"Have you heard the sad news?" he said, as soon as they were in the garden.

"No," answered Lucy, without much concern; for she did not expect to hear anything about ICAL

Thomas.

"If it were a business matter, there is no one I would more willingly-ask to help us; but as you say it is a matter of friendship, I must refuse your kindness."

Lucy was perplexed. She knew the name of her uncle's vessel; but for a moment she did not associate the name with the thing. In a moment, however, something of the horror of the fact reached her. She did not cry, for her affections had no great part in any one on board of the vessel, but she turned very pale. And not a thought of the possible interest she might have in the matter crossed her mind. She had never associated good to herself with her uncle or any of his family.

"How dreadful!" she murmured. "My poor cousins! What they must all have gone through! Are they come home?"

'They are gone home," said Mr. Sargent, significantly. "There can be little doubt of that, I fear." "You don't mean they're drowned ?" she said, turning her white face on him, and opening her eyes wide.

"It is not absolutely certain; but there can be little doubt about it.”

He did not show her the paragraph in the Times, though the paper was in his pocket: the particulars were too dreadful.

"Are there any other relations but your grandmother and yourself?" he asked, for Lucy remained silent.

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"Miss Burton," he said, for God's sake, do not misunderstand me, and attribute to mercenary motives the offer I make only in the confidence that you will not do me such an injustice.”

Lucy was greatly distressed. Her colour went and came for a few moments, and then she spoke. "Mr. Sargent, I am just as anxious that you should understand me; but I am in a great difficulty, and have to throw myself on your generosity."

She paused again, astonished to find herself making a speech. But she did not pause long.

I

'I refuse your kindness," she said, "only because I am not free to lay myself under such obligation to you.-Do not ask me to say more," she added, finding that he made no reply.

But if she had looked in his face, she would have seen that he understood her perfectly. Honest disappointment and manly suffering were visible enough on his countenance. But he did not grow ashy pale, as some lovers would at such a and utterance. He would never have made, under any circumstances, a passionate lover, though an honest and true one; for he was one of those balanced natures which are never all in one thing at once. Hence the very moment he received a shock was the moment in which he began to struggle for victory. Something called to him, as Una to the Red-Cross Knight when face to face with the serpent Error

“Thank you, Mr. Sargent. The business cannot in any case be mine. It is my grandmother's, and I can, and will, take no hand in it."

Without another word, he lifted his hat and went

Lucy hastened home full of distress at the thought of her grandmother's grief, and thinking all the way how she could convey the news with least of a shock; but when she entered the room, she found her already

ing her with commonplaces.

APPARELLED richly in presence of the Gods,
With crown upon his brow, the old Greek stood,
And offered up his soul at sacrifice :'

Even then the tidings came," Thy Son is dead!"
They saw the sharp words pierce him, through and
through,

The firm lip quiver, and the face grow white:
They saw the strong man tremble to the knees:,
Slowly the big drops gathered in his eyes;
Slowly he took the crown from off his head,
And let it fall to the ground, as one who feels""
Heart-broke all over-for his pride of life
Hath faded, and his strength is spilled in dust. "I

1

All jubilant upon the hills of God.

This gloom we feel, this mourning that we wear,
Is but the shadow of his lordlier height.
Why should we weep, who have another friend
In Heaven, another tie to draw us Home,

A firmer foothold in the Infinite,

Another voice to greet us thro' the Void?.
The dearest souls, you know, must part in sleep,
And death is but a little longer night.

A little while, and we shall wake to find
Our lost ones with us hand-in-hand, and feel
All years of yearning summed up in a kiss.
Why should we fear the grave? It is the bed
Where the King lay in state, with angels round,
And hallowed it for evermore to us.
Why should we fear the grave? It is the way
The Conqueror went, and made the very dust
Grow starry with the sparkle of His splendour,
And left the darkness conscious of His presence.
Thro' His dear love who hath abolished death,
We may shut up our graveyards of the heart,

A

He stooped and picked the crown up from the ground;
With pillared chin firm-set, and brave mouth clenched,
In calm resolve to bear, and on his face.
A smile as if of sword-light, he arose;
Gently replaced it on his brow, and wore
It proudly, as the visible symbol of

That other awful crown, which darkened down.

So, when the word came that our friend was dead,
We bowed beneath the burden of our loss,

This Garden of our God to smile with flowers.

Why do we shrink so from Eternity?
We are in Eternity, from Birth, not Death!
Eternity is not beyond the stars-

Some far Hereafter it is Here, and Now!
The Kingdom of Heaven is Within, so near
We do not see it, save by spirit-sight..
We shut our eyes in prayer, and we are there
In thought; and thoughts are spirit-things;
Realities upon the other side.

r

But thinking of the happy death he died,
And thinking of the holy life he lived,
And knowing he was one of those that soon
Attain their starry stature, and are crowned,
We were up-borne from earth, as if on wings:
A sun-burst in the soul dried up the tears:
For his dear sake, we could afford to smile.
Why should we weep, when 'tis so well with him?,
Our Loss even cannot measure his great Gain!
Why should we mourn when death is but a mask.
Through which we know the face of Life beyond?
For such a vestal soul as his, so pure,
We almost saw the angel shining through,
"Twas but a step from out our muddy street
Of earth, on to the pavement all of pearl!
Why should we weep? We do not bury Love.
Death emptieth the House, but not the Heart-
That keeps its darlings safe, tho' out of sight.
tho' out of sigh

Let us uplift the eyelids of the mind,
To see the living Love who dwelt awhile
In that frail body, now an Angel of Light,

To pass for ever, and seem far away.
And yet the distance does not lie in death:
Death's not the only door of spirit-world,
Nor Visibility sole sign of Presence!
The Near or Far is in our depth of Love,
And height of Life: we look Without, and find
Our Lost Ones are beyond all human reach:
We feel within, and lo! they are nestling near.
Flow soft, ye tears, adown my Lady's face,
And bathe the broken spirit with your balm,
And melt the cloud about her into drops
That glister with the light of Heaven's own smile.
She sorroweth not as those who have no hope:
Her House is not left loveless-desolate!
Oh, grief, lie lightly on my Lady's brow!
She gave her best of life in love for him:
A crown of glory wears the dear bowed head
That hath grown grey in noble sacrifice!
Ah me! I know the heart must have its way:
I know the ache of utter loneliness;

The silence, never broken by a sound

We still keep listening for-the spirit's loss
Of its old clinging place, that makes our life
A dead leaf, drifting desolately free-
The many thousand things we had to say;
And on the dear still face that hushing look,
As if the sweet life-music yet went on,
Though too far off for hearing (as it doth).
Thrice have I wrestled, and been thrown by Death:
Thrice have I given my dear ones to the Grave.
And yet I know-see it, in spite of tears-
These are His ways to draw us nearer Him,
And we must climb by pathways of the cloud.

O Lady! let mine be the songbird's part,
That singeth after rain, and shakes the wet

Down, with his thrillings, from the drooping spray,
And sets it softly springing nigher heaven,

What did we ask, with all our love for him,
But just a little breath of fuller life

To float the labouring lungs? and God hath sent
Him Life itself; full, everlasting life!
What did we pray for? rest, even for a night,
That he might rise with sleep's most golden dews
Refreshed, and feel the morning in his soul?
And God hath given him His eternal rest.
We could not offer freedom for one hour
From that dread weight they bear, who try and try
For years and years
to shake Death's shadow off;
And God hath made him free for Evermore.

Before me hangs his picture on the wall,
Alive still with the loving, cordial eyes;
How tenderly their winsome lustre laughed!
The fine pale face pathetically sweet,

So thin with suffering, that it seemed all soul,
We feared the angels might be kissing it
Too often, and too wooingly for us:
The hands too exquisitely delicate,

That day by day were gliding from our grasp;
They used to make my heart ache many a time!

I see another picture now! the form

Ye sowed in weakness hath been raised in power,—
A palace of pleasure for the old prison of pain!
The same kind face, but changed and glorified.
In outer likeness of the indwelling love.
From life's unclouded summit it looks back
And sweetly smiles at all the sorrows past,
With such a look as taketh away grief:
No longer pale, and there is no more pain;
His face is rosed with Heaven's eternal bloom,
For he hath found the land of health at last,
The One Physician who can cure all ills;
And he hath eaten of the tree of life,
And felt immortal balms, in brain and breast,
Make lusty life that lightens forth in love.
I see we caught a glimpse, in many ways,
Of the blest shape his spirit weareth now.
A sweeter, nobler nature, could not breathe;
He was affection in the human form.

And in sweet odours passes from our sight.
But there's no jot of all his promise lost,
Each golden hint shall have fulfilment yet,
All that was heavenliest perfected in Heaven!
All the shy modesties of secret soul
That breathed like violets hidden in the dusk;
The folded fragrance, the unfingered bloom;
The unsunned riches of his rarer self,

Are shut up softly to be saved by Him
Who gave us of the Flower, but keeps the Fruit.
The best his life could grow on earth is given,
The rest can ripen till ye meet in heaven.

And, dear my Lady, little can we guess
What God hath planned for those he loves so well,
And beckons home so early to Himself.
May some full foretaste of his perfect peace
Fall on you, solacing with solemn joy.

Of such as he was, there be few on earth;
Of such as he is, there are many in heaven;
And Life is all the sweeter that he lived;
And Death is all the brighter that he died;
And Heaven is all the happier that he's there.

And 'tis so sweet to feel, as under-foot

The path slopes for the valley of Death's Shade,
Our best half landed in the better life-
The balance leaning on the other side-
And we are weaning kindly to leave go
Our hold of earth; and as the evening gloom
Gathers, to know our stars smile overhead-
Glad memories of Hesper gentleness-
Bright Phosphor-hopes that tell of coming day—
And death grows radiant with our Shining Ones.

Blessed are they whose treasures are in Heaven!
Their grief's so rich it needs no comforting.

Let us put on the robe of readiness;
The golden trumpet will be sounding soon
That bids us to the gathering in the Heavens!
Let us press forward to their summit of life
Who have won the regions of eternal rest,
And there is no more parting, no more pain.

GERALD MASSEY.

DURING the last fifteen years, quite enough has been said about the sanctity of the body; and the protest against the strange fancy that we honour and please God by impoverishing, torturing, and marring the beauty of what He "curiously wrought," has run into extravagance. A few sensible men proclaimed war against the saintliness of physical weakness, filth, and suffering; and before long their wholesome doctrine was incessantly reiterated with all the passion of fanaticism in every part of the country; the new gospel found its way into innumerable sermons and lectures, into the columns of every newspaper and the pages of every popular magazine. "Great was the company of the preachers." The "tub" became a means of grace; and a clean skin the sure means of getting a clean heart. Volunteer regiments were addressed as though they were religious orders, destined to regenerate the moral life of the nation. Cricket, rowing, running, and jumping, were to do men more good than praying; and the "trainer" was to accomplish the work which the preacher and the philosopher had attempted in vain.

No doubt it is a very fine thing for a man to be able to walk forty miles a day, but that does not make him a saint. There is no virtue in being sickly; but neither, so far as I can see, is it the highest attribute of piety to have the digestion of an ostrich, or the lungs of a racehorse. Many a fool has had muscles of iron, and nerves of steel; and I imagine that it is even possible to be a member of the Alpine Club, and yet to break all the Commandments.

Still it is true that both the Jewish and the Christian Scriptures speak of our physical nature with honour. They never represent the body as the work of some inferior, and perhaps malignant deity, who so contrived it that we should be constantly tempted to sin. It is God's own handiwork-"fearfully and wonderfully made." It is the visible temple of the Holy Ghost-the only visible temple in which God has dwelt since the glory passed away from the inner sanctuary at Jerusalem. Death is not to destroy it. Sown in corruption, it is to be raised in incorruption; sown in weakness, it is to be raised in power. The Incarnation and the prophecy of the Resurrection have finally redeemed it from contempt. That God was manifest in the flesh is the fundamental article of the Christian creed; and when we listen to the desolate words, "dust to dust, ashes to ashes," we confidently believe that the time is coming when "all that are in the graves" shall hear the voice of the Son of God "and shall come forth;" that the gracious form and the kindly face have not vanished for ever; that the body, not the same flesh and blood indeed, but still the body which it has been pleasant for us to look upon on earth, will reappear among the shining splendours of heaven.

The body, therefore, with its instincts and wants, is not to be treated as the enemy of the soul, but as

its friend-a friend of inferior rank, but still a friend. It asks for warmth and clothing, food and shelter, and for ease and rest after labour; and it should have them all. Let men say what they will in praise of the celestial influence of hunger, whether voluntary or involuntary, it is difficult to see that hunger encourages any human virtue, or any Christian grace. As for a hard and severe life, as a rule it is probably as injurious to the intellect and the heart, as it certainly is to physical health and beauty. When the Apostles warned men against "fleshly lusts," there is no reason to suppose that they meant to require Christian people to live a life of discomfort and privation.

But that it is necessary, if we are to live a pure and devout life, that we should firmly control our inferior instincts and passions, has been the common faith of all saints; and carelessness in the discipline of the body is, perhaps, the real cause of the miserably ignoble life of many Christian men. They have no strong and clear vision of God, no vivid anticipation of everlasting blessedness and purity. Their love for Christ smoulders like a half-extinguished fire -without heat, without brightness, without intensity. "Fleshly lusts" unsubdued are the true explanation of their moral weakness and spiritual sluggishness. If a man is conscious that his spiritual nature has no elasticity, that his religious life is dull and heavy, that his prayers have no heart in them, and his thanksgivings no rapture, that his Christian work is feeble and mechanical, a burden to himself and no blessing to others, let him ask whether the flesh has not mastered the spirit, and set himself vigorously to assert his freedom.

Let him ask himself, for instance, whether he would not be a better man if he drank less. It is not merely men who drink till they are drunk that are guilty of intemperance, there are many people who do what is perhaps worse than that. I have heard able medical men give it as their deliberate opinion that a man who gets drunk once a month receives less physical injury than a man who never loses self-command, but drinks habitually more than he ought. Which suffers most morally, it may be hard to determine. Unhappily, drinking which does not end in positive intoxication is regarded as innocent. The men who are guilty of it would resent even an implied censure on their excesses. They think they "live freely," but that they are blameless. Their friends become used to their habits; mere acquaintances say that they never seem very bright or active, but charge them with no sin; their own consciences are drugged into silence; but all moral nobleness and all lofty devotion inevitably disappear from their character. It will not do to speak of excessive drinking as a vice of which only the poor are guilty. No rank or culture exempts us from danger. Medical men have assured me again and again that in houses