what time and rest, or at any rate freedom from work, would do for him. A few days more and the room in Laura Place was vacant.

And Hester Dudley, looking out upon the bare trees and the few early flowers, thought sorrowfully that he had gone without a wordwithout even an inquiry after her father in his illness. Did she blame him? Not she. But she did blame those whose hands, instead of helping, had been always against him; who had worried, and wronged, and driven him away.

"Take my advice, children," said Richard Dudley from his sofa; "never run after popular preachers."

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Popular!" repeated his eldest daughter. "If you mean Mr. Selturne, he will never be that."

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Yes, he will. Didn't you say he had knocked up? Yes, he will be popular."

"People are too hard upon him," said Caroline. "His sermons may not be anything particular; I am no judge. Hester says they are clever, but if they are not, it is no reason why everybody should be so hard upon him. This is his first curacy."

A smile passed over Hester's face, but she did not move from her safe position at the window. The sublime absurdity of seeking excuses for Ralph Selturne! He was so great in her eyes, so clever, so far up above her, that she could hardly now believe in the friendship which belonged to the past. Was it past? It had been very pleasant to feel that he thought it no condescension to talk to her; that, poor as her music was, he yet liked to listen to it. Something had come between them; some trouble of his own. He had not forgotten, could not have forgotten, a little patience was all that he required of her, surely she might attain that.

"People have fallen into the common mistake of expecting an old head on young shoulders," said Richard Dudley. "And everybody likes to have his own way. I repeat, don't you run after popular preachers. They will see him better by the light of absence, and illness from over-work sounds well.”

And Richard Dudley was right. A feeling of sympathy for the curate began to spread in the parish now that he was absent. They really did begin to think there might be fault on both sides. He had been hasty, domineering, arrogant; it was all true. But perhaps they had been so also. They had shown no consideration for him. They had made no allowance for his youth and inexperience, no allowance for his real anxiety to do good, about which there could be no mistake. They began to see that he was utterly deficient in that tact and readiness of self-adaptation which wins all hearts for men possessing but a moiety of his good qualities of head and heart.

As Ralph had not spared himself in his reflections, so now it was

their turn for self-accusation. They had given him no chance. They had made overt attacks upon him in the local papers; they had put stumbling blocks in his way instead of going with him heart and hand in his work. The old singers even got up a complaint to the vicar, whose response, that he had perfect confidence in his curate, and could not interfere in his movements, was received as a fresh indignity.

The clergyman who officiated in Ralph's place, too, and who had once been curate of St. Peter's, had no bounds for his wonder and admiration at the change which his brother curate had effected in so short a time. The improvement in the appearance of the church, the music especially, which used to be so weary a ceremonial, and so sore a point of discussion, roused his enthusiasm in its praise; and the people, now that it was pointed out to them, though they were at first quietly antagonistic, were struck with the actual improvement.

Ill! No wonder he was ill. Why, old Atwell said, who had it from the curate's own landlady, that he used to study so many hours every day, besides sermon writing, and working like a horse in the parish, and then there were the choral meetings which he presided over. And those sermons of his after all were wonderfully clever and deep. Think of the head work! And look at his ready generosity. They could hear of it now on all sides. And there was the harmonium, and the organist's large salary, all out of his private means. Why, not one man in a hundred would have done as he did. No wonder his health had given way.

CHAPTER IX.-PAST AND FUTURE.

He sat alone in his lodging, weary with a pleasant languor and hopeful. In its velvet cover lay the first sermon preached since his return, and the aspect of the room was the same as it had been on that evening long ago, when he sat there full of listlessness and despondency. But all was changed for him. Instead of fresh troubles, a new cordiality seemed to have risen up to welcome him back.

A deputation had waited upon him on the second evening after his return, to invite him to attend a meeting of the churchwardens and other parishioners, at which he was made treasurer of the sum already collected towards the new organ. Also a list was handed to him of those who proposed to become annual subscribers for the organist and choir. And a vote of confidence in him, and thanks for his untiring exertions amongst them was proposed and carried enthusiastically.

He was not prepared for this. His thoughts had been full of humility for his own shortcomings. His response breathed a spirit which they wondered they had never discerned before.

Inquiries for his health and rejoicings at his return met him on every side, and he was glad to get away from it all, back to the

old lodging in Laura Place, that he might have space and breathing time to realize the change. He came back a quieter and happier man, with a secret joy that struggled to be uppermost, in spite of his assertions that he had not deserved it. In solitude and calmness he had taken to pieces his past life, and looked along it as a whole. He was prepared to begin afresh. He had suffered and could pity. His disgust for that part of his work which took him amongst the poor and wretched had vanished; for a shadow from the sweetest dream of his life fell on all those with whom henceforth he had to do. As for that pseudo-friendship of his, he saw it in its true light. He had no longer any right to free himself and forget, even if he had wished it. He had, selfishly and self-deceived, done all he could to win her to himself, and he was no longer free to choose between the happiness which had been placed in his way, and the misery he once proposed to himself.

He had expected to meet with distrust and dislike; he had been thinking anxiously how hard a thing it is to undo past false steps; and behold the great difficulty shrank away out of his path, and his parishioners met him at once on the common ground of goodwill and friendEven his landlady put on her brightest cap in his honour, and ventured to express a hope that now he was better he would not sit so much moping over his books. And his look of amusement, and the tone of his answer were amongst the things unknown to her before.

Once, again, she brought in that tray without waiting for the bell, and, as she set it down, lifted unreproved the sermon in its velvet cover. Left alone, the curate eyed that sermon gratefully. It had been written in the time of solitude and quiet; there was a strange pathos about it even to himself, in its utter dissimilarity to his former ones. In it there was the fruit not only of persevering book study, but also of his trouble, gentleness, earnestness, patience. In his suffering he had learnt compassion; in his human love, tenderness.

He rose and went out, past the court and the church, and the big house of Mr. Smith, towards whom a feeling of gratitude had taken the place of his former coldness. He passed into those meadows over which the river fog had already begun to rise, and he stood at the gate of the Red Grange for a moment, leaning over it. He saw the fire-light in the dining-room, and he saw a figure at the window of Richard Dudley's sitting-room. He opened the gate softly. So much dearer was this scene to him, for the trouble which had gone before it. As he drew nearer he saw that the figure at the window was Hester; and that she let it suddenly. He did not wait to have the door opened for him, he knew the trick of the handle too well. He turned it, and stood in the hall, and saw Hester there, making a sign to him to be silent.

"Hush! he is asleep."