ePub 版

Poetry :-

Legend of the Palm and the In-
• fant Jesus, 507.

Lines on S. John's, Torquay, 156.

Lux e Tenebris, 142.

Peace, 182.

Quæstiones et Responsa, 434.
"Tempora pessima sunt,” 515.
“They are waiting for us," 238.
Widow's Whisper, the, 289.
Wisdom, 35.

Crystal Finlaison's Narrative,


Gleanings at S. Alban's, Hol.

born, 413.

“ JESUS saith unto her, Weep

not,” 435.

Legend of S. Austen, 190.

Letters from Wildbad, 137, 260,


Might against Right, 73, 143,

267, 372, 440, 516.
Ministering Spirits, 239.
Neglected Lamps, the, 461.
Notices to Correspondents, 104,

200, 296, 392, 488, 596.
Omnia vincit Amor, 1, 105, 201,

297, 393, 489.
Pictures from Spain, 66.

Adoro Te devote, 412.
A Retrospect, 43.
A Storm by the Sea, 92.
“Before the Throne," 460.
Christmas Carol, 515.
Coming forth of the Bridegroom,


Daily Service, 266.

Harvest, 319.

Riviera, the, 226.
Sheikh Ahmed Ibn Hedeb's Mare,

Sir Philip de Carteret, 183.
Speech of the Vice-President of

the English Church Union, 86.

The Light that shineth ever from

the Cross, 36.

The Three Doves, 131.

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CHAPTER XVI. It was with a somewhat weary step that Angelo Stewart entered bis house that evening. This day had been to bim, as many days were, one of almost unremitted work.

He had been in the morning preaching at a Westend church for the benefit of a hospital, and all the afternoon and evening he had been among the poor; principally with those who were sick and suffering (for typhus had broken out among the ill-ventilated and miserable dwellings,) and in this thickly-populated and poor neigh. bourhood the clergy of S. Michael's had more to do than they could get through, even with the assistance of the ladies attached to the church, who, like their directors worked early and late, but yet found, as is always the case, that misery outruns assistance, and the brain might grow sick and the heart faint, if it were not for the Help and the Guide which can never fail or grow weary, though suffering should roll in oceans.

It was no wonder then that the priest's step should be languid, and his brow very grave and overcast as he crossed his own threshold ; but he smiled as he encountered Mrs. Laurence's anxious affectionate gaze-a sad smile, perhaps-a man who sees much of suffering and sorrow is not often mirthful.

“ You're tired, sir," said Mrs. Laurence, who almost worshipped her young master; "you work a great deal too much. I wish I could stop you. You're surely not going out again to-night ?" she spoke with the loving

VOL. VI. (N. s.)


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freedom of a tried and faithful servant. The priest answered with his customary gentleness.

“There is work to be done, Mrs. Laurence, and I must not look back when my hand is on the plough.”

“You mustn't lay yourself up with work, sir,” said Mrs. Laurence; "what should we all do then ? Do please stop at home to-night, sir." “I cannot. I must go out again

at nine o'clock. I have to visit a family near Tower Hill, by permission of the district clergy; the father is stricken with fever, and the wife sent to ask me to go and see him to-night. He was delirious when I called there about an hour


“ Tower Hill, sir! but why don't their own clergy

Her master's look checked her speech, even before he spake the words, which, though not uttered reproachfully, cut her to the soul.

« Our LORD and His Apostles did not consider a particular place or people, but went wherever sorrow or sickness called them.

“ Forgive me, sir,” said the poor woman, humbly; "I spoke wrongly " and she went away quiet and subdued, and Angelo Stewart entered his study. There was no one to welcome him here but the dear familiar room, and the books and pictures, and music he loved so well, and there was no definite feeling of loneliness in his heart; but yet as he went in and sat down in the favourite arm-chair near the window, he thought with pleasure of the little Arab whom he had told to come in the evening. The child filled his thoughts more than he had deemed possible. The lovely sad little face with its frame of golden curls was constantly before him, and just now it would soothe him to speak to her, and see the

young mind unfold like a flower before the light and life of truth.

A young servant, Mrs. Laurence's assistant, came in softly, and placed coffee and refreshment on the table, but the priest took no notice of it yet; he drank a little wine, for he felt somewhat jaded, and then turned to an old friend and comforter—the harmonium. There was no jarring or discordant voice here, the rich music stole



into his heart and filled it with melody, for the chords within vibrated to the outward harmony. He was playing one of those grand old pieces, which so breathe the soul of love and intreaty—"Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini.” How perfect were those words to him, clothed in the faultless music of Germany's great master; and over and over again he went through the well-known and well-loved passages. He knew all that mass by heart, but to-night he played none of the triumphant music, only lingering over the Benedictus, and the prayers for mercy and help. His life brought him always in contact with sin and suffering and sorrow. From his childhood the lights and shades of city life had been familiar to him, and even as a boy always keenly observant of men rather than of things, he had begun to learn the lesson of the great drama of human life ; but there are times when more than usual suffering meets the eye and oppresses the heart, and if the physical frame is wearied too the load seems heavy indeed to bear. The “pestilence that walketh in darkness,” had taken its grim station among the crowded courts and alleys of London Wall, and for many days the terrible fever had laid many heads low, and made many who bad known comfort feel the presence of the lean wolf. Six times this day had Angelo knelt by the bed of the dying, four times he had closed the eyes of the dead, and the cry of the widow and fatherless had filled his heart. For two hours he had held a fever-stricken child in his arms, while the doctor counted every beat of the feeble pulse ; and on the wretched bed in the corner the father Jay a corpse-bardly cold in death before the body of his child was laid beside him. And now from all this misery there was but two or three hours' rest, and then once more the bed of sickness must be visited, and the paths of poverty and death be trodden again.

It had never struck him before to-night that this room seemed lonely; he had been weary in body and mind often before, and not missed the welcome he had never known. For he had always lived alone, he had never known mother, or sister, or brother, and though he might at times have wished that God had bestowed


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on him one of these gifts, he was in all things so utterly subservient to the Divine Will that such wishes found no permanent place in his mind.

An old friend had said to him once, only a few months before, “Stewart, you must find this place very lonely ; why don't you marry

?" The question had provoked only a smile and a gentle answer. “I have never thought of it, nor could I even wish to

I have never loved." And in truth he had from his youth been so entirely, like the Apostle S. Paul, given up to the service of his Divine Master, that he had never thought of marriage ; and he so loved all those among whom he worked, that it seemed to him as if each and all belonged to bim. Upon the children especially were poured out depths of love and tenderness, which they could little fathom or realise, although they could feel the influence as the flowers feel the summer shower, but know not from whence it falls. Yet while he loved them all, he had been especially drawn towards the little goldenheaded outcast, whose singular beauty and evidently superior nature seemed so ill-suited to the wretched class to which she belonged. It is not an uncommon thing to see a man, of

grave intellect and great acquirements, taking delight in the presence of a little child ; and frequently turning from he society of the learned and eminent, to seek consolation and pleasure in the presence of some tiny innocent, who can hardly lisp its mother tongue, and looks to him “ the eye of a maiden to the band of her mistress.'

So amid all the hundreds of young children, with whom he was in constant intercourse, Angelo Stewart's thoughts dwelt most and with peculiar sadness upon the little Picciola, and he turned round quickly from the harmonium, when Mrs. Laurence opened the door, and said, “ Here is the little girl, sir, whom you told to come to you this evening;" and she gently insinuated the small slim form of the Picciola into the room and retired. Curly-nut stood half trembling, afraid to put her foot down one step, or to move from where she stood ;


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