'All shrines are His, where Jesus' love is spoken;

All altars His, where Bread of Life is broken.'"

Mary Jane was silenced, though not convinced but certainly Mr. Denham was converted, and it only remained for her to guide him, if possible, into the Crocus-street paths. It struck her that the Rev. Samuel Pumphrey might manage the matter more successfully; he would be able to refute Cyril's arguments, and she resolved there and then to bring her pastor and her aunt's lodger together; no mortal man could withstand the combined logic and eloquence of the reverend gentleman; no sinner could fail to be "impressed, "no saint to be wonderfully edified, in listening to his discourse, either public or private. Such at least was Mary Jane's opinion.

The next evening, while Cyril was waiting for his supper-it was class-night, and Mary Jane was absent -there came a tap at his door, a very decided, emphatic tap, which frequently repeated must have been injurious to the knuckles. Before any response could have reached the applicant on the other side, the door opened, and a young man in seedy black and a dingy necktie made his appearance, and in a voice worthy of Stentor, announced himself as the Reverend Samuel Pumphrey, arrived at the instance of Miss Owen, who had informed him that Mr. Denham would be glad to hold with him a little private conversation of a spiritual nature.

Mary Jane had evidently resorted to a tiny bit of fiction, since Cyril had never intimated any desire of receiving counsel from the Crocus-street pastor, but he rose and courteously welcomed the new-comer, and invited him to the fire, for it was a very chilly evening, at the same time wondering why this pulpit orator should think it necessary to address him as if he were hard of hearing, and thinking too how much better he would look if his hands were washed, and his hair neatly brushed back from his forehead. The two men sat facing each other, almost knee to knee, Mr. Pumphrey's huge flat feet, cased in clumsy muddy

boots, steaming on Cyril's fender; but as Cyril looked at his new acquaintance, who was blowing his nose trumpetically-if I may be allowed to coin a word-with what seemed to be another neckerchief still dirtier than the one he wore, he saw that he was confronted with a man of power, a man of no ordinary type. He had a mighty brow under the shadow of that mass of wild unkempt dark hair; his eyes were keen, and instinct with soul; his hands, despite their grimy hue, showed nerve and mental strength, and wonderful tenacity of purpose. Cyril saw all this at a glance, and wondered whether he would be turned into a Primitive or Reformed Methodist, or a Plymouth brother, or whatever else the Crocus-street folk might be, before the termination of the séance. He had not Mary Jane to deal with now, but her pastor, who was a man of mettle-a man also, who certainly preached what he heartily and uncompromisingly believed; a man, Cyril felt sure, to be admired and to be respected, if only he liked soap and water better, and would not speak in that excruciatingly strong, loud tone.

They "went at it," however, as Mary Jane said, directly they were settled. Miss Owen, not thinking it unworthy of her in such a critical case to turn eavesdropper, had ensconced herself in Cyril's bedroom, with the door, which opened into the parlour, slightly ajar; though she might have heard her Boanerges in the kitchen, or in the garret, or even in the street. They went at it indeed, and though at eleven o'clock they agreed still to differ, both were gainers. Cyril had learnt much from that vigorous, independent mind, and the reverend gentleman had not failed to admire his antagonist's well-rounded periods, his suavity, and his high breeding, the like of which the Reverend Samuel had never before encountered, but which, meeting for the first time, he quite appreciated. They parted then, promising to renew the controversy, in which neither had lost temper, on the following evening. Mary Jane retired in a state of subdued

exultation; victory was certain now that her beloved pastor had thus energetically taken up the cudgels. The cause was really won, and the Crocus-street congregation would receive an accession indeed!—such an accession as would make it hold up its head for many and for many a day.

Never were two men more dissimilar than the two thus curiously brought together, each lacking that which was the strongest point in the other. But strangely enough, they "took to each other," as people significantly say. Cyril strongly admired and even envied the rugged force and unwavering purpose of his opponent, and Mr. Pumphrey on his side appreciated almost beyond their deserts, Cyril's depth of feeling, his elegance of style and tone, his tastes so classic and so refined, the evident poetry of his nature, and the culture that betrayed itself continually. Cyril's life had been very much like one of Mendelssohn's "Lieder ohne Wörten;" Samuel Pumphrey's had rather resembled a crashing, full-band Overture, yet not wanting in real music of a certain sort. It was well that the two should mingle their strains for a little while.

At last it came to be a regular thing for Mr. Pumphrey to run over to Mrs. Morris's after evening service, class, or prayer-meeting, to the infinite annoyance of the provision dealer's daughter, who attributed these visits to the fascinations of Mary Jane. And then Cyril found his way to his new friend's lodgings, and they discussed all sorts of subjects, sometimes placidly, sometimes fiercely, but always parting on most amicable terms.

Thus commenced a friendship which was to be of infinite service to both young men, and materially to change the aspect of affairs for both. Still Cyril came not to Crocus-street Chapel, and Mary Jane was sadly disappointed.

374

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE SCHOOL MASTER.

AND all this while, as Cyril grew wiser on points of theology and philosophy, his resources were dwindling and his prospects not improving ; and one evening early in the new year, when the friends were seated over the fire, shivering as they heard the howling of the wintry blast, and the sharp sleet driving against the window, it occurred to Samuel Pumphrey that Cyril was more than ordinarily depressed.

Professedly they were enjoying themselves, for Mrs. Morris had sent them up a seed-cake made from her grandmother's aunt's recipe, and a savoury pie worthy of Lucullus, and they were also indulging in potations of strong hot coffee, for Cyril now only took wine and ale medicinally, and Mr. Pumphrey was a vehement teetotaller. "What is the matter with you?” asked the minister, at length, seeing that the fragrant beverage failed in its usual stimulating effects. "Really, Denham, you are as gloomy as an owl to-night. Has anything happened to put you out?"

Two months before Cyril would have answered coldly enough; he would have been annoyed at the familiarity which the question implied, and he would have given the curtest answer consistent with truth and courtesy. But Cyril had learned much of late, and he had learned by this time to value the friendship of Samuel Pumphrey, even though he was so absurd as to consider a due attention to personal appearances a device of the Evil One, to be classed among the pomps and vanities of this wicked world. Still he was improved in this respect, and seemed less inclined

to imitate the habits of an Indian fakir than formerly, for he always washed his hands before he knocked at Mrs. Morris's door, and he had learned to wipe his boots upon the mat; moreover, his laundress was astonished one day to receive a remonstrance on the subject of his neckties, which he justly thought might be made a little whiter and a little stiffer if they only had a little more attention, and were violently scorched less frequently.

"Well! I must confess to feeling rather dismal tonight," was Cyril's answer. "I will tell you what it is, Pumphrey I heard yesterday of a place in the City that I thought I might fill, and this morning I went about it, and though I offered three months' services for nothing, I was-not very courteouslydeclined."

"On what grounds?"

"The old grounds-want of proper references, inexperience, and to-day I was told-'an air unsuited to the situation.'

"I do not wonder at that: when you step into an office, or a counting-house, the clerks and principals must naturally think you are come to give large orders, not to offer yourself for the vacant place."

"In this old coat? I am sure I look shabby enough, if that is what you mean."

"Not exactly: it would perhaps be better for you if you were less shabbily dressed, but you have the air of a decayed gentleman; the moment I spoke to you, I knew that I addressed one who had seen what the world calls 'better days.' Now there is no class of men more decried, more shunned in the mercantile world than such an one. Employers, as a rule-mind, I don't say there are not exceptions-but as a rule, they steer clear of reduced aristocrats."

"I wish you would find out one of the exceptions to your rule."

"I would if I could. But, really, Denham, is it quite essential that you turn your hand to something?" "Quite essential if I am to live, and live respectably.