'Then you would have had no fresh eggs for your breakfast, Papa.'

'No! or Papa, having given fowls, found corn, and provided all other necessaries of fowl life, would not also have been made to pay for the eggs they produce? That's the plain English of it, eh, Eva?'

'Had the eggs without paying someone! Oh, Papa, that would have been stealing!'

'Would it? and who that stole ever came to a good end?' and Waterhouse swung the child up on his shoulder. 'So Miss Eva's mission is to save her father from becoming a thief?'

Thenceforth there was an end to serious talk of any kind. Forty years ago, I should no more have dreamt of interrupting my father's conversation with a stranger than of interrupting the clergyman at church. The young Waterhouses' free familiar terms with their father amazed me; but something in its familiarity was sweet-for we, as children, would not only never have thrust ourselves on our father when he was better occupied, but at all times held him so far more in fear than in love, as to shun, rather than seek, his company.

We went in to prepare for the early dinner-tea, and in so doing I caught sight of a girl, truly like her mother, at work in an easy chair; more regular-featured, more elegant, than Edith, and with much of the quiet repose about her that had been such a charm in Mrs. Waterhouse. Waterhouse noticed my glance of admiration, and said, 'Gerty, the beauty of my daughters, I am told; but Edie for me! I see you think otherwise-let me introduce you;' and he turned to call 'Gerty!' 'Yes, Papa,' a gentle voice answered, if languid compared to Edie's. 'I want you, my dear.'

'What is it, Papa?'

'You must come and see.'

And after a pause Gerty appeared. 'Mr. Short, Gerty, my old friend; I want you to shake hands with him.' Gertrude complied-at least, laid her hand in mine, and suffered me to shake hands; but what was I to her but an uninteresting old man? Still I had seen Marianne called on to receive her father's old friends, and knew how differently the introduction had been acknowledged in her case. Gerty, at least, had nothing gracious to say, and we passed on.

Gerty is in the stage of young-ladyhood, when to be apathetic and blasée and indifferent, and everything I detest to see in a young girl, is the thing!' said her father; we must hope she will learn wisdom with years, and she has plenty of those before her; meanwhile, she is pleasant to look at, and a good girl in the main; but give me Edie!'

At tea the boys appeared, Herbert and Beaufort, very nice lads, though of quite a new type of school-boy to me, gentlemanly and easymannered; and if cricket formed the principal subject of the tea-table, no one seemed to enjoy the discussion more than their father. Edie made tea for the large party, with bright kindly words for all; and Gertrude looked very elegant and sweet amidst the clamour, in a white gown, with long blue ribbons in her hair.

It was a merry clamour, the father merriest of all: hard work and a large family had agreed with him; such a clatter daily would have driven me distracted.

Suddenly Edie cried, 'There's the bell; I promised Mother to run up before church. Don't wait for me, children.'

'We have Evening Service at six; will you come, Short?-Silence, children, while Eva says grace.'

And there was perfect silence while Eva stood before her father, clasped her hands together, closed her eyes, and said reverently

'We thank Thee, Lord, for this our food,
But more than all for Jesus' Blood:
And grant, O Lord of Life, that we
May feast in Paradise with Thee.'

Yes, I could have stood such clamour over meals, with use, I am sure I could.

Some ten minutes later we were in church-restored indeed since I had last seen it fifteen years ago; the blue ceiling above us starred with gold; the scraped walls, fresh open seats, and bright modern stained glass, made it seem as a new building to me; and the accustomed repose of the old village church wanting to it. Even when a sweet strain of music broke the silence, and I turned, to see Edith acting organist, it was to find the organ-pipes brilliant with blue, gold, and vermilion.

At least Waterhouse's voice was familiar: and he read the Evening Service to the little congregation, of four of his own household, three school children, two old men, and three old women, as if reading it to the Queen; and Edie played sweetly, and Herbert beside me sang second lustily, and my friend beside me bass. With sons and daughters,

such must be a pleasant ending to the toiling of each day.

'Stop, Mr. Short, please, till I have put by the music; I want to show you the church,' said a voice behind me when all was over. I did so; and Waterhouse waited too, though saying that Edie should act cicerone, she was so fond of the church.'

'You remember it at all?' she asked.

'I have a very vivid vision of what the church was.'

'A hideous building, with a huge gallery there, and the pulpit and reading-desk blocking up the aisle; and the Rectory pew like a family coach, painted white, and lined with green; and monuments blocking up the windows, and-but you are laughing at me again.'

'No. I was only smiling to think how very different my memory of the old church was to yours; I look back on my Sunday here as one of the happiest of my life.'

'That must have been thanks to the people, not the church.' 'Both. You and your mother did make a pretty picture in the old high pew that day—your father did preach one of his most characteristic

PART 31.

sermons; but I find that even the lumbering gallery and sombre walls were become to me part and parcel of the beauty of the scene.'

Edie did not speak, only fixed her eyes on me in astonishment.

'Forgive him, Edie, it's only talk; he gave £10 towards the opening of the western arch.'

'Did I? I thought it was for much-needed repairs—'

'And restoration. Both were greatly needed. No! I did not take you in, Short; I know I wrote both words, if one with a big R, and the other with a little one.'

'You would like the gallery and old pews back again?' asked Edith. 'Only one more very pleasant picture of the past seems destroyed to me.'

'Papa! we had better introduce him to Farmer Stubbs at once. Farmer Stubbs, who has never come to church since the gallery was taken down: his grandfather had been churchwarden when it was put up, and spent a sight of money on it, and he considered taking it down an insult to the family memory, and that poor asthmatic Betsey King caught her death of cold from the freer admission of air. But you don't wish our high pew back?'

'I-I believe-should have liked the old church left, and a new one built.'

'You must have produced the funds, then-£10,000, instead of £10, Short: you are in one of your melancholy grumbling moods, I see, and just as much behind the spirit of your times as ever! Come, there was no old organ, so you can admire the new one.'

There was a great deal to admire. The carved capitals, released from their many coats of white-wash, were sharp almost as on the day first cut; the plain brick pavement replaced by encaustic tiles, laid down as well as made by Minton; the altar-cloth, the work of Edie and her mother, was far more befitting the Holy Table than the faded crimson cloth which Waterhouse had found there; the kneeling-cushions had also been worked by loving hands: and as Edith showed me all these beauties, she asked me gravely whether it were possible to make God's House too fair, to expend too much time and thought and money on its decoration. The stained-glass southern church window was a memorial to Reginald Waterhouse: his father had been called away when my eye` fell on this addition, and I was trying in the dim light to make out the Early English inscription.

'You remember him? Papa said, "Short will remember Reggie !" when he told me that you were coming.'

'I remember him perfectly, though as a mere baby.'

'Papa was so fond of him, so proud of him;' and Edie leant her arms on a poppy head, and gazed full at me; he was very clever, such a fine fellow, body and mind. If I had been a heathen, doubting if Christianity were true, Papa's way of taking Reggie's death must have settled my doubts for ever. It would have killed one of his nature if

not a Christian; I thought, as it was, that he could never hold up his head again, could only submit; but-but you see how much more than this he does, how he is his dear, dearest old self again, only better, dearer than ever.'

There were tears in Edith's eyes. She paused, choked down the sobs, rather of admiration than of grief, in her voice, and continued, more in her old tone, 'We all put up this window; even Eva gave the two and fourpence she had in her money-box: Papa and I often come and stand before it, and we talk of him; we were such friends, though we were always quarreling!'

6 And your mother? how does she bear it?'

'It was not such a trial to her;' and Edie's tone had changed, unpleasingly to me; 'of course, she had loved him dearly, but her nature has not Papa's passion and strength-faith and patience are quite easy to her; and then, of course, a woman would bear up for her husband's sake.'

We were silent a few minutes; then I said, 'There was a tablet here to an only son; I remember it well, it was just above your mother's head the Sunday I saw her in the old pew, and you upon her knee; now-?'

'Now,' said Edie dreamily, I dare say it is in the bell-tower, or the vestry, or wherever the old monuments were put away; I don't think that any were destroyed. I must show you the two photographs which we have of the church, as "Deformed" and "Reformed."

Then Waterhouse rejoined us, and showed me the remains of a quaint fresco of St. Christopher, discovered under the whitewash of the northern aisle; the old Norman priests' door, found choked with rubbish in the chancel wall; out of this re-opened door we went, he bending low his head, and even so making his exit with difficulty.

Then we sauntered about the sweet hay-fields till we heard the children playing at croquet, when the very sound of the balls made Edie uneasy; and soon she and her father were in the midst of the game, fighting each other 'hammer and tongs,'-Edie's simile, not mine.

But first Waterhouse had taken me to the up-stair room, whence his wife was watching the large party, the pretty sitting-room which Waterhouse had fitted up for his bride, and of which he had never let any after need rob his wife. How refreshing was the calm of that room, little changed, save that photographs of her children adorned the walls as well as texts and illuminations; otherwise, even its exterior was unchanged, and the old spirit of peace pervading it. Much at Bishop Thornton was so different to what I had expected it to be, that I had half feared to see its mistress again, but unjustly. Here mercy and truth still met together, righteousness and peace were still kissing each other; and we had a long talk over old times in the gathering twilight, which only Waterhouse's entrance broke up: he was as fond a husband as of old, and I could have wished the sleeping babe Edie, as on my first visit, and the old times back in very truth.

The supper-bell rang, and we were off.

'Take care of that step, Short; there are steps in all directions; we have added so much to the house-improved that, I think even you will allow. Edie calls it "The house with seven gables."

We had much such a supper as tea, save that Eva and Agnes were gone; and Herbert's talk ran on photography and chemistry, and all manner of matters which no boys but those considered 'eccentric' and 'good for nothing else' would have cared for in my days. At last bedtime came, and Waterhouse and I were left alone.

'It is a noisy world which I have brought you into, Short, and you are observing it with the old philosophical eye. Tell me when you leave us how many riddles we have presented to you, and how many you have solved. I warned my girls of your old love of observation, and that you'd come among us "a chiel takin' notes.""

He bade me good-night. I sat long at the open window, meditating on his last words, and how thoroughly the world and its ways were changed, it seemed to me, in scarce one generation. Thus meditating, I fell asleep; to be awakened, or seem to be awakened, by a knock at the door.

PART II.

'MR. SHORT!'

'Come in, Edie.' The voice was surely that of Edie Waterhouse. 'Edie! Pray don't call me by such a frightful old-fashioned name; you might as well call me Ethel or Violet or Florence at once!' And there entered a girl, strangely like Edith in the roguish look of her eyes, as well as her cheerful tone of voice; but little other likeness, if such existed, had survived the change in dress. My unknown visitor was wearing a short green stuff gown, such as some few charity-school girls wear still, the simple dress protected by a spotless apron and bib, her smooth brown hair drawn back behind a mob cap; as trim and neat a maiden as could be.

'What is your name, then?' I asked, taking her hand, (a hand in mittens,) for I felt sure she was a friend.

'Martha Housewater.'

'Edie Waterhouse transmogrified!'

'Into a twentieth-century young woman then! I believe that I had a great-aunt Edith Waterhouse a century ago; but no Ediths exist now-a-days, except in charity-schools and sculleries!'

'No! nor Gertrudes? nor Evas? nor-'

'No; except amongst a few unfortunate wretches condemned to be named after antiquated and millionaire godparents.'

'You have no sister Gertrude?" I asked incredulously.

'No, I am thankful to say, none. Sally has Violet tucked in after her Sarah-Papa remembered that old aunt, and she'd been kind to him