spread under the shade of a walnut tree. Hetta was already standing there, directing her little sisters how to place the flowers.

66 You see,' ," she said in answer to Edmund's exclamation of surprise, so many of the people who come to church here live in hamlets, some four or five miles off, and if they are old this is a very fatiguing walk, besides which they are sorry to miss the evening service, so if they come here after church to have their dinner and stay during the afternoon they are much less tired than if they walked home directly service was over, besides being able to get to church twice in the day."

"It is very good of Mr. and Mrs. Ansley to do this, for it must give a great deal of trouble."

"Oh, no; much cooking is not required for them. Father said when he first came here he was so touched by seeing old people who had walked some miles to church bringing their bread and cheese and sitting to eat it on the tombstones between the services, perhaps with a bitter east wind blowing, that he determined to provide them with better fare and a place of shelter to eat it in, so they dine in the house in bad weather and out here when it is fine."

"How many do you generally have ?"

Very few in the winter, sometimes only three or four; in the summer about ten or twelve. I expect we shall have that number today, as it is such lovely weather."

Edmund Lindsaye thought to himself as he returned to the house that it must be a considerable tax upon Mr. Ansley's limited income to have that extra number to feed every Sunday. Some way nothing jarred on Edmund that morning; there seemed to him a sort of peacefulness over the whole house. The very children were less noisy than usual, as if they also felt the Sunday tone pervading everything. The girls looked so fresh in their clean white dresses, and there were flowers in every part of the room.

"Yes," said Mr. Ansley, following Edmund's gaze, "we keep up old fashioned customs here; don't you know that in old days people used to refresh their beaupots and fill their fireplaces with green boughs for Sunday ?"

Edmund Lindsaye ever afterwards looked back upon that Sunday and its services as a most pleasant recollection. The church was old and dark, and the congregation, with the exception of the Ansleys themselves, entirely of the lower class; but they were all reverent and

attentive, joining most heartily in the responses, and singing with perhaps more zeal than knowledge of music. Yet Edmund did not feel his musical ear and somewhat fastidious taste wounded, and he was pleased to recognise the chants as his favourite Gregorians. Hymns Ancient and Modern were also used, although the Old Hundredth and other old-fashioned tunes were selected. Mr. Ansley's sermon was short, pithy, and practical, somewhat homely in its metaphors perhaps, but that just suited his congregation's taste. A little knot of people were waiting in the porch as the Ansleys came out and greeted them in the usual free, hearty Yorkshire fashion; of these some ten, as Hetta had predicted, most of them elderly people, returned to the Vicarage and were soon enjoying their dinner under the walnut tree. It was very simple fare after all, a huge rabbit-pie, cold rice pudding, and apple tart, with bread and cheese; but the table gay with flowers gave it a festal appearance. The children seemed to enjoy the fun of waiting on the old people, who were left to rest in the shade while the Ansleys themselves dined on somewhat similar fare. Mr. Ansley told Edmund that he specially liked these little gatherings, as they gave him an opportunity of seeing and talking with the people, which he could not get at other times, as these all lived in outlying hamlets some way off, and might be out at work or busy when he called.

In the afternoon Mr. Ansley and most of the family went off to the Sunday school, leaving Edmund and Mrs. Ansley tête-à-tête.

“Come, Mr. Lindsaye," she said presently, "I think I shall go into the garden, I want to talk with some of the people, and I should advise you to come too; it will be much cooler there than in the house, and you can help me to entertain my guests," she added, laughing.

Edmund felt rather awkward at the latter suggestion, but he was always in the habit of assenting to anything his hostess proposed, so he passively followed her out of doors. Some of the old bodies were dozing quietly in armchairs, which had been brought out for them, others were listening well pleased to the chatter of some of the younger Ansley children. Edmund could not help admiring the natural, pleasant way in which the little things tried to interest the old people.

I must introduce you to Mrs. Hudson," said Mrs. Ansley, walking up to a funny little old woman, with apple-red cheeks and snowy-white

hair; "she is eighty-seven years old, and hardly ever misses coming to Church. Well, Mrs. Hudson, I hope you are rested after your long walk."

"Yes, thank you, ma'am," said the old body, dropping a curtsey, "I'm nicely rested now."

"I want you to tell this gentleman," indicating Edmund, "how many miles you have to walk to Church every Sunday."

“Five and a half, sir," said Mrs. Hudson, turning to Edmund ; " 'tis a long walk for a woman o' my years, but I wadn't miss it for owt. T' Church and coming in here makes up for all."

"Yes, you must like that," said Edmund, "but it is a long walk for you."

'Why, sir, for the matter o' that I've been used to it near all my life, I've lived i̇' that cottage o' mine ever sin' I wer' married, and I always gaid to t' Church reg'lar. Yan time I takked ma dinner wi' me, t'eat i' t' Church garth after service time, but t' parson he seed me dining that yan day when it wer' cauld, and he bade me come in to t' fire i't' Vicarage kitchen; and I've dined there or under this here tree ever sin', and that were more nor twenty year sin'. I likes ma Sundays," went on the old woman, with the garrulity of age, "t' parson and t' missus talks so pleasant like and even t' bairns will gie owd Betty a flower out o' their gardens.”

A few more queries from Edmund elicited the history of her past life, narrated in her racy dialect in a way that entertained him much. He had already found the sturdy keen north country folk with their hearty independent ways, an interesting study, and was glad of any opportunity of becoming still better acquainted with them. When Mr. Ansley and the others returned from the school they also joined the party on the shady lawn. All the people seemed desirous of a few words with the Vicar himself; many had brought back books he had lent them, wrapped carefully in huge coloured handkerchiefs. One old man of venerable appearance with long white hair was evidently engaging Mr. Ansley in a keen argument and earnestly debating some point with him. Edmund was too far off to catch the words, but he could see the Vicar's face as he listened patiently and attentively to all the old man was saying, and then tried to explain something clearly to him. Later on Edmund asked who he was.

"That was old John Giles; quite a character in his way," replied Mr. Ansley, "he used to be rather celebrated amongst the Wesleyans

as one of their itinerant preachers. He is now a steady going churchman, but he still likes a good argument, and is very pleased when he can bring me a question which he considers a poser. He is extremely fond of reading-rather deep books too, and makes great demands on my library."

Evening service was much a repetition of the morning one. Edmund always afterwards associated Bishop Ken's evening hymn with that little church, the setting sun streaming in with its golden light through the west window, and every one singing so heartily, even the old people joining in with their feeble quavering notes.

S. AUGUSTINE OF HIPPO.

AUGUST 28.

STRANGE power of tears, we mete your end
As idly as the summer rain,

That drop by drop upon the grass
Falls never to be found again-

Yet those who look with wiser eyes

Learn tears have power beyond the skies.

Out on the stormy deep, he keeps
His lonely watch, the sailor lad,

He thinks of home, not home when bright,
But when his mother's eyes were sad,
They move him strangely after years
To turn and pray, her falling tears.

O charm of tears! she cannot weep,
This grief has sealed her sweet blue eyes,
This swift-found death of him she loved
Has turned to stone her litanies-
She sees his grave! she turns to weep,
That eve her weary eyes first sleep.

And there are some good thoughts I ween,
We know not how they spring so fair,

They are not born of holy writ,
They are not cradled by our prayer-
They come because who love us weep,

Their tears buy bright thoughts for our sleep.

And there are some bold deeds of faith,
That timid hearts had hardly thought,
Much less the world had seen them do,
Unless some holy tears first sought
From Him Who treasures every tear
Grace to procure those weak ones cheer.

Who shall deny when patient Love
Had to depart misunderstood,
Tears have in courage sought the place
Where He, the Man of Sorrows, stood,
And from His hands their loved received
Doubly their child from sin retrieved?

Son of so many tears,1 still show
The strength that waits on holy tears,
Prophet of such to those in life

Who have nought else to soothe their fears,
Whispering how tears can find a way
Even where hope would bid them stay.

And ye who mark the storm abroad,
That trace its path by rifted trees,
And ye who hear the winter wave
With thunder roll upon her lees,-
Learn in the silent tears of Love

A mightier power, below, above!

M.

THE LIFE AND LABOURS OF BISHOP TYRRELL.2

THERE is no one, we think, to whom future generations will be more willing to assign the name of the Apostle of Australia than to William Tyrrell, first Bishop of Newcastle, New South Wales. Some little effort at church organization had been made in the year 1829 by sending out William Grant Broughton-a name gratefully to be remembered- -as Archdeacon of Australia. As an earnest of something better to come, the step may be considered as a substantial gain, but This and preceding verse refers to the words of the Bishop whom S. Monica consulted about her son's ultimate conversion,-"Go in peace, O mother, the son of so many tears can never perish."

1

"The Life and Labours of the Right Rev. William Tyrrell, D.D., first Bishop of Newcastle, New South Wales, by the Rev. R. G. Boodle, M.A., Vicar of Cloford, Somerset, formerly Examining Chaplain and Canon of Newcastle, Commissary of the late and present Metropolitan," pp. 323. (W. Gardner, Darton, & Co.)