bly broke out into a burst of song, a verse or two of some hymn, that started naturally from the last words that had been said. Those bursts of song touched Eleanor. They were so plainly heartfelt, so utterly glad in their utterances, that she had never heard the like. No choir, the best trained in the world, could give such an effect with their voices, unless they were also trained and meet to be singers in heaven. One of the choruses pleased Eleanor particularly. energy :

It was sung in a wild, sweet tune, and with great

There's balm in Gilead

To make the wounded whole.
There's power enough in Jesus
To save a sin-sick soul.

It was just after this was finished, that Mr. Rhys in his moving about the room came and stood before Eleanor. He asked her "Do you love Jesus?"

It is impossible to express the shame and sorrow with which Eleanor answered "No."

"Do you wish to be a Christian?"

Eleanor bowed her head.

"Do you intend to be one?"

Eleanor looked up, surprised at the word, and answered, "If I

"Do you think," said he very tenderly, "that you have a right to that 'if,' when Jesus has said, Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest '?"

He turned from her and again struck the notes they had been singing,

"There's balm in Gilead

To make the wounded whole.
There's power enough in Jesus
To save a sin-sick soul."

The closing prayer followed, which almost broke Eleanor's heart in two; it so dealt with her and for her. While some of those present were afterward exchanging low words and shakes of the hand, she slipped away and mounted her pony.

She was in dreadful confusion during the first part of her ride. Half resentful, half broken-hearted. It was the last time, she said to herslf, that ever she would be found in a meeting like that. She wouldenever go again-to make herself a mark for people's sympathy and a subject for people's prayers. And yet, surely the human mind seems an inconsistent thing at times, the thought of that sympathy and those prayers had a touch of sweetness in it, which presently drew a flood of tears from Eleanor's eyes. There was one old man in particular, of venerable appearance, who had given a most dignified testimony of faith and happiness, whose "Amen," recurred to her. It was uttered at the close of a petition Mr. Rhys had made in her favour; and Eleanor recalled it now with a strange mixture of feelings. Why was she so different from him and from the rest of those good people? She knew her duty; why was it not done?

She seemed to herself more hard-hearted and evil than Eleanor would formerly have supposed possible of her; she had never liked herself less than she did during this ride home. Her mind was in a rare turmoil, of humiliation and darkness and sorrow. One thing only was clear-that she never would go to a class-meeting again. And yet it would be wrong to say that she was on the whole sorry she had gone once, or that she really regretted anything that had been done or said. But this once should suffice her. So she went along, dropping tears from her eyes and letting Powis find his way as he pleased; which he was quite competent to do.

By degrees her eyes cleared to see how lovely the evening was falling. The air sweet with exhalations from the hedgerows and meadows, yes, and from the more distant hills, too; fragrant and balmy. The cattle were going home from the fields; smoke curled up from a hundred chimney-tops along the hillsides and the valley bottom; the evening light spread here and there in a broad glow of colour; fair snatches of light were all that in many a place the hills and the bottom could catch. Every turn in the winding valley brought a new combination of wonderful beauty into view; and shadows and light, and flower-fragrance, and lowing cattle along the ways, and wreaths of chimney smoke, all spoke of peace. Could the spell help reaching anybody's heart? It reached Eleanor's; or her mood in some inexplicable way soothed itself down; for when she reached the farmhouse, though she thought of herself in the same humbled forlorn way as ever, her thought of the class-meeting had changed,

E

CHAPTER XIX.

IN THE SPRING.

Let no one ask me how it come to pass;
It seems that I am happy, that to me
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,
A purer sapphire melts into the sea.

LEANOR could not stay away from the Wednesday meetings at Mrs. Powlis's house. In vain she had thought she would; she determined she would; when the day came round she found herself drawn with a kind of fascination towards the place. She went ; and after that second time never questioned at all about it. She went every week.

She was

It was with no relief to her mental troubles, however. sometimes touched and moved; often. At other times she felt dull and hopeless. Yet it soothed her to go; and she came away generally feeling inspirited with hope by something she had heard, or feeling at least the comfort that she had taken a step in the right direction. It did not seem to bring her much more comfort. Eleanor did not see how she could be a Christian while her heart was so hard and so full of its own will. She found it perverse, even now, when she was wishing so much to be different. What hope

for her?

It was a great help, that during all this time Mrs. Caxton left her unquestioned and uncounselled. She made no remarks about Eleanor's going to class-meeting; she took it as a perfectly natural thing; never asked her anything about it or about her liking it. A contrary course would have greatly embarrassed Eleanor's action; as it was she felt perfectly free; unwatched, and at ease.

The spring was flushing into mature beauty and waking up all the flowers on the hills and in the dales, when Eleanor one afternoon came out to her aunt in the garden. A notable change had come over the garden by this time; its comparatively barren-looking beds were all rejoicing in gay bloom and sending up a gush of sweetness to the house with every stir of the air that way. From the house to the river, terrace below terrace sloped down, brimful already of blossoms and fragrance. The roses were making great preparations for their coming season of festival; the mats which had covered some tender plants were long gone. Tulips and hyacinths and polyanthuses and primroses were in a flush of spring glory now; violets breathed everywhere, the snowy-flowered gooseberry and the redflowered currant, and berberry with its luxuriant yellow bloom, and the almond, and a magnificent Magnolia blossoming out in the arms of its evergreen sister, with many another flower less known to Eleanor, made the garden terraces a little wilderness of loveliness

and sweetness. Near the house some very fine auriculas in pots were displaying themselves. In the midst of all this Mrs. Caxton was busy, with one or two people to help her and work under direction. Planting and training and seed-sowing were going on; and the mistress of the place moved about among her floral subjects a very pleasant representation of a rural queen, her niece thought. Few queens have a more queenly presence than Mrs. Caxton had, and with a trowel in hand just as much as if it were a sceptre. And few queens indeed carry such a calm mind under such a calm brow. Eleanor sighed and smiled.

66

Among your auriculas, aunty, as usual!"'

"Among everything," said Mrs. Caxton. "There is a great deal to do. Don't you want to help, Eleanor? You may plant gladiolus bulbs, or you may make cuttings, or you may sow seeds. I can find you work."

66

Aunty, I am going down to the village.'

"Oh, it is Wednesday afternoon !" said Mrs. Caxton. And she came close up to her niece and kissed her, while one hand was full of bulbs and the other held a trowel. "Well, go, my dear. Not at peace yet, Eleanor ?"

There was so tender a tone in these last words that Eleanor could not reply. She dashed away without making any answer; and all along the way to Plassy she was every now and then repeating them to herself. "Not at peace yet, Eleanor?”

She was in a tender mood this afternoon; the questions and remarks addressed to the other persons in the meeting frequently moved her to tears, so that she sat with her hand to her brow to hide the watering eyes. She did not dread the appeal to herself, for Mr. Rhys never asked her any troublesome questions; never anything to which she had to make a troublesome answer; though there might be perhaps matter for thought in it. He had avoided anything, whether in his asking or replying, that would give her any difficulty there, in the presence of others, whatever it might do in her own mind and in secret. To-day he asked her, "Have you found peace yet?"

"No," said Eleanor.

"What is the state of your mind, if you could give it in one word?"

"Confusion."

"What is it confused about? Do you understand, clearly, the fact that you are a sinner? without excuse?"

"Fully!"

"Do you understand, clearly, that Christ has suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God?"

"Yes. I understand it."

"Is there any confusion in your mind as to the terms on which the Lord will receive you? forsaking your sins, and trusting in Him to pardon and save you?”

"No, I see that."

"Do you think there is any other condition besides those two?"

"No."

Why do you not accept them?"

"Eleanor raised her eyes with a feeling aìmost of injustice. "I cannot!" she said.

"That makes no difference. God never gives a command that cannot with His help be fulfilled. There was a man once brought to Jesus, carried by four men; he was palsied, and lay on a litter or bed, unable to move himself at all. To this man the Lord said, 'Arise, take up thy bed, and walk.' Suppose he had looked up and said, 'I cannot '?"

Eleanor struggled with herself. Was this fair? Was it a parallel case? She could not tell. She kept silence. Mr. Rhys went on, with tones subdued to great gentleness.

"My friend, Jesus invites to no empty board, to no cold reception. On His part all is ready; the unreadiness lies somewhere with you, or the invitation would be accepted. In your case it is not the bodily frame that is palsied, it is the heart; and the command comes to you, sweet as the invitation, Give it to Me.' If you are entirely willing, the thing is done. If it be not done, it is because, somewhere, you are not willing, or do not believe. If you can trust Jesus, as that poor man did, you may rise up and stand upon your feet this very hour. 'Believe ye that I am able to do this?' He asked of the blind man whom He cured."

There was silence for an instant. And again as he turned away from her, Mr. Rhys broke out with the song, that Eleanor though would break her heart in twain this time,—

How lost was my condition
Till Jesus made me whole;
There is but one Physician
Can cure a sin-sick soul.

There's balm in Gilead

To make the wounded whole;
There's power enough in Jesus
To save a sin-sick soul.

Eleanor had been the last one spoken to; the meeting soon was ended, and she was on her way home. But so broken-spirited and humiliated that she did not know what to do with herself. Could it be possible that she was not willing, or that she wanted faith, or that there was some secret corner of rebellion in her heart? It humbled her wonderfully to think it. And yet she could not disprove the reasoning. God could not be unfaithful; and if there were not somewhere on her part a failure to meet the conditions, surely peace would have been made before now. And she had thought herself all this while a subject for pity, not for blame; nay, for blame indeed, but not in this regard. Her mouth was stopped now. She rode home broken-hearted; would not see Mrs. Caxton at supper; and spent the evening and much of the night in weeping and selfsearching. They were very downcast days that followed this day. Mrs. Caxton looked at her anxiously sometimes; never interfered with her.