he felt that two at least of the nestlings were utterly unfledged, unsuited alike by habits of luxury, and tempers undisciplined by trial, to meet the shock of adversity, or endure the hardships of life.

"What a pretty collection of books you have!" exclaimed Lina, who did not choose to pursue a theme which had become disagreeable; "they are so well chosen, and all so splendidly bound! Why, what can have made you treat your old friend the 'Pilgrim's Progress' so badly?" she cried, taking up a volume which Arthur had that morning neatly covered with thick brown paper. "Did you think the dress of purple and gold too gay for the pilgrim, that you have wrapped him up in such sackcloth attire?"

Arthur smiled, and shook his head.

You must have had some reason!" cried Lina; "and you shall tell that reason to me. I never knew you disfigure a pretty volume in that fashion before.” "I merely covered the book to preserve it. I am going to lend it to John the groom," said Arthur.

"Lend! what! one of your elegant books? Well, I am surprised!" cried Lina; "you who are so particular that it would disturb your philosophy if so much as a fly walked across one of the covers! You will never care to touch that volume again, with the mark of John's black fingers in every page, and the scent of the stable upon it! What can have put that notion of lending into your brain?"

"Mr. Eardley's words," replied Arthur, "connected with my chancing to find John reading an infidel paper. Here is a mind that will feed itself on something, thought I—with poison in default of anything better. I have wholesome food in my little library, and I shut it up and keep it to myself. Here is another neglected duty."

"But no one can expect you to lend your beautiful books to servants," said Lina; "why not send to London for common editions?"

"Because, situated as I now am," said Arthur, with a slight contraction of his brow, "I feel that I have no right unnecessarily to spend even a shilling."

Lina petulantly threw down upon the table the book which she had been holding in her hand.

"You spare your shillings-you count your pence! You never can do it—you never were made for such meanness!" she cried. "You'll be talking next of selling your books, and taking your watch and studs to the pawnbroker's!"

"It may come to that," thought Arthur; but he had no wish to inflict more pain, so he dropped the subject, and bore the burden of his cares alone.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CHILD OF THE HAMLET.

F the reader who now glances over these pages be one who has long been engaged in labours of love; if he has been for years a visitor in the cottage or the poorhouse, scattering broadcast religious literature-seeds in the soil of the human mind-making habitually work for God part of the business of life, he may smile at any mention being made of an act so commonplace and trivial as the lending of a book. Yet if he can

recall his own first entrance as a labourer into the vineyard, unpractised, ignorant, half-ashamed-if he can remember how he felt when offering his first tract, speaking his first word for God, perhaps even such a trifle as this may seem not altogether unworthy of notice. If the reader has been brought up in an actively religious family, he may be quite unable to recall a time when such little acts cost him the slightest effort; but such will not be the case if, like Arthur, he has dwelt in a house where ridicule is certain to follow the smallest attempt to help in the work of saving souls. In that wondrous

picture of man's inner life drawn by John Bunyan, it appears to me that Faithful's being annoyed by Shame, from whose companionship Christian was free, denotes not only a difference between the characters, but also between the social position of the two pilgrims. It may be more difficult to an officer to speak ten serious words to a private, or a young man of fortune to his groom, than to a minister engaged in his sacred office to address a most crowded audience. The small duties are often set aside altogether, ostensibly because they are so trivial, really because their performance is so repugnant to our inclinations.

Yet surely those who are nearest to us, those over whom our influence most extends, are the beings for whose spiritual welfare we are most bound to care-those whom we should most seek to draw towards God by our efforts, example, and prayers!

The thought of the Christian's mission was still on the mind of Arthur, when, at the noonday hour, he bent his steps, not towards his favourite wooded glades, or the hill that commanded the finest prospect, but along the pathway, little trodden, that led in the direction of Wildwaste. He passed the picturesque cottage of Holdich, with its honeysuckle covered porch, and its garden bright with flowers, and caught a glimpse through the open door of the steward's wife preparing her husband's noonday meal, humming to herself, as she did so, a low soft song,

which blended pleasantly with the murmur of the bees and the distant lowing of cattle. That cottage

looked to Arthur as if the sunshine would always rest on it; to him that lowly home of piety and peace appeared a spot consecrated to God. There was far more of real happiness in the cottage than in the castle.

The Lestrange estate did not extend far in this direction. Arthur soon reached a stile which marked its boundary. Over this stile he vaulted, and then found himself on the edge of a tract of wild moorland, broken by slight inequalities of ground, and dotted with patches of gorse, brier, and broom, with here and there pools of stagnant water bordered with rushes. The land was too marshy for cultivation; though the weather was dry and warm, the deep ruts in the cart-tracks that crossed the waste showed that the soil was boggy and soft, and that the roads, indifferent in autumn, might become impassable in winter. There was no building to be seen in the foreground; but within a mile rose a tall unsightly chimney belonging to a soap manufactory, which was an annoyance to more than one sense-sufficient to prevent any from living in its close neighbourhood, except the families of the workmen employed. These poor people dwelt in a cluster of hovels under the shadow of the smoke-cloud from the manufactory, breathing the air which it polluted. Neither church nor chapel was near. There was nothing in