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Helena's mother should be known to be a guest at the Abbey; therefore she has been warmly pressed to come, and, as it happens to fit in to her ladyship's visiting arrangements, she will remain here a fortnight. Mrs. Pomfret is whispering to Julian, on the ottoman, with a hand-screen held sideways to her mouth, to prevent any chance wind from dispersing a grain of her precious words. It is a dead secret-the secret which half the house knows, and half already guesses—which she is thus ostentatiously pouring into his angry and astonished ears, with strict injunctions that he is 'to let her confidence go no further.' Julian's face, and the impressive movements of his aunt's cap and curls, behind that pregnant hand-screen, convey to all present a very shrewd suspicion of what is passing. Julian looks at Sir Warwick more attentively than he has done during dinner, and cannot, for the life of him, see what any woman could discover so wonderfully fascinating about the fellow. For Mrs. Pomfret has told him-she says she 'thinks it but right that he should know'—all she knows of Olivia's ong though unacknowledged attachment to Sir Warwick, when the young lady believed him to be only an obscure painter. Sir Warwick has the advantage of Julian. He already knows him by sight. He has seen him twice. He knows nothing of Julian's history, he very little guesses that this is the man whose relations with Olivia (such as he misconceived them to be) caused him, Warwick Milton, so many months of misery; but he sees him there, on terms of the most freezing Courtesy with Mrs. Elliston-whom he now hears called Stellino-and Sir Warwick retains a very distinct recollection of a certain evening in the Strand, sixteen months ago. Olivia prepared him for this woman's arrival; and though he

knows, from the few words Olivia has said, that the intimacy between Clara and herself is a thing of the past; yet he is sorry she is here. His antipathy to the woman is as great as ever. He wonders whether Olivia, or any one present, knows that there is some secret bond existing between the actress and this Mr. Westbrook, who barely acknowledge each other in public?

Mary is in a corner, doing crochet, and wishing, poor child, that Rupert would come and talk to her, instead of joining Sir Warwick and Olivia, who certainly don't want him. Perhaps Rupert would do so, but that he remembers what Clara said about Mary, and his sister's hopes; and as it would be wrong to give the faintest colour to suchindeed, as he is rather indignant on the subject he makes up his mind that he is to talk to Mary, while he is here, as little as possible, though he has, at heart, a kindly feeling towards the girl. Such fruit may a few words, adroitly dropped, produce! Instead of Rupert, a very dull, rich young man, whose name I have forgotten, and who has been asked here in the idea that Mary and he may fancy each other, has planted himself beside her. She wishes it were bedtime.

This is a faint sketch of that society, its grouping, its aspect, and the feelings of its several members towards each other, on that evening, from ten o'clock, when the men came in from the dining-room, until near eleven, when Mrs. Pomfret got up, and thought we might have a little music, perhaps―eh, Julian? Where's your corney?'

In its case,' he replied.

'But you'll give us a little music, eh? You and Madame Stellino could do a duet, I dare say. Wouldn't that be nice, Lord Dumberley? The corney and the voice-so very soft. What's that thing I used to be so fond of Robert, Toy que j'aimeaint it?'

'Madame Stellino will sing it to you, alone; it isn't a duet. It is It is her cheval de parade. She has sung it to so many people, and always with effect.'

She understood full well his covert meaning; it was not often he took the trouble of being sarcastic. She preferred this to his contemptuous carelessness. If she could but rouse him! rekindle, by jealousy, or otherwise, some spark of the old fire! She knew that there was rage at his heart just now, the rage of discomfited vanity, rage at the sight of a favoured rival, and of Olivia's happiness. His wrath must find a vent, but he thought no more of Clara at that moment than the gambler, who sees his fortune swept away, thinks of the spaniel whom he kicks aside. But might she not, now, by utterly ignoring him, by giving his vanity an object to strive for, in the reconquest over a possession to which two other men were laying siege-might she not, possibly, create a revulsion of feeling in him at this moment? Such things had been before now.

She rose, and went to the piano: he was standing near the end of it, and her elbow brushed his hand in passing. A thrill ran through her; she had not felt the touch of that hand for many a long day. Her voice shook when she began to sing: she could not forget herself in her song, as she generally did never so little an actress, as when giving passionate utterance to fic titious joys and woes. She broke off suddenly; it was no use.

'I am

come now, pray don't leave off. It's too tantalising. 'Pon my soul, it's like an angel, the-the swell!the compass!-positively, three octaves-from the D below to the D flat above!'

Westbrook turned away, muttering to himself,

It requires such an angel, who is, assuredly, D. D. below, to compass such a flat as that-above her!'

Clara. Will not Miss Mary sing? Do please - that last little thing I taught you.'

But Mary coldly declined.

Then, Mrs. Pomfret, finding harmony a failure, suggested whist. Lady Caerlavrock, Lord Dumberley, Mr. Harrington and herself made a table. Now was Rupert's moment come: he glided into the old lord's empty seat beside Clara, and from that position he was not ousted until the whist party broke up, and wine and water and bed candles made their appearance.

It may be remembered that Rupert had a theory regarding the unknown Thompson: that his sister had been jealous of Clara on his account. The announcement of her engagement seemed to destroy this theory. Sir Warwick was devoted to Olivia; and his demeanour towards Clara certainly indicated no admiration—rather the reverse. Olivia has been prejudicing him against her. How narrow-minded and uncharitable even the best women are towards each other!' This was his thought.

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Clara found the opportunity to say two things to him in the course of their conversation.

so sorry, Mrs. Pomfret, but I can't sing to-night. I don't know what is the matter-I am tired, I suppose. Please forgive Dumberley? Please forgive I'll behave better another evening. I sang that song at the bishop's only last night-you can't think how dear and kind he was about it.'

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'Did you not pity me with Lord Dumberley? A whole hour, by Shrewsbury clock, I'm sure, all about the relative merits of Beethoven and Mendelssohn. I was so sick of it. But, you know, I must bear as much of it as he likes to inflict on me, because he has been so kind-oh! so kind, you can't think;

I owe him so much, poor, dear old man!'

The this:

other thing she said was

'So I suppose it is all settled between dear Olivia and Sir Warwick ? I'm so glad. No one has told me, but of course I have eyes. To think of our "first-floor" turning out to be a rich baronet. I can scarcely realise it. I never saw much of him. There were reasons. I think he was set against me. I don't expect he will ever get over the prejudice-and it is true I never liked him. Those things one can't help, you know. I am sorry, on account of dear Olivia. I always told her she would marry him, some day. She used to be indignant at the idea, because then he was nothing but a painter, I suppose. Dear Olivia always had a good deal of pride. You see she scarcely notices me, the poor singer, now, that she is going to be a great lady. Who was right, and who was wrong, Mr. Marston? Didn't I tell you that my coming here would be very unwelcome to her? But, indeed, I don't know who it is welcome to. I think I had much better not have come. I have left such warm devoted friends in London! Did you see how rude that Mr. Westbrook was to me, to-night? And even that child, Mary Pomfret, was so ungracious in her manner.'

'Oh, come! it's ridiculous; you're imagining that. How can you talk so?' But he remembered Warwick's chilling look and distant bow; he remembered Mary's avoidance of Clara-Mary, who was Olivia's great friend-and he felt his anger stirred against his sister. 'At least there are two people who you know are more than glad you

are here. There's that old idiot of a lord, who wants to be very captivating, I suppose; you ought to be satisfied with his welcome-'

(Oh! he is nothing, poor dear old man!')

'And there is a much humbler person, to whom your coming simply makes all the difference in the world.'

He added these last words in a lower tone, and with a passionate gaze, which satisfied Clara that she was not likely to suffer in the young man's eyes by any attempt that might be made to her prejudice.

Among the men in the smokingroom, that night, conversation was not very brisk. Little Stanridge had the talking mostly to himself; and the dull, rich young man, in a gorgeous attire, was his most attentive listener. Rupert smoked his cigar, not only in silence, but with his thoughts other where. Warwick Milton, rooted in the habits of many solitary years, was never very forthcoming among strangers; yet he had made an effort to draw Westbrook into conversation. It had met with no encouragement.

Does

'D- the fellow's impertinence!' he said to himself: he think he is going to trot me out for his amusement? She has been telling him about me, I suppose; Well, I gave her credit for being better than other women, but their vanity is all alike! That little devil, Clara! I see her game with those two men. How provokingly pretty she looked. I've half a mind-it would be good fun-to drive that fellow Marston mad, by cutting in, and spoiling his fun. If I stay here, I must do something to distract my thoughts!'

IN

CONDITION AND PROSPECTS OF PROTESTANTISM.

N one of the western counties, the writer of this paper was recently present at an evening Evangelical prayer meeting. The congregation were partly church-goers, partly dissenters of various denominations, united for the time by the still active revivalist excitement. Some were highly educated men and women: farmers, tradesmen, servants, sailors and fishermen made up the rest all were representative specimens of Evangelical Christians, passionate doctrinalists, convinced that they, and only they, possessed the Open Sesame' of heaven, but doing credit to their faith by inoffensive, if not useful, lives. One of them, who took a leading part in the proceedings, was a person of large fortune, who was devoting his money, time and talents to what he called the truth. Another was well known through two counties as a hard-headed, shrewd, effective man of business; a stern, but on the whole, and as times went, beneficent despot over many thousands of unmanageable people.

The services consisted of a series of addresses from different speakers, interchanged with extempore prayers, directed rather to the audience than to the Deity. At intervals, the congregation sung hymns, and sung them particularly well. The teaching was of the ordinary kind, expressed only with more than usual distinctness. We were told that the business of each individual man and woman in the world was to save his or her soul; that we were all sinners together-all equally guilty, hopeless, lost, accursed children, unable to stir a finger or do a thing to help ourselves. Happily, we were not required to stir a finger; rather, we were forbidden to attempt it. An antidote had been provided for our sins and a substitute for our obedience. Everything had been done

for us.

We had but to lay hold of the perfect righteousness which had been fulfilled in our behalf. We had but to put on the vesture provided for our wearing, and our safety was assured. The reproaches of conscience were silenced. We were perfectly happy in this world, and certain to be blessed in the next. If, on the other hand, we neglected the offered grace; if, through carelessness, or intellectual perverseness, or any other cause, we did not apprehend it in the proper manner; if we tried to please God ourselves by works of righteousness,' the sacrifice would then cease to avail us. It mattered nothing whether, in the common acceptation of the word, we were good or bad; we were lost all the same, condemned by perfect justice to everlasting torture.

It is, of course, impossible for human creatures to act towards one another on these principles. The man of business on week days deals with those whom he employs on week-day rules. He gives them work to do, and he expects them to do it. He knows the meaning of good desert as well as of ill desert. He promises and he threatens. He praises and he blames. He will not hear of vicarious labour. He rewards the honest and industrious. He punishes the lazy and the vicious. He finds society so constructed that it cannot exist unless men treat one another as responsible for their actions, and as able to do right as well as wrong.

And, again, one remembered that the Christian's life on earth used to be represented as a warfare; that the soldier who went into battle considering only how he could save his own life, would do little credit to the cause he was fighting for; and that there were other things besides and before saving their souls

which earnest men used to think about.

Every one, however, was delighted. They were hearing what they had come to hear what they had heard a thousand times before, and would hear with equal ardour a thousand times again-the gospel in a nutshell; the magic formulas which would cheat the devil of his due. However antinomian the theory might sound, it was not abused by anybody present for purposes of self-indulgence. While they said that it was impossible for men to lead good lives, they were, most of them, contradicting their words by their practice. While they professed to be thinking only of their personal salvation, they were benevolent, generous, and self-forgetful. People may express themselves in what formulas they please; but if they sincerely believe in God, they try to act uprightly and justly; and the language of theology, hovering, as it generally does, between extravagance and conventionality, must not be scanned too narrowly.

There is, indeed, attaching to all propositions, one important condition that they are either true or false; and it is noticeable that religious people reveal unconsciously, in their way of speaking, a misgiving that the ground is insecure under them. We do not mean, of course, that they knowingly maintain what they believe may possibly be a mistake; but whatever persuasion they belong to, they do not talk about truth, but they talk about the truth; the truth being the doctrine which, for various reasons, they each prefer. Truth exists independently of them. It is searched for by observation and reason. It is tested by evidence. There is a more and a less in the degree to which men are able to arrive at it. On the other hand, for the truth the believer has the testimony of his heart. It suits his spiritual instincts; it answers his

spiritual desires. There is no 'perhaps' about it; no balancing of argument. Catholics, Anglicans, Protestants are each absolutely certain that they are right. God, it would seem, makes truth; men make the truth; which, more or less, approaches to the other, but is not identical with it. If it were not so, these different bodies, instead of quarrelling, would agree. The measure of approximation is the measure of the strength or usefulness of the different systems. Experience is the test. If in virtue of any creed men lead active, upright, self-denying lives, the creed itself is tolerable; and whatever its rivals may say about it, is not, and cannot be, utterly false.

It seems, however, as if the Evangelicals were dreadfully anxious to disclaim any such criterion. When the first address was over, the congregation sung the following singular hymn, one of a collection of which, it appeared from the titlepage, that many hundred thousand copies were in circulation:

Nothing, either great or small,
Nothing, sinners, no;
Jesus did it did it all

Long, long ago.

It is finished, yes, indeed,
Finished every jot;
Sinners, this is all you need,
Tell me is it not?

When He from his lofty throne
Stooped to do and die,
Everything was fully done,
Hearken to his cry.

Weary, weary, burdened one,
Wherefore toil you so?
Cease your doing, all was done

Long, long ago.

Till to Jesus' work you cling
By a simple faith,
Doing is a deadly thing,
Doing ends in death.
Cast your deadly doing down,
Down at Jesus' feet,
Stand in Him, in Him alone,

Gloriously complete.

And this, we said to ourselves, is Protestantism. To do our duty

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