was noon.

We were drawn up in line on three sides with cannon and matches lighted before us. We could not see him well. He spoke to us, but he was not near enough, we did not understand him. That is what a bishop is."

While he was talking the bishop shut the door, which he had left wide open.

Mme. Magloire brought in a plate and set it on the table.

"Mme. Magloire," said the bishop, "put this plate as near the fire as you can." Then turning toward his guest he added: "The night wind is raw in the Alps; you must be cold, monsieur."

Every time he said the word monsieur with his gently solemn and heartily hospitable voice the man's countenance lighted up. Monsieur to a convict is a glass of water to a man dying of thirst at sea. Ignominy thirsts for respect.

"The lamp," said the bishop, "gives a very poor light."

Mme. Magloire understood him, and going to his bed chamber took from the mantel the two silver candlesticks, lighted the candles and put them on the table.

"M. l'Curé," said the man, "you are good; you don't despise me. You take me into your house, you light your candles for me, and I haven't hid from you where I come from, and how miserable I am."

The bishop, who was sitting near him, touched his hand gently and said, "You need not tell me who you are. This is not my house; it is the house of Christ. It does not ask any comer whether he has a name, but whether he has affliction. You are suffering, you are hungry and thirsty, be welcome. And do not thank me, do not tell me that I take you into my house. This is the home of no man except him who needs an asylum. I tell

you who are a traveler, that you are more at home here than I am; whatever is here is yours. What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me, I knew it."

The man opened his eyes in astonishment. "Really? You knew my name?"

"Yes," answered the bishop, "your name is my brother." "Stop, stop, M. l'Curé,” exclaimed the man. "I was famished when I came in, but you are so kind that now I don't know what I am, that is all gone."

The bishop looked at him again and said: "You have seen much suffering?"

"Oh, the red blouse, the ball and chain, the plank to sleep on, the heat, the cold, the galley's screw, the lash, the double chain for nothing, the dungeon for a word, even when sick in bed, the chain. The dogs, the dogs are happier! nineteen years! and I am 46, and now a yellow passport. That is all."

"Yes," answered the bishop, "you have left a place of suffering. But listen, there will be more joy in heaven over the tears of a repentant sinner than over the white robes of one hundred good men. If you are leaving that sorrowful place with hate and anger against men, you are worthy of compassion; if you leave it with good-will, gentleness, and peace, you are better than any of us." -VICTOR HUGO.

THE TEMPLE CHURCH

The Temple Church, which is one of the most interesting historical edifices in London, is at the same time one of the most chaste and beautiful in its architecture. I was struck with this at the very threshold, where I halted beneath the old semicircular arched Norman doorway, to reach which I had to de

scend a few steps, and the deep recess of which was superbly ornamented with sculptured figures, elaborately carved pillars, foliated capitals, and twisted, carved work overhead. Passing the leaves of the old Norman door, which closed behind me with a clang, as of the fall of a portcullis, I was within this ancient structure, beautiful in its effect and majestic in its simplicity.

No one who has read of the tremendous struggle of the crusades but has recognized the Knights Templars foremost in every onset, and bravest in every battle; and it is interesting to stand here in the very centre of their ancient home; here, where they were charged to be brave, honorable, and true as a duty; to stay not for mountain, sea, or desert, and spare not even life in the effort to reclaim the birthplace of Christianity from the grasp of the infidel; here they knelt and pronounced their vows, and from here went forth on campaigns against the infidel.

As I stood in the centre of this renowned temple, and looked up to the ring of Romanesque windows above the old Norman arches, and upon the six clustered pillars with their sculptured capitals upholding the vaulted roof, I could not help thinking that here might have been the very spot where, when with doors closely guarded, and brethren ranged around in robes and badges of the order, was the altar at which the novice knelt, and, after being instructed in his duty, with impressive ceremonies by the Grand Master, received arms and equipments, and a lecture with each, and lastly his sword, and the celebrated white mantle with the red cross.

Here in this circular sanctuary have stood some of the bravest hearts that ever beat beneath a steel corselet; here have been raised some of the stoutest hands that ever swung mace or battle axe, in solemn oath to fight for the Christian religion, and to

wrench the Holy Places from the hand of the Mussulman; here have stood princes, kings, potentates, monks, priests, knights,— all men whose names and deeds are imperishable in history; aye, and here at our very feet rest the ashes of those who have marched over the blinding sands and under the burning sun of the East, beneath the banner of the cross, or ridden with the stalwart Richard at the battle of Acre, and fronted the forces of Saladin himself.

Here rests one of those who forced King John at Runnymede to sign Magna Charta; and here, under the protection of the knights, dwelt John himself for a time, many of his public documents being dated from this place. After a look around at the beautiful pillars, the lofty arches, and pictured windows, the eye falls to the most interesting objects, the monumental effigies of Knights Templars that lie in groups in the central aisle.

This fine old church passed into the hands of the Knights Hospitallers in 1324, till Henry VIII abolished that order, and they leased it to students of law, in whose possession it has ever since remained.

LIVING AT ONE'S BEST

"I do not deem that it matters not

How you live your life below;

CURTIS GUILD.

It matters much to the heedless crowd

That you see go to and fro;

For all that is noble and high and good
Has an influence on the rest,

And the world is better for everyone
Who is living at his best."

THE COTTON BLOSSOMS

The cotton blossom is the only flower that is born in the shuttle of a sunbeam and dies in a loom. It is the most beautiful flower that grows, and needs only to become rare to be priceless -only to die to be idealized.

For the world worships that which it hopes to attain, and our ideals are those things just out of our reach.

Satiety has ten points and has possession of nine of them.

If, in early August, the delicately green leaves of this most aristocratic of all plants, instead of covering acres of Southland shimmering under a throbbing sun, peeped daintily out from among the well-kept beds of some noble garden, men would flock to see that plant, which, of all plants, looks most like a miniature

tree.

A stout-hearted plant dignity.

a tree, dwarfed, but losing not its

Then, one morning, with the earliest sunrise, and born of it, there emerges from the scalloped sea-shell of the bough an exquisite, pendulous, cream-white blossom, clasping in its centre a golden yellow star, pinked with dawn points of light, and, setting high up under its sky of milk-white petals flanked with yellow stars, it seems to the little nestling field-wrens born beneath it to be the miniature arch of daybreak, ere the great eye of the morning star closes.

Later, when the sun rises and the sky above grows pink and purple, it, too, changes its color from pink to purple, copying the sky from zone to zone, from blue to deeper blue, until, at late evening, the young nestlings may look up and say, in their bird language, "It is twilight."