Maurice was punctual to his hour. She received him in the library, a very pretty room, looking out on the shrubbery.

"I have always carte blanche for this room of an evening," she said; "though I am not allowed to be very recluse. The dean would have sent you an invitation for dinner, but I told him I did not know where you were staying. He was very angry with me for sending you away; I am to invite you for to-morrow."

"You must thank him, for me, and decline," answered Maurice. "I did not come to Oldbury to make acquaintances, but to see you. And now, dear one, will you not tell me what it is that has unsettled your faith? Give me your mental history for the last few months."

Her face, in a moment, became fixed and obstinate, and a dreary look came into it.

"Ritualist though I am, I have not yet gone into the confessional. When I do, it will not be to you, Cousin Maurice."

"Ah, now you are perverse. I said nothing about confession. All I ask for is the free interchange of your thoughts and feelings for mine; just as it used to be in the old days, Mabel."

The persuasive tones did not affect her. She was resolved not to be communicative, and she made not

the slightest attempt to plead for the Ritualism he had so little scruple in assailing. The most she would say was,

"Well you know, Maurice, I must have a religion. I tried living without one, but I found it would not do; so Ritualism, being the most unlike that which I had proved, aye, proved unattainable"-(she said, fiercely, clasping her small hands together)—“ I thought I would be a Ritualist."

"Say, you must have religion, not a religion; and you tried to do without it? You, a woman, really sank so low as that?"

"Yes; I really sank as low as that, Mr. Maurice Wetherill. It is well you should know the worst of

me;

but I considered how the exile of religion answered in France and in certain individuals. Leaving all that, I still found that I could not do without a religion, nor without a ritual to support it. You see, now, what a reprobate I have been. What a trophy I shall be for you, if you succeed in dragging such desirable spoil back again!"

"A gem for the Saviour's crown, not a trophy for Maurice Wetherill's bruised helmet. And this Ritualism-it suffices you? You look as if it did," he said, ironically.

"Ah, well, 'Cela va sans dire.'

"There lies more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.'

"Some of us are naturally craving, restless, and unsatisfied. I believe there is more of the carrion-seeking raven in me, than of the meek carrier-pigeon."

“I cannot talk to you thus,” expostulated Maurice ; great and solemn interests are at stake. Honest doubt won't excuse us! we are responsible for belief, Mabel! Mabel! beloved of God! purchased by Christ! wooed and entreated by the Spirit! let us not talk on a theme so sweet, so solemn, for the mere sake of argument; but let us together seek the truth, the hidden mystery, the purpose of the Triune God concerning us. My cousin, be not trifling; be in earnest. You know you are not happy, and your unconcern is affectation.”

"You used to say," said Mabel, Can beings with souls be otherwise than happy'; now, I say, 'Can beings with live, throbbing, human hearts, be otherwise than miserable?'"

CHAPTER XVIII.

"The rival systems bend their brows,
Eager their zealot prides to arouse,
We know not where to pay our vows.

"Then, from the search we recreant flee;
Still chafing, like a hungry sea,

That we may reach Thy throne and Thee.
"Show us Thyself! none else prevail.
Earth's mightiest with the effort fail,
And tremor shakes the seraph's veil."

SABBATH CHIMES.

WE have talked for a long time without coming to the point," said Maurice. "But you will not listen to me; you will not be entreated. You, now, in your ripening womanhood, scorn, as vague and transcendental, the pure, noble aspirations of your early girlhood. Oh, recreant heart, how foolish hast thou become! It is as if the glorious noontide should be ashamed of the roseate dawn, its earliest herald; or as if the fruit-laden tree should shudder to hear of the blossoms from which it had its golden dower. But, alas! the analogy holds not. The dawn, here, has been darkened; and for the tree, would not the Master, looking upon it, turn

weary and grieved away, saying, 'Nothing but leaves:

nothing but leaves.

expecting fruit, and

Behold I have come these years

yet find I nothing but leaves !"

Maurice's voice, as he said this was peculiarly plaintive. It affected her like the wail struck from an Æolian harp by the oversweeping of an Autumn blast. Yes, and she writhed beneath the torture of appeal made to her conscience. Her face crimsoned, her little delicate hands, with their long psychical fingers twined together, as if from pain; but she gave no other sign.

Have you ever asked yourself," pleaded Maurice, "why the fair resolves you took with me for the building up of your life-character failed, every one of them? why Self rose and overcame you—a giant armed? If you have not, ask your own heart now. Will it not make answer, 'Built on the sand. And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house; and it fell, and great was the fall of it?' You need not hesitate to tell me, dear Mabel, for you fell not alone. I, too, had built upon the sand The storm blew over me to prove what my foundation and though I had planned my house like a temple, with spires pointing heavenward, it came down, spires and all. You know how weak I was. You saw me, Maurice Wetherill, the slave of a beautiful, but worldlyhearted, unchildlike child. When I lost my unmeaning

was;