its bars of rest; but when we silence the babble of the superstitions and rebuke the loud vulgarities wherein the Highest is degraded in the brawls of the market place and the wrangle of politics, let us not say that God is withdrawn from life and knowledge. "A time may come," it is said, "when the name of God will be once more spoken." If it come because the heart is full and love shamefaced; if it be the silence of a sacred affection, I make bold to prophesy that in many a more beautiful way it will express what it feels. The most solemn worship of the Church is in silence; in a whisper are the consecrating words pronounced, and the music comes to a pause. Music itself, the least inadequate expression of the spirit in a world of phenomena, cares nothing for speech; its floods of harmony are poured upon the air, and the spirit, without words, can interpret them. Surely the new creed, struggling to get itself expressed, means only this: that our thoughts are larger than our words, and that the best we know of God exceeds the formal sentences we frame. God is not the unknowable; he is the ineffable. If a fresh rhythm is to be added to our lives, in this way let us endeavor to find it, by dwelling on the life within that stays our life, the spirit that abides in cordis apice, where finite and infinite mingle. What, now, of the "ascendancy of science," and the “scientific basis of religion"? Can we admit them? Yes, I answer, if phenomena be their own explanation; no, if, in the striking language of Kant, the ground of experience sinks under us when we venture our weight on it. The supreme method is that whereon scientific methods depend for their validity; and the supreme science is metaphysics.. The rank of the sciences is that of the hierarchy of being. The science of energy must take its postulates from the higher science which interprets the laws of energy by showing whence it is derived, what design it subserves, what that power is which controls and guides it yet is ever unseen. If Mr. Harrison affirms that physical science has the supreme truth in its keeping, he affirms that thoughts may be weighed in a cheesemonger's scales and volition purchased by the yard. as duct. Religion is convinced that time and Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all bowls Such men lament over the blindness of But But though science, if it mistake its function, becomes absolutely false, in itself it has a relative and unshaken validity. Were religion to forget this, it would fall into superstition. Asceticism does not deny that a harmony was intended be tween the seen and the unseen; it demands a sacrifice only that we may be enabled "im Ganzen, Guten, Schönen, fest zu leben." As the conservation of energy does not overthrow but enlarge our conception of miracles, so do the conquests of science bring with them a higher asceticism inspired by sympathy with the Nor is phenomenal science the "basis pain of the world, and intent on relieving of religion." The religions of the world it. So many things are out of joint; there have, in every case, been established by is such need to widen the skirts of light. men to whom the nothingness, the vanity We should deny ourselves that we may and fleeting show of scientific realities, not be inhuman; and our searching into was the one certain truth and rule of con- | high and low should teach us that man is saved and enlightened only by man. Here a fresh world of evolution and causality breaks on our view; it is the realm of heroes and hero-worship and redeeming human fellowship; for "the true Shekinah is man." But with the revelation of God in man Christianity begins; and when we have distinguished between the light and the medium that refracts it, we may find in the Christian records that glory of the Word incarnate which has dwelt as in a tabernacle amongst us, and in whose presence the truths of sense and science melt into infinite harmonies. A PERPLEXING REFLECTION THE April sun was shining into two pleasant sitting-rooms, only divided by a partially drawn curtain. Their long windows opened on a wide gravel walk. Beyond this lay a garden, bright with the airy, leafless charm of spring. The grass was grey-green as yet, the borders brown earth, but there were lines and patches of gay spring flowers, and a blithe activity of birds, while the white clouds floated far away in the breezy sky. Adrian Scarlett, who was a guest in the house, came slowly sauntering along one of the sunshiny paths, between the yellow daffodils, with eyes intent on a handful of printed leaves. Now and again he stopped short, trying a different reading of a line, or twisting his little pointed beard with white fingers, while he questioned some doubtful harmony of syllables. Once he took a pencil from his pocket, and with indignant amusement marked a misprint. After each of these pauses he resumed his dreamy progress, unconscious of any wider horizon than the margin of his page. Presently his loitering walk brought him to one of the tall, shining windows, and thrusting the little bundle of proofs into his pocket, he unfastened it and stepped in. He found the room untenanted, except by two or three flies, which buzzed in the sunny panes as if summer time had come. A piano stood open, with some music lying on it, and the young man sat down with his back to the curtained opening, began to play, and amused himself for a while in an agreeably discursive fashion. But after a time he felt that he was not alone. The convic. tion stole upon him gradually, though, as far as he knew, there had been no sound in the further room, and he had previously believed that everybody was out. He glanced over his shoulder more than once, but saw nothing. "Shall I go and look?" he asked himself. "But it may be somebody I don't know, and don't want to know. Suppose it should be a housemaid come to be hired, and waiting till Mrs. Wilton comes in. What should I say to the housemaid? Or, by the way, the parson said something about Easter offerings yesterday, perhaps this is the clerk or somebody come for them. Perhaps if I go in he'll ask me for an Easter offering. I think I won't risk it. Shall I go into the garden again?" While he debated the question, he went on playing, feeling that the music justified an apparent unconsciousness of the invisible companionship. The sunshine lighted up the reddish golden tint of his hair and moustache, and the warm flesh colors of his face. Presently his wandering fingers slackened on the keys, and then after a momentary pause of recollection he struck the first notes of a simple air, and played it, with his head thrown back and a smile on his lips. Near him an old-fashioned mirror hung, a little slanted, on the wall, and as his roving eyes fell on it, a beardless, sharply cut face appeared in its shadows, motionless and pale, gazing out of the heavy frame with a singular look of eagerness. Adrian started, but his surprise was so quickly mastered that it was hardly per ceptible, and he continued as if nothing had happened, apparently suffering his glances to wander as before, though in reality he watched the dark eyes and sullen brows bent on him from the wall. The face, appearing so picturesquely, interested him, and after a moment the interest deepened. As he had before be come gradually conscious of the man's presence, so now did a certainty steal over him that he was somehow familiar with the features in the mirror. The stranger was evidently standing where he might see and not be seen, and he leaned on a high-backed chair so that he was partially hidden. "Who the deuce is he? and where have I seen him? and what does he want here?" said Scarlett to himself, continu. ing to play the tune which had evoked the apparition. "He doesn't look as if he went round for Easter offerings. Can't want to tune the piano, or why didn't he begin before I came in? Hope he isn't an escaped lunatic- there's something queer and fixed about his eyes; perhaps I had better soothe him with a softer strain. By Jove! I have seen him somewhere, and uncommonly good-looking he is, too! How can I have forgotten him? He isn't the sort of man to forget. He doesn't look quite modern, somehow, with his full, dark hair, and his beardless face; or, rather, I feel as if he were not quite modern but why?" Adrian glided into the accompaniment to an old song, and sang a quaint verse or two softly to himself. The face in the mirror relaxed a little. After a moment the man straightened himself, drew back, and vanished. Adrian finished his song, and then, in the silence that ensued, a slight movement was audible, enough to warrant his entering the further room, as if he had just suspected the presence of a visitor. The man of the mirror was sitting in an armchair, with a book in his hand. He looked up a little hesitatingly and awkwardly, as if he were doubtful whether to rise or not. Adrian hastened to apologize for his musical performance. "No," he said, drawing back and frown"No-in fact I'm sure we haven't at least not to my knowledge. My name is Harding." met Scarlett owned that the name conveyed nothing to his mind, but when in return he mentioned his own, he was certain that he caught a flash of recognition in the other's eyes. "He expected that," he soliloquized, as he picked up his paper again. "Here is a mystery! Deuce take the fellow- why did he stare at me so? He isn't as handsome as I thought he was in the glass-he's ill-tempered and awkward; it isn't a pleasant face, though of course the features are good. He might make a good picture — and, by Jove! that's what he was -a picture! and I didn't know him out of his frame! I wonder whether it's a chance resemblance, or whether "Were you ever at a place called Mitchelhurst?" he asked abruptly. The blood mounted to Harding's face. Yes," he said. 66 "Then," said Adrian, "you must surely be some connection of the family at the old Place the old family at the old Place, I mean. I have made out the likeness there "I had no idea there was any one here," he said. "I hope I didn't disturb you?" that puzzled me. There is a picture "Not at all," said the stranger, glancing at the book he held, and furtively reversing it. "An enviable talent," he added with an evident effort. "I am connected with the family," said Harding, "on my mother's side. It isn't much to boast of "For one's self, perhaps," answered "If you come to that," Scarlett anScarlett. "But I'm not sure it is desira-swered lightly, "what is? But I'll conble in a next-door neighbor." He was still trying to identify his companion. The voice, unmusical and almost harsh, did not help him in the least, and, oddly enough, now that they were actually face to face, he was less absolutely certain that he ought to recognize the man. "It may be only a likeness to somebody I know," he reflected. "But to whom, then? And why does he look at me like that? He seems to think he knows me!" "I hope you'll go on if you feel inclined," said the stranger. Adrian shook his head. "Thank you, but I think I've made about noise enough for one morning." He took up the paper and skimmed a column or two. Presently he looked from behind it, and their eyes met. "I can't help thinking," he said, "that we have met before somewhere, haven't we? I don't know where, but I have an fess I dare say I ought to be ashamed of myself — but I'll confess that I do care about such things. I don't want to boast, but I would rather my ancestors were gentlemen, than that they were butchers and bakers and well, the candlestickmakers might be decorative artists in their way, and so a trifle better." 66 Harding scowled, but did not speak. "You don't agree with me," Adrian went on, with his pleasant smile. Well, you can afford to scorn the pride of long descent if you choose. And, mind you, though I prefer the gentleman, I dare say the tradesman might be more valuable to the community at large!" "I hope so," said Harding with a sneer. " My grandfather was a pork-butcher." 66 Oh!" exclaimed Adrian blankly. "You combine both, certainly!" He was decidedly taken aback by the announcement, as the other had intended, but he recovered himself first. It was Harding who looked sullen and ill at ease after the revelation into which he had been betrayed, as if his grandfather had somehow recoiled upon him, and knocked him down. Young Scarlett felt that he could not get up and go away the moment the porkbutcher was introduced, though he half regretted that he had come from the piano to talk to his sulky descendant. Well, you get your looks from your ancestors at Mitchelhurst," he said; "it's quite wonderful. I studied those portraits a good deal, and there's one on the right-hand side of the fireplace in the yellow drawingroom, as they call it - do you know the bouse well?" "Yes, well enough. Yes, I know Anthony Rothwell's picture." "It might be yours," said Adrian. Reynold's only answer was a doubtful "Hm!" Adrian was silent for a moment. old fellow!" he said at last. sorry to hear it. And the house shut up - of course Miss Strange would go back to her people in Devonshire." Reynold looked at him silently. "I wonder who will take the old Place!" said Adrian. "If I were rich - "Their glances met once more, and he stopped short, and strolled towards the window. "A castle in the air," he said presently. "I don't suppose I shall ever see Mitchelhurst again, since the poor old gentleman is gone. But I shall always remember the place. Not for its beauty, precisely. I know when I went there first I was sur"A fine old house!" Scarlett remarked, prised that he should care to live in a as he rose from his chair. If his compan-corner of that great white pile. Some. ion intended to treat him to such curt, balf-hostile speeches, he would leave him alone, and ask Mrs. Wilton, or one of the girls, about him, later. He might satisfy his curiosity so, more pleasantly. But "A fine old house!" Harding repeated. "Yes, a fine, dreary, chilly, decaying, melancholy old house." He leaned back in his chair and looked up at Scarlett. "Did you ever see a more hopeless place in all your life?" "Come! Not so bad as that!" Well, it seems to me that there is no hope about it," Reynold persisted; "no hope at all. A ghastly nightmare of a house. Why doesn't somebody pull it down?" "You must have seen it under unfavorable circumstances." "Very likely. I was there last October. It might be better in the summertime." "You stayed there?" "Yes, a few days." "Did they tell you I had been?" Scarlett asked impulsively. "Did they speak of me - Mr. Hayes, and Miss Strange?" The men looked at each other as the name was spoken, Reynold's dark gaze crossing the bright, grey-blue gleam of Adrian's glance. "They said something of a Mr. Scarlett who had been there yes." "And they were well, I hope?" "Well enough then." "Then?" cried Adrian. "Then! Why, what has happened since?" thing rather sepulchral about it. Did you ever notice it by moonlight?" Reynold Harding said yes, he had. "I recollect an almost startling effect one night," Scarlett continued. "And the avenue too - that queer avenuegnarled boughs, with thin foliage quiver. ing in the wind, and glimpses of summer sky shining through. I think if I were a painter I would make a picture of those trees." 66 There was a picture of them, stripped of their leaves, and wrestling with an October gale, before the eyes of the man to whom he spoke. They might be worth painting," he said. "I suppose they weren't worth cutting down. If they had been, I fancy there wouldn't be any avenue left." "I suppose not. Well, anyhow I'm glad it was spared. There's an individuality about the place - melancholy it may be, perhaps dreary, as you say, but it isn't commonplace, so it misses the worst dreariness of all." He recurred to his first idea. "I wonder who will live there now poor old Hayes is dead." 'Rats," said Reynold. And perhaps an old man and his wife, to take care of it." 66 Scarlett stood, with a shadow on his pleasant face. He had meant to go back to Mitchelhurst quite early in the summer, and he slipped a hand into his pocket, and fingered the little bundle of printed leaves which had played a part in his day-dream. He had counted on a welcome from the white-haired old gentleman, whose whims and oddities he understood and did not the hot little gaslit stage, in their great dislike, and he had waited contentedly reconciliation scene, the scene that was enough till the time should come. In always followed by a burst of applause. fact, he had found plenty to do that win- Everybody had admired his very becom ter, what with Christmas visits and the ing dress, and Scarlett himself had been preparation of his poems for the press. rather proud of it. But now in a freak of As Adrian looked back, he realized that his vivid imagination, he pictured the it had been a very agreeable winter, and masquerading figure that he was, all that it had slipped away very quickly. showy pretence, with a head full of cues The thought of Mitchelhurst had been and inflated speeches, set down suddenly there through it all, but, to tell the truth, in the wintry loneliness of Mitchelhurst it had not been very prominent. He Place, and passing along the corridors to would have spoken to Barbara in the au- the threshold of the dead man's room, to tumn, if he had been left to himself, yet see Barbara turn with startled eyes in the he had recognized the wisdom of the old midst of the shadows. God! how pitiful man's prohibition, he had enjoyed the and incongruous was that frippery, as he pathos of that unspoken farewell, and the saw it in his fancy, brought thus into the sonnet which he touched and retouched presence of the last reality! with dainty grieving, and he had looked forward, very happily, to the end of his probation. Barbara, who was certainly very young, was growing a little older while he waltzed, and sang, and polished his rhymes, and made new friends wherever he went. Adrian had too much hon esty to pretend to himself that he had been brokenhearted in consequence of their separation. He had not even felt uneasy, for, without being boastful, he had been very frankly and simply sure of the end of his love-story. He knew Barbara liked him. mas And now it seemed that his testy little white-haired friend had gone out of the great old house into a smaller dwellingplace, and he had been reckoning on a dead man's welcome. A welcome to what? To the cold clay of Mitchelhurst churchyard? The week before Christ-Scarlett remembered that he had been very busy the week before Christmas, helping in some theatricals at a country house. He had been called and called again, at the end of the performance. And just then, at Mitchelhurst, the curtain had fallen forever on the little part which Mr. Hayes had played, and Barbara had looked on its black mystery. He bit his lip impatiently. There had been no harm in the theatricals, just the usual joking and intimacy, among the actors behind the scenes, and the usual love-making and embraces on the stage. Adrian's conscience was clear enough, and yet the recollection of the girl who played the heroine (painted and powdered a little more than was absolutely necessary, for the mere pleasure of painting and powdering, as is the way with amateurs), came back to him with unpleasant distinctness. He could see her face, close to his own, as he remembered it on Never And Barbara, had she wondered at his silence during all these months? one word of regret for the old man who had been kind to him!"I wouldn't have had it happen for anything!" he said to himself. What has she thought of me?" Harding, with eyelids slightly drooping, was watching him, and Scarlett suddenly became aware of the fact. "No, I suppose nobody is likely to take the old house," he said hurriedly. " I used to think it must be dull for Miss Strange, shut up there with nobody but her uncle." "I should say it was." "Well, Devonshire's a nice county, not that I know much of it. What part of Devonshire do the Stranges live in - do you know?" "North Devon," Reynold Harding answered, and then added, half reluctantly, "Sandmoor, near Ilfracombe." "Ah, it isn't a part I know at all," said Adrian aloud, and to himself he repeated, Sandmoor, near Ilfracombe." 66 At that moment the door opened, and one of the daughters of the house came in. "Oh, Mr. Harding!" she exclaimed, advancing, and shaking hands in a quick, careless fashion. "I'm afraid you've been kept waiting a long while." said Harding, "It doesn't matter,' standing very stiffly. "Is Guy ready now, Miss Wilton ?" "Yes, he's waiting in the hall. Bob got him away to the stables, and I didn't know he was there till just now; you know what those boys are when they get together. I thought Guy had better wait in the hall, for I'm afraid he's not as clean as he might be." "It doesn't matter," Harding replied again." He very seldom is." "I did try to brush him," said the girl |