"It gives the key to it. Is that your notion of a religious life? You don't answer me.'

"Well," said Eleanor laughing again, "it gives the key to it, as you say. I do not suppose you wear a suit of armour to protect yourself."

"I beg your pardon. I do."

"Armour?" said Eleanor, looking incredulous. But her friend fairly burst into a little laugh at that.

"Are you rested?" said he.

And Eleanor got up, feeling a little indignant and a little curious. Strolling towards the ruins, however, there was too much to start conversation and too much to give delight, to permit either silence or pique to last.

"Isn't it beautiful," burst from both at once.

"How exquisite that ivy is, climbing up that old tower."

"And what a pity it is crumbling away so," said Eleanor. "See that nearer angle-it is breaking down fast. I wish it would stay as it is."

"Nothing will do that for you. What is all that collection of rubbish yonder?"

"That is where Mr. Carlisle is going to build a cottage for one of his people; somebody to take care of the ruins, I believe."

"And he takes the ruins to build it with, and the old priory grounds too."

Eleanor looked again at her companion.

"I think it is better than to have the broken stones lying all over -don't you?

"I do not."

"Mr. Carlisle thinks so. Now here we are in the body of the church-there you see where the roof went, by the slanting lines on the tower wall; and we are standing where the congregation used to assemble."

"The

"Not much of a congregation," said her companion. neighbouring country furnished few attendants, I fancy; the old monks and their retainers were about all. The choir would hold most of them; the nave, where we are standing, would have been of little use except for processions."

"Processions ?" said Eleanor.

"On particular days there were processions of the brotherhood, with lighted candles-round and round in the church. In the church at York twelve rounds made a mile, and there were twelve holes at the great door, with a little peg, so that any one curious about the matter might reckon the miles.

"And so they used to go up and down here, burning their fingers with melted tallow," said Eleanor. "Poor creatures. What a melancholy existence. Are you preparing to renounce the world yourself, Mr. Rhys?"

He smiled, but it was a compound smile, light and earnest both at once, which Eleanor did not comprehend.

"Why do you suspect me ?" he asked.

"You seem to be studying the thing. Are you going to be a white or a black monk-or a grey friar ?"

"There is a prior question. It is coming on to rain, Miss Powle." "Rain.

It is beginning this minute. And all the umbrellas are nobody knows where-only that it is where we ought to be. I was glad just now that the old roof is gone, but I think I would like a piece of it back."

"You can take shelter at the parsonage."

"No, I cannot; they have got fever there."

"Then come with me. I believe I can find you a piece of roof somewhere." Eleanor smiled to herself that he should think so, as all traces of beam and rafter had long since disappeared from the priory and its dependencies. However she followed her conductor, who strode along among the ruins at a pace which it taxed her powers to keep up with. Presently he plunged down into a wilderness of bushes and wild thorn and piled up stones which the crumbling walls had left in confusion strewn over the ground. It was difficult walking. Eleanor had never been there; for in that quarter the decay of the buildings was more entire, and the growth of shrubs and brambles had been allowed to mask the disorder. As they went on, the footing grew very rough; they were obliged to go over heaps and layers of the crumbling, moss-grown ruins. Eleanor's conductor turned and gave her his hand to help; it was a strong hand and quickened ber progress. Presently, turning a sharp corner, through a thicket of thorn and holly bushes, with young larches and beeches, a small space of clearance was gained, bounded on the other side by a thick wall, one angle of which was standing. On this clear spot the rain drops were falling fast. The hand that held Eleanor's hurried her across it, to where an old window remained sunk in the wall. The arch over the window was still entire, and as the wall was one of the outer walls and very thick, the shelter of a "piece of roof" was literally afforded. Eleanor's conductor seated her on the deep window-sill, where she was perfectly screened from the rain; and apologising for the necessity of the occasion, took his place beside her. The window was narrow as well as deep; and the two, who hardly knew each other, were brought into very familiar neighbourhood. Eleanor would have been privately amused, if the first passing consciousness of amusement had not been immediately chased away by one or two other thoughts. The first was the extreme beauty of her position as a point of view.

The ruins were all behind them. As they looked out of the window, nothing was seen but the most exquisite order and the most dainty perfection of nature. The ground, shaven and smooth, sloped away down to a fringe of young wood, amidst which peeped out a pretty cottage and above which a curl of smoke floated. The cottage stood so low, and the trees were so open, that above and beyond appeared the receding slopes and hills of the river valley, in their various shades of colour, grass and foliage. There was no sun on all this now, but a beautiful light under the rain-cloud from the dis

tant horizon. And the dark old stone window was the frame for this picture. It was very perfect. It was very rare.

tlaimed in delight,

Eleanor ex

"But I never was here-I never saw this before. How did you know of it, Mr. Rhys?"

"I have studied the ruins," he said lightly.

"6 But you have been at Wiglands only a few months."

"I come here very often," he answered. "Happily for you.' He might add that well enough, for the clouds poured down their rain now in torrents, or in sheets; the light which had come from the horizon a few minutes before was hidden, and the grey gloom of a summer storm was over everything. The little window seemed dark, with the two people sitting there. Then there came a blinding flash of lightning. Eleanor started and cowered, and the thunder rolled its deep tones over them, and under them, for the earth shook. She raised her head again, but only to shrink back the second time, when the lightning and the thunder were repeated. This time her head was not raised again, and she kept her hand covered over her eyes. Yet whenever the sound of the thunder came, Eleanor's frame answered it by a start. She said nothing ; it was merely the involuntary answer of the nerves. The storm was a severe one, and when the severity of it passed a little further off, the torrents of rain still fell.

"You do not like thunder storms," Mr. Rhys remarked, when the lightnings ceased to be so vivid or so near.

"Does anybody like them?"

"Yes.

I like everything.

"You are happy, "said Eleanor.

"Why are not you?"

"I can't help it," said the girl, lifting up her head, though she did not let her eyes go out of the window.

"I cannot bear to see

the lightning. It is foolish, but I cannot help it."

"Are you sure it is foolish? Is there not some reason at the bottom of it?"

"I think there is a reason, though still it is foolish. There was a man killed by lightning just by our door once-when I was a child. I saw him; I never can forget it, never.

And a sort of shudder ran over Eleanor's shoulders as she spoke. "You want my armour," said her companion. The tone of voice was not only grave, but sympathising. Eleanor looked up at him.

"Your armour?"

"You charged me with wearing armour, and I confessed it," he said with something of a smile. "It is a sort of armour that makes

people safe in all circumstances."

He looked so quiet, so grave, so cool, and his eye had such a light in it, that Eleanor could not throw off his words. He looked like a man in armour. But no mail of brass was to be seen.

"What do you mean?" she said.

"Did you never hear of the helmet of salvation?"

"I don't know," said Eleanor, wonderingly. "I think I have heard the words. I do not think I ever attached any meaning to them."

"Did you never feel," he said, speaking with a peculiar deliberation of manner, "that you were exposed to danger, and to death, from which no effort of yours could free you; and that after death, there is a great white throne to meet, for which you are not ready?" While he spoke slowly, his eyes were fixed upon Eleanor with a clear, piercing glance which she felt read her through and through; but she was fascinated instead of angered, and submitted her own eyes to the reading without wishing to turn them away. Carrying on two trains of thought at the same time, as the mind will, her inward reflection was, "I had no idea that you were so goodlooking; " the answer in words was a sober, "I have felt so. "Was the feeling a happy one?"

Eleanor's lip suddenly trembled; then she put down that involuntary natural answer, and said evasively, looking out of the window, "I suppose everybody has such feelings sometimes.

"Not with that helmet on," said her companion.

With all the quietness of his speech, and it was very unimpassioned, his accent had a clear ring to it, which came from some unsounded spirit-depth of power; and Eleanor's heart for a moment sunk before it in a secret convulsion of pain. She concealed this feeling, as she thought, successfully; but that single ray of light had showed her the darkness; it was keen as an arrow, and the arrow rankled. And her neighbour's next words made her feel that her heart lay bare; so quietly they touched it.

"You feel that you want something, Miss Powle." Eleanor's head drooped, as well as her heart. She wondered at herself; but there was a spell of power upon her, and she could by no means lift up either. It was not only that his words were true, but that he knew them to be so.

You

"Do you know what you want?" her friend went on, in tones that were tender, along with that deliberate utterance that carried so much force with it. "You know yourself an offender before the Lord, and you want the sense of forgiveness in your heart. know yourself inclined to be an offender again, and you want the renewing grace of God to make your heart clean, and get it free from the power of sin. Then you want also something to make you happy; and the love of Jesus alone can do that."

"What is the use of telling over the things one has not got?" said Eleanor in somewhat smothered tones. The words of her companion came again clear as a bell,

"Because you may have them if you want them."

Eleanor struggled with herself, for her self-possession was endangered, and she was angry at herself for being such a fool; but she could not help it; yet she would not let her agitation come any more to the surface. She waited for clearness of voice, and then could not forbear the question,

"How, Mr. Rhys?

66

'Jesus said, 'If any man thirst let him come unto me and drink.' There is all fulness in Him. Go to Him for light; go to Him for strength; go to Him for forgiveness, for healing, for sanctification. Whosoever will, let him take of the water of life freely."" "Go to Him?'" repeated Eleanor vaguely.

"Ask Him." Ask Him. It was such a far-off, strange idea to her heart, there seemed such a universe of distance between, Eleanor's face grew visibly shadowed with the thought. She? She could not. She did not know how. She was silent a little while. The subject was getting unmanageable.

"I never had anybody talk to me so before, Mr. Rhys," she said, thinking to let it pass.

"Perhaps you never will again," he said. "Hear it now. The Lord Jesus is not far off-as you think-He is very near; He can hear the faintest whisper of a petition that you send to Him. It is His message I bring you to-day-a message to you. I am His servant, and He has given me this charge for you to day-to tell you that He loves you-that He has given His life for yours-and that He calls Eleanor Powle to give Him her heart, and then to give Him her life, in all the obedience His service may require."

Eleanor felt her heart strangely bowed, subdued, bent to his words. "I will," was the secret language of her thoughts, "but I must not let this man see all I am feeling, if I can help it." She held herself still looking out of the window, where the rain fell in torrents yet, though the thunder and the lightning were no longer near. So did he; he added no more to his last words, and a silence lasted in the old ruined window as if its chance occupants were gone again. As the silence lasted, Eleanor felt it grow awkward. She was at a loss how to break it. It was broken for her then: "What will you do, Miss Powle?"

"I will think about it," she answered, startled and hesitating. "How long before you decide?"

"How can I tell?" she said.

"You are shrinking from a decision already formed. The answer is given in your secret thoughts, and something is rising up in the midst of them to thwart it. Shall I tell my Master that His message is refused?"

"Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor looking up, talk so in all my 1 fe. You speak as if—"As if, what?"

"You speak as if

"I never heard any one

I never heard any one speak as you do." "I speak as if I were in the habit of telling my Master how His message is received? I often do that."

"But it seems superfluous to tell what is known already," said Eleanor, wondering secretly much more than she dared to say at her companion's talk.

"Do you never, in speaking to those you love, tell them what is no information ?"

Eleanor was now dumb. There was too great a gulf of difference