"I got to the church after a long ride, only to find it locked. However, the vicarage was nearby, so I went there at once, in order to ask for the key. The vicar was away, but his wife gave me the key of a small door opening directly into the chancel.

"I closed the door after me, wandered casually round the interior in order to somewhat familiarize myself with my surroundings, before settling down to an hour's quiet thought and prayer."

Here he paused; in fact he seemed to be thinking deeply, and I felt instinctively that something was troubling his mind, and was still unsolved. Knowing his peculiar temperament, with its deep reserve and sensitiveness, I waited patiently, fearing lest an ill-timed question might make him draw back into his shell, in which case nothing ever would make him refer to the subject again.

Presently he began again. "I can't explain it," he said; "even now I don't know what made me do it, but I did a thing I had never done before, nor have I done it since. Somehow as I knelt down I prayed, as of course one always does, for all who worshipped in that house of prayer; but then, quite unintentionally and without knowing why I did it, I poured out my heart in prayer for all who might be defying GOD in that place, for any who refused to worship. My prayer was most intense, almost painful in its earnestness, though utterly unpremeditated and without conscious reason.

"Scarcely had my prayer been offered, when I was clearly conscious of another presence close to me. Someone was close behind watching my every movement, studying every act."

Again he paused, but this time only for a moment. Turning to me with a half laugh, he continued: "You know how curiously one's mind argues and contradicts itself at times, especially when it is faced unexpectedly with an unwelcome thought. I had scarcely become conscious of the presence near me and the persistent watching than my mind took up a position of rebellious incredulity. For a long time I stubbornly refused to look round, realizing that no one could possibly have entered the church without my knowledge.

"At last, however, no longer able to ignore what was so insistent, and feeling indignant at the ill-mannered intrusion into

my privacy, I stood up and faced round to utter an indignant protest, only to find no one there. The inner knowledge which passes far beyond sense perception told me that I was not alone and I began to turn over in my mind any other possible entrances into the church besides the one by which I had entered. I even went so far as to go and test the great western door, only to find it not only locked with a mighty key, but barred with a heavy oaken beam.

"Then I began to be irritated with myself. The church was obviously empty, and here was I wasting my time and failing to concentrate my thought on my sermon. I felt ashamed of myself, but somewhat puzzled and irritated too. Anyway, I gave myself a good scolding, called myself all the most scathing names imaginable and determined to begin again and concentrate more thoroughly. All the same, that unaccountable sense of being closely watched remained, but I determined to ignore it. That was the point of victory, though I did not know it at the time." His eyes glowed. They seemed twice their former size and were curiously luminous, yet with a quiet, steady look in them. My own interest grew with the narrative and I could scarcely take my eyes off his face, though again I shrank from breaking in on his chain of thought.

Presently he went on: "How wonderful is the way in which we are unconsciously tried and tested. In conquering distraction and concentrating on the matter in hand I won a greater triumph than I then knew, for almost immediately relief came, the scrutiny was relaxed and the presence removed, but it did not simply dissolve; it passed up the north aisle into the large vestry, where through the open door I could see the choir surplices hanging round the walls.

"In spite of myself, the relief was immense, although I was still obstinately refusing to acknowledge that there had been anything amiss. My mind worked actively, and the outline of my sermon grew as thought followed thought in rapid succession. It was pure intellectual enjoyment. But suddenly my heart gave a leap. I had been gazing straight in front of me at the altar, eagerly working out the sequence of my subject, when a movement in the choir vestry of which I have already spoken suddenly pulled me up with a jerk and my attention became riveted on the open vestry door. I cannot explain it to you, but I was suddenly

painfully alert and conscious that someone was moving about in the vestry.

"Then for the first time the thought of what we call the supernatural forced itself on me. The thought forced itself, I say I fought it with all my might. No longer could I meditate over my sermon. Instead my whole mind was in revolt. It was a sacred building, the house of GOD! It was the trysting place between earth and heaven, and once a month at least was the All-Sufficient Sacrifice offered on the altar. No, it was quite impossible that an unholy presence should haunt that place, the very thought seemed a sacrilege. Thus was I arguing with myself when again, with a shock, came another sense of movement in the vestry, and I knew that my arguments were vain, and that something beyond my ken was being forced on my consciousness. That conviction brought a certain calm, but it also roused all the obstinacy of my nature. I keenly resented what I could no longer deny. Undoubtedly some unlawful presence possessed that church and sought to drive forth those who came to taste somewhat of the peace of communion with GOD.

"I need scarcely say that all thought of my sermon vanished from my mind, but I would not be hurried nor forced to retire. Stubbornly I remained, watchful and alert, but deeply defiant, until an hour had passed.

"Then I determined to do what I had come to do, i.e., thoroughly explore the church, although now with a totally different interest. I decided to ignore the unwelcome presence, and in a designedly leisurely manner I examined the entire building, not even omitting the choir vestry.

"While I was doing this the chancel door opened and in came the vicar's wife, anxious no doubt about the key and wondering why my visit had lasted so long. Quick as lightning I decided to test the truth of my experiences without betraying my suspicions.

"Mrs. was a charming woman, although by no means young. She offered to take me around the church herself in case some of its beauties had escaped my notice. Nothing could have pleased me better. We investigated everything, and little by little I steered her up the north aisle until we stood just outside the fateful vestry.

"Here I determined to put my questions, albeit I was anxious not to betray myself unwittingly. Having mentioned with great appreciation some of the interesting objects she had been pointing out to me, I remarked in a casual manner, 'Yes, there is an unusual interest about this church.' Watching her carefully as I weighed my words, I saw a swift look of veiled inquiry come into her eyes. Slowly and deliberately I continued, "There is something quite peculiar about it.'

"Scarcely were the words out of my mouth when, involuntarily, she turned her head with a slinking furtive motion and glanced uneasily over her shoulder into the choir vestry! Of course that movement and her uneasy look were sufficient, and I knew immediately all I had guessed before. Taking the bull by the horns then, I laughed and nodded, saying, 'Yes, he is in there!' 'Oh,' she cried, 'have you seen him?' 'No, I have not seen him, but he has been annoying me the whole time and he did his level best to drive me out. Perhaps you can tell me something about him.'

"No,' she said, 'we can't find out who it is nor why he is here. There are two graves in the floor of the vestry, as you see, and we have had them both opened, but there was nothing unusual, nothing to account for this horrible thing.'

"Briefly she went on to tell me their own experiences. They could never keep an organist, for the organ seat was always shared by the unseen tenant, and the close scrutinizing proximity was too unbearable. Her daughter, she went on, had charge of the flowers on the altar, but nothing would induce her to do the vases in the church. She dashed in, took the vases out into the churchyard, and preferred to arrange them on one of the tombs out-of-doors.

"However, the various incidents would only weary you. There is only one thing more, though, that I must mention. In order to leave the church we had to pass through the chancel, where the door was by which we had entered. As we did so some strong personal antagonism, which I can only call a blast of hatred, came from the choir vestry. It was appalling! Mrs. S fled out in haste, but I was angered and filled with righteous indignation. I stood and faced the vestry in defiance, and it was the clash of two spirits, the embodied and the disembodied, in dire conflict. There was nothing brave about it," he

said, turning in answer to a stifled exclamation. "Some instinct told me that he could not approach to where I stood in the more sacred part of the edifice, and there indeed it was a case of 'spirit with spirit can meet' not in love but in warfare." He stopped, lost in thought.

"But Gordon," I said, "that surely is not all. What is your own explanation of it? How do you account for it all? Have you no theory, no possible explanation of the mystery?”

"Yes, of course I have," he answered, "and curiously enough I feel perfectly certain I am right. Like my conceit, isn't it, old boy?" He broke off with a laugh. "That church was one of those desecrated by Cromwell. It was used as a stable for his horses, in spite of the Blessed Sacrament resting in the Tabernacle. The haunting presence was intensely malignant and cruel, just such a personality as doubtless many of Cromwell's soldiers possessed. In all probability some dastardly act of cruelty and sacrilege was committed in the church and has never been expiated. Nowadays we like to forget that reparation and expiation are due for sin, and how many of us take home the Church's lesson as she pleads for the faithful departed that 'they may rest in peace!' The prayer is offered for 'the faithful' for one thing and the Church certainly does not consider 'rest in peace' to follow as a matter of course, else she would not teach us to pray so earnestly for it.

"That soul is still impenitent," he went on. "It is the penitent only who can find rest in our Lord, as they let His hand cleanse and purge them more and more, until, like silver, they reflect His likeness perfectly."

BOOK REVIEWS

The Crisis of the Churches. By Leighton Parks, D.D. New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1922; pp. xxiv+256. $2.50.

This is not a very cheerful book, but that is not Dr. Parks' fault,— we do not live in very cheerful times. Dr. Parks analyzes the present state of the world and comes to the same conclusion which many thinkers and students of history seem rapidly to be reaching, that we are approaching a crisis in the history of the world in which the fall of the present civilization is imminent. We are perhaps tempted to overstress the symp