taunt of Jack, or continuing the subject at all, he turn to Ann Dowley, and asked her if she could lend him needle and thread.

"What do you want with them?" asked Ann.

"Why, I am afraid that I shall be but a poor hand the work, but I thought that I might manage to pat up one or two of these great holes, and make my dr look a little more respectable."

"And why do you wish to look respectable?" ask Madge, glancing at him through the uncombed, unwash locks that hung loosely over her brow; "we get m when we look ragged.

"To-morrow is Sunday," Mark briefly replied, "an am going to church."

"To church!" exclaimed every other voice in cottage, in a tone of as much surprise as if he had s that he was going to prison. Except Ann, in bet days, not one of the party had ever crossed the thresh of a church.

"Well, if ever!" exclaimed Jack; "why on earth you go there?"

"I go because I think it right to do so, and becaus think that it will help me on my way."

"And what will you do when you get there?" laugh Ben,

"I shall listen, learn, and pray."

box, filled with a variety of odds and ends, had drawn forth first thread and then needle, stretched out her hand towards Mark. "Give me your jacket, I will mend it,” said she.

Oh, thank you, how kind!" he cried, pulling it off, pleased with an offer as unexpected as it was unusual.

"I think," said Madge, "that the shirt wants mending worse than the jacket; under that hole on the shoulder I can see the red mark quite plainly."

"Be silent, and don't talk nonsense!" cried Ann, impatiently.

The children glanced at each other, and were silent. "Are you going to the near church by the wood?" said Ann.

"No," replied Mark; "I have two reasons for going to Marshdale, though it is six or seven miles off. I would rather not go where where I am known; and judging from the direction in which his carriage was driven, I think that I should have a better chance at Marshdale of hearing Mr. Ewart."

"Hearing whom?" exclaimed Ann, almost dropping her work, whilst the blood rushed up to her face.

"Mr. Ewart, the clergyman who has been so kind, the tutor to Lord Fontonore.”

"Lord Fontonore! does he live here?" cried Ann, almost trembling with excitement as she spoke.

"I do not know exactly where he lives. I should

think it some way off, as the carriage was put up at t
inn. Did you ever see the clergyman, mother?"
"He used to visit at my last place," replied Ar
looking distressed.

"I think I've heard father talk about Lord Fontonor said Madge.

"No, you never did," cried Ann, abruptly.

tone.

"If you know the clergyman, that's good luck for u said Ben. "I daresay that he'll give us money if we g up a good story about you; only he's precious sharp finding one out. He wanted to pay us a visit."

"Y

"Don't bring him here; for any sake don't bring h here!" exclaimed Ann, looking quite alarmed. don't know the mischief, the ruin you would bring. never wish to set eyes upon that man."

“I can imagine her feelings of pain," thought Ma "by my own to-day, when I first saw the clergyma There is something in the very look of a good man whi seems like a reproach to us when we are so different."

The next morning, as Mark was dressing for chur he happily noticed, before he put on his jacket, the wo Pilgrim chalked in large letters upon the back.

self.

"This is a piece of Jack's mischief," he said to hi "I am glad that it is something that can easily

take no notice of this piece of ill-nature. I must learn to bear and forbear.'

Mark endured in silence the taunts and jests of the children on his setting out on his long walk to church. He felt irritated and annoyed, but he had prayed for patience; and the consciousness that he was at least trying to do what was right seemed to give him a greater command over his temper. He was heartily glad, however, when he got out of hearing of mocking words and bursts of laughter, and soon had a sense even of pleasure as he walked over the sunny green fields.

At length Marshdale church came in view. An ancient building it was, with a low, ivy-covered tower, and a small arched porch before the entrance. It stood in a churchyard, which was embosomed in trees, and a large yew-tree, that had stood for many an age, threw its shadow over the lowly graves beneath.

A stream of people was slowly wending along the narrow gravel walk, while the bell rang a summons to prayer. There was the aged widow, leaning on her crutch, bending her feeble steps, perhaps for the last time, to the place where she had worshipped from a child; there the hardy peasant, in his clean smockfrock, leading his rosy-cheeked boy; and there walked the lady, leaning on her husband's arm, with a flock of little ones before her.

Mark stood beneath the yew-tree, half afraid to venture

rn

e

The

further, watching the people as they went in. The
were some others standing there also, perhaps waitin
because a little early for the service, perhaps only idlin
near that door which they did not mean to enter.
were making observations on some one approaching.
"What a fine boy he looks! You might know hi
for a lord! Does he stay long in the neighbourhood?"
Only for a few weeks longer, I believe; he has a prod