and when He, whose Gospel of Truth and Love is now rejected by some, and perverted by others, will appear in all His majesty and glory, and Truth will shine forth enthroned in Him in undisputed and triumphant sovereignty. To you, therefore, the gentle and beloved partner of my cares, my toils, and my happiness for thirty years, this volume is especially offered by your devoted and loving husband,

CHARLES B. TAYLER.

TRUTH.

CHAPTER I.

CLEVEDEN RECTORY.

THE glare of the day was gone, though it was still broad day-light. The lights had become golden, and the shadows were deepening, and there was a richness of colouring, peculiar to the hour, heightening the tints of the landscape, glowing like fire in the roses which clustered over the stone porch of the rectory; and glittering on the rippled waters of the moat which surrounded the pleasant dwelling. The moat was common in those days, and is still to be found almost encircling many old parsonage houses. There it was not dark and stagnant, for a little brook which took its rise among the wild hills at the head of the valley flowed quietly through it.

A low wall of grey stone separated the park of Sir Ralph Cleveland from the lawns and flower plots of the rectory garden, but as the house stood on a broad terrace, higher than the level of the park wall, it commanded many a beautiful glade, where the deer were grouped together under the stately trees; and from the end of the terrace a side view was obtained of the grand old hall of the Clevelands, and of the long avenue which led to the back of the mansion. The ancient parish church stood in the park, and a gate in the stone wall opened a way of

B

communication from the rectory garden to the churchyard.

It was the end of the month of May, in the year 1660, that delightful season of the year when windows and doors stand open; and the slanting sunbeams, and the soft western breezes filled the low wide hall of the rectory with glowing light, and the perfume of sweet garden flowers: but the sunshine was not more bright than the looks of the little family-party assembled there. In summer time, that hall was the common sitting room. The table of dark oak that stood in the deep recess of the angular bay-window was spread over with books and papers, and at one end of the table sate a young lady, whose intelligent countenance was turned towards her father, under whose dictation she had been writing. Her delicate wrist was leaning upon the paper, and the pen was in her fingers, but at rest. "You may lay down your pen, my child, your task is over for to-day." "Do not call it a task, dear father," said Dora, "it is my delight; I deem it a great honour, do I not, mother, to be my father's secretary?" Her gentle mother smiled as she looked up from her needle-work— Indeed, Dora, you are right," she said: “it is an honour to be put in such an office. Marcella and I would willingly and gladly take your place."—"I know, I wish that I could be permitted to do so sometimes," said her sister, who had just come in with a basket of fresh flowers, which she placed upon the table. "But I have no chance, till I can write a more legible hand. I do wish, mother, that I could be of more use." "We can all be useful in one way or another, Marcella," said her mother: "and Dora has often envied your skill with your needle. I can answer for your diligence in plain needlework, and we all know what my Lady Cleveland thinks of your tapestry work. But you

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are always discouraged, Marcella; you want more of a spirit of humble content." "They that measure themselves by themselves," said Mr. Harley,-he was leaning back in his chair, and his voice was gentle, and his look full of affection,-" and compare themselves among themselves, what are they, Marcella?" "O father, I know it; they are not wise: but you know I never am wise." "Your mother says that my Dora is also apt to complain that she is not so wise and cunning a workwoman as her sister; and, if I mistake not, she occasioned herself much trouble, and some annoyance, by her carelessness in embroidering that same screen of tapestry work, of which, I suppose, you are speaking, and which was your offering to my Lady Cleveland on her birthday. How often, Dora, did you have to unpick your work before your mother's eye was satisfied with your part ?"-" Dear father," said Dora, "do not talk of it; for a feeling of uneasiness and shame comes over me whenever I think of that screen.

"Charming, charming!" she continued, as Marcella began to arrange her freshly gathered flowers in the glass jar which stood upon the table: "surely the sweet season of the year never brought us lovelier flowers than those! Father, mother, did you ever see anything more beautiful than those half-blown roses, and here are my favourite lilies of the valley; really, Marcella, you will want the other jar to hold them all. Here are honeysuckles and columbines, and pinks, and the sweet white satyrian; but gladly as I welcome them all, I cannot but regret that lilacs and wallflowers, and above all, that violets, the sweetest of spring flowers, are gone." "I felt like you, my Dora, at your age," said Mrs. Harley, "but we learn as we grow older, to see that it is best and wisest to take whatever our heavenly Father sends us in its successive season-not to mourn for

what is gone, not to long for what may never come, but to improve and to enjoy what we have." "We shall be wise," said her husband, "when we all learn to apply this moral, not only to flowers, but to those events in God's providence which He is pleased to send us; some of which are like sunshine and flowers, some like chilling mists and falling leaves. But where is the other glass jar?" continued Mr. Harley, "let us enjoy these lovely flowers while we have them. Like other blessings we must do our part to preserve them in their freshness. If we do no more than gather them, they soon will wither, and we shall lose them. These things are types, my children, and we should learn to view them in this light." The jar was brought, and the two girls were arranging the flowers, when the sound of a well-known voice of peculiar sweetness fell like music on their ears. It came through the open window, and every eye was turned immediately to the face that appeared there. It was a countenance whose charming expression harmonized well with that sweet voice. The hood of black silk which covered the head of the speaker was partly thrown back from the calm open forehead, and the curls of shining hair clung like tendrils in wild luxuriance round the black hood, and partly shaded the cheek, usually fair even to paleness, but now glowing like a freshly blown rose. "It is Persis, our sweet Persis!" exclaimed Dora, who first looked up: "and her father is with her," added Mr. Harley: "I rejoice to see them." He rose to meet them with joyful haste; Mrs. Harley threw down her work; her daughters forgot their flowers, for all hailed with delight, all hastened forth to meet Mr. Clareton and his daughter, the beloved Persis. They met on the terrace, and greetings of true affection were exchanged.

The welcome given to Mr. Clareton was as cor