wofully." And after a pause he continued, "I can see I shall want all my strength, both bodily and mental, to perform the duties of this parish satisfactorily; but if I can only begin by winning the confidence of my Vicar, and the goodwill of the people, I am quite prepared to work hard. Friendless as I am in the place, I consider myself fortunate, Mr. Llewellyn, in having found a friend in yourself, and after this evening I shall venture to come to you sometimes for companionship and encouragement. This was said with a sincerity and heartiness which I found irresistible. Thanking him for his confidence, I warmly reciprocated his desire that we should know more of each other, and from that time a friendship began which ere long ripened into deep, brotherly affection. His portrait lies before me while I write, and the well-remembered smile, so gentle and winning, and so true an index of the great heart behind it, seems to expand on his loved features, as I gaze on them and think absently of the past. CHAPTER IV. The first year of our new Curate's ministry had not expired without its effects becoming visible in many directions. The mental atmosphere of St. Francis seemed to have lost much of its old heaviness and torpor, as though through the opened windows had come a stream of fresh mountain air. The self-satisfied indifference of manner, so characteristic of our worshippers, had begun to give place to interested and even eager attention. The evening services were becoming as fashionable as the morning; and so popular was Mr. Staunton's preaching, that strangers came in crowds to hear him, and often had to content themselves with standing-room. Our worthy Vicar might, perhaps, be excused if he looked somewhat askance at the growing influence of his young assistant, and saw the pristine glory of his own morning service becoming eclipsed by the new evening light that had arisen. It is dangerous to wage a too successful rivalry with one's superior, and I dreaded lest the human nature of the Vicar might rebel against the competitor, and decline to permit its continuance. Bnt this had probably been foreseen by Mr. Staunton, and he dealt so tenderly with the weaknesses of his chief; consulted him in everything so punctiliously; and behaved with such |