CHAPTER XIII.

NEWS AND CHANGES.

I DO not believe any book was ever devoured with more earnest curiosity and attention, than those Mr. Wesley gave us.

All our books of amusement were laid aside for the time, and though we still practised our music lessons, it was as a matter of duty.

We were equally amazed at what we found, and what we did not find. Above all were we surprised, that so little was said about the Holy Virgin, and the invocation of the Saints and we began to think the Book must, after all, be a Protestant forgery, till a lucky discovery set us right. Mrs. Thorpe observed—as what did she not observe?—how closely we were occupied in our new studies, and one day she came up with a key in her hand.

"I am thinking, young ladies, that since you are so taken up with the books Mr. Wesley gave you, you may like to compare them with the Bible used in your own church. I know my father had one among his books—ah yes! Here it is," and she took down a good-sized volume, and laid it on the table.

"The books ought all to be taken down, and dusted oftener than they are!" she added. "But I do not like to trust Betsy, and Mrs. Crump and I have been too busy lately, to see to them."

I at once offered to undertake the care of the books, and Mrs. Thorpe left me the key, saying she was sure there was nothing among them to do me any harm. They were not indeed likely to do me either harm or good, consisting as they did, mostly of books of divinity, volumes of sermons, and other heavy reading not likely to be attractive to a young person. I found among them, however, Mr. Evelyn's life of Mrs. Godolphin, and some other memoirs, which I read with pleasure and profit.

We studied the Bible Mrs. Thorpe had handed us—the Douay Bible as it is called, from the place where it was published—and were surprised to find, that though the notes contained a great deal about the Virgin, the Saints, etc., there was no more in the text, than in that of the books Mr. Wesley had given us.

"How I wish we had some one to teach us!" said Amabel, rather impatiently.

"Perhaps Mrs. Cropsey will be able to do so when she comes!" I answered. "But, Amabel, I wonder what becomes of Mr. Cheriton."

We had got into the way of exchanging a few words with this gentleman almost every day, either in the garden, or as we met him in our walks, which we did rather frequently. But we had never seen him to speak to him, since Mr. Wesley's visit, and we had heard from Mrs. Thorpe—it being Sunday—that he did not preach that day, his place being supplied by one of the curates from St. Nicholas.

"I heard the old clerk say, that Mr. Cheriton was gone away for a few days, but would be back before next Sunday," answered Amabel. "I wish Mr. Wesley would come back and preach again."

"Perhaps he will; I heard he was going northward, and would return this way. If he preached in the church, I should like to go and hear him. Do you know, Amabel, I think I shall go to church with Mrs. Thorpe next time; you know she always goes on Friday morning. I do want to see what a Protestant church is like, and I am sure there is no harm in the prayers, for I have read them all through."

So I had in a prayer-book I had found in the book-case.

"Some things in them are the same as ours," remarked Amabel, thoughtfully. "The 'Te Deum' and the Magnificat and the Psalms are the same. And I like the Collects very much, they say so much in such few words."

"Kesiah Lee says the Methodists and Mr. Wesley too, pray to God in their own words, and ask Him for what they need," said I. I said that seemed like great presumption, and she said that so long as He was really our Father, it seemed as if we ought to be as free to go to Him as to our earthly Father.

"St. Theresa used to make prayers, I know," said Amabel; "it is in her life. But then she was a saint."

"Well, St. Paul says all God's people are called to be saints. We will ask Mrs. Cropsey about it; she is coming to-morrow, you know."

But Mrs. Cropsey was not destined to be any great help to us when she came. She was a pretty little woman in widow's weeds, who was so obviously scared at the charge she had undertaken that our awe of her was speedily changed into compassion. It was well for her that we had previously been taught obedience and docility, for I am sure we should never have learned them from her. She was an admirable musician, and sung charmingly, but as to any thing else, we were as able to instruct her as she us.

One thing she did teach us, however, and that was to read English properly. She had a very ladylike way of speaking, free from provincialisms and accent, and under her tuition, we speedily got rid both of our French ways—Gallicisms, Mr. Lilburne termed them—and the Northumbrian tones and forms of expression which we had engrafted upon them. We read aloud to her in the poets and in some history of England—I forget whose—only know it was dreadfully dry and stupid, but by good luck we found the great folio of Stowe's "Annales" among the books in our book-cases, and that most entertaining writer got us over our dislike to the study of history.

Mr. Lilburne, finding that we had a thirst for knowledge, proposed to give us lessons himself in geography and arithmetic twice or thrice a week. We soon settled into ways almost as regular as those we were used to at St. Jean. We studied and practised in the morning under Mrs. Cropsey's superintendence, (I was more interested in my music after I found out that I had a voice,) devoted two or three hours to needlework after dinner, walked out with Mrs. Cropsey, who, by the way, was not nearly so entertaining a companion as good Mrs. Crump, and spent our evening as before—studying our Bibles.

We did not find in Mrs. Cropsey the help we had hoped for in this latter pursuit. It is true we read a chapter with her every morning according to the calendar, but she did not encourage us to ask questions about what we read, and, indeed, evidently disliked to have us do so. She was one of those numerous persons who make use of the Scriptures and certain religious forms as if they were a kind of spell or incantation to bring good luck upon them, rather than a real intercourse with a real person. She had never been taught to think for herself in any thing, and had taken all her opinions, if such they could be called, from her father and her husband. She was terrified at the very name of Mr. Wesley, and besought us, even with tears, not to become Methodists, of which there was at present no great danger, seeing that we did not even know what a Methodist was.

"They are subverters of the Church and State, my dears," said she. "What can happen when the commonest people are taught to think that they may know their sins forgiven, and they themselves children of God, but that they should think themselves equal to the best in the land?"

"It does seem as if that might be true," remarked Amabel, thoughtfully, "because if one was really the child of God, one could not very well hold any higher rank. Perhaps that is the reason the king of France objected so much to the Protestants."

"But I think the Catholic Church teaches much the same thing," said I. "You know that even in France, a man who is a priest may command the king himself to do him reverence, though the priest may be a bourgeois or even a peasant by birth."

"And yet there are many convents where none, but the daughters of noble families are admitted," said Amabel. "It was so in our house in former times. Don't you know how, when it was reformed under the Mother Angelique, a house of the same order was founded at Toulon for the daughters of bourgeois? But I don't believe Mr. Wesley wishes to subvert the government, Mrs. Cropsey. Kesiah Lee says he prays for the king, and so do the preachers."

"My dear, don't speak of him," said Mrs. Cropsey, nervously. "I am sure such doings as his are not proper, or they would have been found out before. Besides, my late lamented husband knew him at Oxford, and he has told me often and often that he and his brother, Charles, belonged to a knot of young men who used to do all kinds of odd things—visiting the people in the jails and almshouses, and praying with them, and receiving the sacrament every Sunday. Why, Mr. Cropsey said there was a man in prison who was hung for forgery—he wrote a man's name for the sake of getting ten pounds—and Mr. Wesley went to see him, and talked and read to him, till he actually made him believe that his sins were pardoned, and he was going straight to paradise."

"Well, there was the thief on the cross!" said Amabel. "I dare say he had done worse than write a man's name for ten pounds, and the Lord promised Paradise to him."

But Mrs. Cropsey evidently thought that an entirely different matter. She was made so evidently uneasy with our questions, that we ceased to ask them, and should have gone on working out our puzzles by ourselves, I dare say, had it not been for Mr. Lilburne.

This gentleman had once been in deacon's orders, but his voice failing him entirely, and having an uncommon genius for instrumental music, he had taken to that entirely for a living. But he was well instructed in the Scriptures in their original tongues, and was besides a man of earnest and sincere piety. He happened upon us one evening when we were in the midst of our Bible reading, and heard us discussing some matter on which he was able to help us. From that time, a Bible lesson formed part of his regular instructions to us. He was in some sort a clergyman, so Mrs. Cropsey thought he must needs be all right as to his orthodoxy. She used to sit by and listen to his instructions with a very puzzled face, but I think she did acquire some new ideas after all. However, I am running ahead of my story.

The next Friday we went to morning prayers at St. Anne's—the first time I ever saw the inside of a Protestant church. It was a very old building, and made me think at once of the choir at St. Jean's. But the chancel was half taken up with two great square packing-boxes of family pews, and there were others on each side. The pulpit, a great carved pile, over-topped the reading-desk and communion table, and had a little door at the back for the minister, which reminded me at once of the door in Mrs. Crump's cuckoo clock. This pulpit, I learned afterwards, was a comparatively new erection, and was considered by every one a great improvement.

There were very few people in church, not more than a dozen, and they were for the most part poor people who sat on the narrow hard benches in the middle aisle. I observed Mrs. Bunnell in Lady Throckmorton's pew, and a few elderly ladies were scattered up and down the church.

Mr. Cheriton read the service. I thought him much changed since I last saw him; he looked somewhat thinner, and a little more haggard, but his face had a calm, resolved, and peaceful expression. His voice was as melodious and well-managed as ever, but had a new ring of earnestness in it. When he read that wonderful confession, he seemed to put new life and meaning into the words. One perceived that he felt himself a miserable sinner—one of those lost sheep whom the Lord came to seek and to save. It was all the difference between the outbreathings of a truly penitent sinner, and the elocution of a fine actor.

When the prayers were over, Mr. Cheriton spoke a few words on the Gospel, which was that for St. Matthew's day. He pictured the surprise and disgust of the proud self-righteous Scribes and Pharisees, at the approach of the despised publicans and sinners—their utter amazement as Jesus sat down to meat with them—the rebuke with which the Lord met them and the tenderness with which he turned to the poor people who were hanging on his words as he said, "'I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'"

"Is there—" said Mr. Cheriton in conclusion—"is there a heart here, which feels itself bowed down under the load of sin, which it would fain cast off, but cannot? Is there one of you knowing himself to be a lost sinner, and seeing no way of escape? Then the Son of Man is come to seek and save you. Come and cast your burdens on him—come and confess all your sin—the plague, it may be secret or open, of your own heart—come and say like the poor leper, 'If thou wilt, thou canst make me clean!' And be assured, His gracious hand will be stretched out with the words, 'I will! Be thou clean.'"

I saw a poor faded creature, who had come in late and shrunk into a corner, burst into tears and bow her head on the bench before her. Others looked at each other as though they could not tell what to make of it; and I saw one or two smiles of contempt mingled with wonder.

"But to those who are satisfied with themselves!" continued Mr. Cheriton. "The Pharisees who think themselves good enough already, and look down on their fellow sinners as if they were worms of the dust—to you, if such there be here—the Holy One hath another message. 'Thou sayest I am rich, and increased with goods and have need of nothing; and knowest not, that thou art wretched, and miserable, and pour, and blind, and naked.'"

I can give no notion of Mr. Cheriton's manner as he said these words, and the verse following them. They concluded the discourse, which did not take up ten minutes in all. He then finished with a collect and the benediction.

I saw Mrs. Bunnell's good plain face, bright with satisfaction. Poor Master Tubbs in his desk, looked utterly dazed and confounded. Two or three maiden ladies—or so I judged them to be, conferred together, with somewhat sour and indignant faces. Most of the poor women in the free seats seemed pleased, and I saw two of them shake hands, as those who congratulate each other on some delightful event. After a moment's whispered colloquy, they approached the poor creature I have mentioned who sat sobbing in her corner, and after a little talk, they assisted her to rise, arranged her somewhat disordered dress, and led her away still weeping between them.

"Do you see that?" said Mrs. Thorpe, pointing out the group to Mrs. Crump.

"I see—poor thing!" said Mrs. Crump, compassionately. "I am glad to see any one befriend her. To think how I remember that girl—a perfect rose-bud in her poor mother's house—and to see her now trampled, as it were, in the very mire of the streets."

"Who is she?" I ventured to ask.

"One whose name even I would not have you know," said Mrs. Thorpe; "and yet I might make her the text of a sermon. She was one who would needs judge and decide for herself where she would go, and what she would do, and whom she would consort with. She fell into wicked hands, as was to be expected, broke her mother's heart, and brought her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave, was the plaything of an hour to be cast out and trodden under foot of man."

"She must have felt as though the sermon was meant for her," said Mrs. Crump. "I am glad Joan Bristall has taken her up. But what did you think of the sermon?"

"That is more than I can tell you just now," answered Mrs. Thorpe. "I must think it over. I know it came home to me as no sermon ever did before, except Mr. Wesley's the other day at Mrs. Edwards' funeral."

"I thought it savored a good deal of enthusiasm," said Mrs. Cropsey, nervously. "I hope Mr. Cheriton is not going to turn out an enthusiast like Mr. Wesley. What a dreadful thing it would be!"

"What is an enthusiast?" I asked.

"An enthusiast? Why, a person who is enthusiastic—a person who—really, my dear, I don't quite know how to explain it—but it is very dangerous to be an enthusiast in religion. Mr. Cheriton has always been such a comfortable preacher, and such a favorite with everybody. It would be a great pity, if he should run away after enthusiasm like poor Mr. Wesley and his brother."

Saturday was a holiday, and Mrs. Thorpe, leaving the shop in charge of Rebecca, carried us off for a long walk into the country, bringing up at a farmhouse belonging to a cousin of hers, who had a famous dairy. The good woman, who was a widow with several tall sons and daughters, made us very welcome, and regaled us with all sorts of country dainties. Here, too, the conversation turned on the Methodists.

"Eppie, my dairy-woman, is wholly taken up with them," said she, "and so is her husband. Mrs. Thirlwall, our rector's wife, was here yesterday dealing with me to turn them away, because they went to the Methodist preaching at five o'clock on Sunday morning up on the Fell, and again to what they call—what is it, Meg?"

"A class meeting," said Meg.

"Yes—a class meeting at Mary Chewrel's cottage in the evening."

"'But,' says I, 'Mrs. Thirlwall, don't Hodge and Eppie go to church? I thought I saw them stay to the sacrament.'"

"'Yes, they did,' answers the lady."

"'Well,' says I, 'so long as they goes regular to church and sacrament, and does their work regular, and as well or better than they ever did before, I don't see as I has any call to discharge two old servants,' says I."

"And then she says, 'Mrs. Thirlwall does,'" added Meg, taking up the tale as her mother paused for lack of breath. "'But, Mrs. Davis, I tell you they are not content with that, but they have meetings in their own cottage, where they sing hymns.'"

"'Would you rather hear Hodge singing songs on the ale-bench?' mother says she."

"And I like Mr. Wesley's hymns," added Meg, with decision. "I think the words and tunes are beautiful."

"Why, how do you know them?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

Mrs. Davis looked a little embarrassed.

"Well, you know my poor Annie has been in a very low-spirited and dwining way ever since her misfortune. One could hardly get a word out of her by times for days together, and she took no interest in any thing. I was much afraid she would go out of her mind. But somehow, I don't know how, Eppie get talking with her, and one evening she says to me—

"'Mother, if you don't say no, I want to go and hear the Methodist preacher on the Fell to-morrow morning.'

"I was that surprised that I did not know what to think, for she had hardly spoken for a month, and you know she has felt that hard toward me that she would not look at me if she could help it. Now what would you have done, Cousin Thorpe?"

"I should have let her go."

"Well, and so I did. Says I, 'Nan, my dear, you may go, and welcome, if you will let Meg go with you, for you know you are not very strong,' says I, 'and I should feel easier in my mind if I knew she was along.'

"So they were up and away before it was fairly light. I waited with some anxious thoughts for her to come home, and the minute she got in, I saw that some change had come over her. It was like as if a hard set mask had fallen, and showed my own Nan's face underneath as it used to be before she saw that—well, I won't call him by name.

"'Well, Nan, did you have a good preaching?' says I.

"Up she comes to me and casts herself right on my neck. 'Mother,' says she, 'I've been a wicked, undutiful, self-willed girl to you. I was bound to have my own way, take me where it would, and when I couldn't, I was determined to die. But the Lord has showed me my sin, and I've given it all up to Him,' says she, raising of her eyes. 'It's all over now. Mother, forgive me, and I will try to be your own Nan again.'

"And then I kissed and hugged her," concluded the good mother, wiping her eyes, and she put on her apron and fell to serving breakfast just as she used to do. "I am afraid she isn't long for this world, but it is a joy to see her happy once more. Now do you wonder that I haven't a word to say against the Methodists?"

"I am sure, I do not," answered Mrs. Thorpe.

"Where is Nan?" I dreaded to ask for her after all I had heard.

"She is gone down to Judy Lechmire's to make her bed, and carry her some broth, and read the Bible to her a bit. Judy is bed-rid, and she does not get too much kindness, for she has been a bad 'un in her day, surely and the folk hereabout do take her for a witch. Here comes Nan now."

I glanced out of the window and saw approaching, a tall pale girl with the red-gold hair and clear skin so common in these parts. She looked ill, and moved languidly; but her face was the very abode of peace. She greeted us kindly, and seemed particularly glad to see Mrs. Thorpe.

"After dinner Nan and Meg shall sing you one of their hymns!" said Mrs. Davis. "For Meg is as wholly taken up with them as her sister. And though the church is good enough for me, I won't deny that the Methodists have worked such a change as I could never have believed, if I had not seen it, among the wild folks hereabouts, specially the colliers."

Accordingly Anne and Meg sung for us with much feeling, that hymn of Mr. Wesley's, beginning—

"Jesus, lover of my soul."

They both had sweet well-regulated voices, and I am sure I never enjoyed any music more.

While we were driving home, Mrs. Thorpe told us something of poor Nan's history. She had fallen in with a young man in the neighborhood, a suitable match enough for all that at first appeared; but by what seemed an accident, Mrs. Davis discovered beyond all doubt that the man in question was a drunkard, a gambler, and an utterly worthless wretch. All this decided Mrs. Davis that the match must be broken at once.

But Nan, on the news being opened to her, absolutely refused to believe the accusations against her lover, till he proved the truth of them beyond question, by going off with the pretty giddy wife of a laborer on his father's farm. The news threw poor Anne into a fit of something like frenzy, which passed into the sullen melancholy that Mrs. Davis had described. She often refused food for days together, nor would she speak to her mother, whom she blamed with the wilfulness of partial insanity for all that had happened.

"And I am sure 'tis no wonder my poor cousin Davis should like the Methodists, since they have given her back her daughter!" said Mrs. Thorpe. "I have heard that the preachers made people crazy, but this does not seem like it." *

* Mr. Wesley seems to have had a strange power over the insane. See several accounts in his wonderful journal.

The next morning we were in church betimes, for from what she had heard, Mrs. Thorpe said she had no doubt there would be a great crowd, since the fame of the Friday lecture had gone abroad, and the matter was much talked about.

So it proved. People kept coming and coming, till every seat of the church was occupied and many persons stood in the aisles, and passage-ways. Lady Throckmorton was in her pew in the chancel, with a bevy of smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen, nodding, passing snuff-boxes, whispering and curtsying to friends all over the church, as freely as in a theatre. The free seats were filled with poor folks and some gentry as well. I thought Lady Throckmorton was trying to make Mr. Cheriton look at her, but if so, she did not succeed, for he never turned his eyes towards her, more than if she were not present.

As the service went on, a hush gradually fell upon the congregation. Voice after voice chimed in with the responses, and there was a truce to the whispering and nodding among the fine folks; only Lady Throckmorton and two or three of those about her, kept it up after the sermon began, but even with them, there was a hush as the text was announced.

"God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."

I cannot pretend to analyze the sermon. I only know that it seemed to bring me just what I wanted.

Ever since I could think at all, I had felt a certain void in my heart which nothing seemed to supply. I had learned to fear the Father, as I said, as some far off Ruler, in whose hands I was a helpless, useless atom, and the Son, as my stern inexorable Judge; but I had never thought of loving them. All my love was for the Holy Virgin and the Saints. But no creature however exalted can satisfy the cravings of an awakened nature. I felt myself blindly groping in the dark, as it were, for some hand to lead me; some help to support me. I was haunted by the dread of death, and what should come after it—of that tremendous spectre of purgatory which the Roman church hath set up, to haunt the death-beds—not so much of impenitent as of penitent sinners. I longed to be good; but I found that when I would do good, evil was present with me.

Even while in the convent, I had wearied desperately of the round of "good works" so-called, the endlessly repeated prayers, the fasts and vigils, and hour long "meditations," when I never could tell at the end of the hour what I had been thinking about. Since I had come to Newcastle, I had left off all these exercises to a great degree, but my conscience had never been easy under the omission.

And there was another thing that haunted me. There was now no priest in Newcastle or very near; suppose I should die suddenly and without the sacraments. Suppose it should be a mortal sin after all, to read the Bible and listen to the English prayers, and I should die without the opportunity of confession. All these considerations made me very unhappy at times.

But now I learned that the Father was indeed my Father—that he had loved me, even me, with a love such as no human creature could so much as understand—that he desired my salvation far more than I did, and that instead of making the way hard, he had made it easy—so easy indeed, that it was hard to take in, by one who had always been taught that salvation was a thing to be earned.

But as Mr. Cheriton went on with his calm discourse, bringing text after text, passage after passage, to the support of his argument, I seemed to be assured that all was true. Yes, here was one I could—I did love and believe in—one to whom I could and did trust myself, for time and for eternity; and such a sweet peace descended upon my soul, as I have no words to describe. I glanced at Amabel. To my surprise I saw her color raised, and her lips compressed, while her eyes had that peculiar dilation, and raising of the eye-brow, which showed she was excited and displeased.

The sermon being closed, Mr. Cheriton gave notice that he should preach again in the afternoon, and then after a slight pause, he said—

"If there are any in the congregation, who wish for personal religious conversation or instruction, I shall be glad to meet them in the vestry after afternoon service. I will also give notice that the children of the parish will be catechised by me, next Sunday afternoon, after evening prayers."

People exchanged looks of surprise, and Master Tubbs looked as if he thought the rector had taken leave of his senses.

Mrs. Thorpe's seat was quite near the chancel, and as we waited a little for the crowd to disperse, saw Lady Throckmorton waylay Mr. Cheriton as he descended from the pulpit to the vestry.

"Well, Mr. Cheriton, you have given us a fine discourse this morning!" said she, in her light mocking tone. "Pray, do you intend to take a leaf out of Mr. Wesley's book, that you are preaching up faith and love at such a rate? But come, since you have enchanted us all with your eloquence, come home and dine with me?"

"Your ladyship must excuse me!" said Mr. Cheriton bowing.

"Oh! We are too good to dine out on Sunday any more, I suppose. We shall soon see you mounted on a table and preaching to the ballasters and sailor's women in the Sandgate, or to the Chowdene colliers, like your great apostle of ranters himself."

"Madam!" returned Mr. Cheriton. "I wish with all my heart you had never seen me in any worse place!"

And bowing again, he passed to the vestry and shut the door.

We walked home very silently, and went up to our room almost without speaking a word. When we had laid aside our hoods, I got out my Testament to read the chapter from which the text had been taken.

"What did you think of all that?" said Amabel abruptly.

"I liked it!" I answered. "It made me happy—happier than ever I was before—to think that the Lord should be my friend, that he should love me and desire my salvation so much as to—" And here I broke down and wept, as though my very soul would dissolve in tears.

"Well, why do you cry then?" said Amabel rather tartly.

"I don't know, unless it be for joy!" I answered, striving to compose myself. "It seems such a burden lifted off from one's shoulders, to think that one has not to earn one's salvation; that all that which we could not do for ourselves has been done for us, and we have only to take it."

"That is what I do not like, and cannot believe!" said Amabel with energy. "It just does away with all merit—don't you see that it does? And makes us all alike miserable beggars. According to what Mr. Cheriton said this morning, the greatest saint that ever spent his life in prayers and penances, is just as much dependent on undeserved mercy, as that poor wretch we saw on Friday."

"Exactly, and that just suits me, because I never had any merit!" said I. "As far as I understand Ur. Cheriton, all we have to do, is to accept of this undeserved mercy—to give up our hearts to Him, and then we are His. Then instead of our good works being payments of so much for so much—trafficking with Heaven, as St. Francis says—they are labors of love—work set by a loving Father to a dutiful child, instead of tasks imposed on a servant or slave by a hard master. Don't you know how Mother Prudentia used to say that love makes easy service?"

But Amabel would not see, or could not. Her pride—one of the strongest traits in her character—was alarmed. She had always been very particular is all religious observances. Her natural gentleness and her pure taste had kept her from open transgression; and she could not bring herself to own that she was as much a lost sinner as any poor fellow-creature on whom all men looked down.

All that week she was clearly very unhappy; but she would not say a word on the subject, either to me or to Mr. Cheriton, who called to see us more than once. I was glad to observe however, that she diligently studied her Bible and prayer-book.

One evening, I observed that when I was ready for bed, she had made no preparation for the same, but was reading on.

"Don't you mean to go to bed, Amabel?" I asked.

"Not just yet!" said she. "Please don't mind me, Lucy, I must sit up awhile."

She kissed me, and I saw she longed to be alone, so I went to bed. Waking up after awhile I saw her kneeling by the table, her head bowed almost to the ground. I did not speak, or show by any movement that I was watching her. She continued in this attitude a long time; indeed, till I went to sleep again. When I rose in the morning, she was sitting by the window still reading in the Testament.

"Lucy, I have given it all up!" said she, the old still light in her beautiful eyes, which showed she was happy once more.

"Given up what, dear!" I asked.

"All the struggle!" said she. "I have seen myself just as I am, and if I had not seen some one else at the same time, I should have given up in utter despair. Oh! What a fool, what a fool I have been. Lucy, I have thought myself a saint, and now when I look back on my life, I can see not one thing to boast of. It has been all self—self—throughout—self-righteousness, self-pleasing, self-exaltation. But I have given all up. I am only too thankful to be received as the poor creature I am. I am contented to leave myself here and hereafter in God's hands; and such a sweet peace has come over me as I cannot describe. Do you think it can be a delusion? Or does it really come from above."

"It comes from above like everything good, I ant sure!" I answered, overjoyed. "Why should you doubt it? Have we not the promise that such peace shall keep our hearts and minds, if we will only let it. But Amabel, Mr. Wesley is coming again on Sunday. You can consult him if you like."

Mr. Wesley preached to a crowded congregation on Sunday, and afterward we had a long conversation in the garden. I cannot repeat all the good advice he gave us, though I am sure I have profited by it all my life. I have never been one of his blind worshipers—to think every thing was right because he did it. On the contrary, I think he made some mistakes. But I do say that a nobler, purer minded, more unselfish person never lived, or one better fitted to be a spiritual guide. To him, the unseen and eternal things were the real things, and all others were but shadows, or at best but means to one great end.

He was far from being the morose, severe man that some people have pictured him. On the contrary, I have never seen any one who enjoyed life more, or carried on his face more clearly the imprint of cheerfulness, and even gaiety.

Mr. Wesley rejoiced greatly over the change which had taken place in St. Anne's Church and its pastor, but he warned Mr. Cheriton that he must make ready to take up the cross, since it surely awaited him, if he persevered in the course he had begun.

"He that would live godly in Jesus Christ must suffer persecution," said Mr. Wesley. "Unhappily, religion is just now at a very low ebb in this our beloved country and Church. Those who should be sentinels are sleeping on their posts, if not going over to the enemy outright, and he who strives to awaken them must expect their enmity, aye, though he prove every word he says to be in agreement with the standards of that very Church he is accused of striving to pull down."

"True," said Mr. Cheriton, "I am taken to task severely for teaching that a man may know his sins forgiven, and that by those who read the Absolution every day. But I dare not condemn my brethren, seeing what mine own life has been," said Mr. Cheriton, sadly. "I am sometimes all but ready to despair when I think of the company I have kept and the scenes I have frequented. But I trust I shall have strength given me to face whatever comes to me in the way of my duty."

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