ends of the old oak pews next the chancel were curiously carved. One had a ladder and a hammer and nails on it. Another a number of round flat things, and when you counted them you found that there were thirty. Another had a curious thing—I could not tell what, till one day I met an old woman carrying just such a bag. On another was a sponge on the point of a spear. There were more of such carvings; but these I could see from where I sat. And all the sermon was a persuading of the people that God really loved them, without any if or but.
Adela was very attentive to the clergy man; but I could see her glance wander now and then from his face to that of his brother, who was in the same place he had occupied on Christmas-day. The expression of her aunt's face was judicial.
When we came out of church, the doctor shook hands with me and said:
"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Smith?"
"Most gladly," I answered. "Your time is precious: I will walk your way."
"Thank you.—I like your plan heartily. But to tell the truth, I fancy it is more a case for my brother than for me. But that may come about all in good time, especially as she will now have an opportunity of knowing him. He is the best fellow in the world. And his wife is as good as he is. But—I feel I may say to you what I could not well say to the colonel—I suspect the cause of her illness is rather a spiritual one. She has evidently a strong mental constitution; and this strong frame, so to speak, has been fed upon slops; and an atrophy is the consequence. My hope in your plan is, partly, that it may furnish a better mental table for her, for the time, and set her foraging in new direction for the future."
"But how could you tell that from the very little conversation you had with her?"
"It was not the conversation only—I watched everything about her; and interpreted it by what I know about women. I believe that many of them go into a consumption just from discontent—the righteous discontent of a soul which is meant to sit at the Father's table, and so cannot content itself with the husks which the swine eat. The theological nourishment which is offered them is generally no better than husks. They cannot live upon it, and so die and go home to their Father. And without good spiritual food to keep the spiritual senses healthy and true, they cannot see the thing's about them as they really are. They cannot find interest in them, because they cannot find their own place amoungst them. There was one thing though that confirmed me in this idea about Miss Cathcart. I looked over her music on purpose, and I did not find one song that rose above the level of the drawing-room, or one piece of music that had any deep feeling or any thought in it. Of course I judged by the composers."
"You astonish me by the truth and rapidity of your judgements. But how did you, who like myself are a bachelor, come to know so much about the minds of women?"
"I believe in part by reading Milton, and learning from him a certain high notion about myself and my own duty. None but a pure man can understand women—I mean the true womanhood that is in them. But more than to Milton am I indebted to that brother of mine you heard preach to-day. If ever God made a good man, he is one. He will tell you himself that he knows what evil is. He drank of the cup, found it full of thirst and bitterness; cast it from him, and turning to the fountain of life, kneeled and drank, and rose up a gracious giant. I say the last—not he. But this brother kept me out of the mire in which he soiled his own garments, though, thank God! they are clean enough now. Forgive my enthusiasm, Mr. Smith, about my brother. He is worthy of it."
I felt the wind cold to my weak eyes, and did not answer for some time, lest he should draw unfair conclusions.
"You should get him to tell you his story. It is well worth hearing; and as I see we shall be friends all, I would rather you heard it from his own mouth."
"I sincerely hope I may call that man my friend, some day."
"You may do so already. He was greatly taken with you on the journey down."
"A mutual attraction then, I am happy to think. Good-bye, I am glad you like my plan."
"I think it excellent. Anything hearty will do her good. Isn't there any young man to fall in love with her?"
"I don't know of any at present."
"Only the best thing will make her well; but all true things tend to healing."
"But how is it that you have such notions—so different from those of the mass of your professional brethren?"
"Oh!" said he, laughing, "if you really want an answer, be it known to all men that I am a student of Van Helmont."
He turned away, laughing; and I, knowing nothing of Van Helmont, could not tell whether he was in jest or in earnest.
At dinner some remark was made about the sermon, I think by our host.
"You don't call that the gospel!" said Mrs. Cathcart, with a smile.
"Why, what do you call it, Jane?"
"I don't know that I am bound to put a name upon it. I should, however, call it pantheism."
"Might I ask you, madam, what you understand by pantheism?"
"Oh! neology, and all that sort of thing."
"And neology is—?"
"Really, Mr. Smith, a dinner-table is not the most suitable place in the world for theological discussion."
"I quite agree with you, madam," I responded, astonished at my own boldness.—I was not quite so much afraid of her after this, although I had an instinctive sense that she did not at all like me. But Percy was delighted to see his mother discomfited, and laughed into his plate. She regarded him with lurid eyes for a moment, and then took refuge in her plate in turn. The colonel was too polite to make any remark at the time, but when he and I were alone, he said:
"Smith, I didn't expect it of you. Bravo, my boy!"
And I, John Smith, felt myself a hero.
CHAPTER V.
THE LIGHT PRINCESS.
Five o'clock, anxiously expected by me, came, and with it the announcement of dinner. I think those of us who were in the secret would have hurried over it, but with Beeves hanging upon our wheels, we could not. However, at length we were all in the drawing-room, the ladies of the house evidently surprised that we had come up stairs so soon. Besides the curate, with his wife and brother, our party comprised our old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield, whose previous engagement had been advanced by a few days.
When we were all seated, I began, as if it were quite a private suggestion of my own:
"Adela, if you and our friends have no objection, I will read you a story I have just scribbled off."
"I shall be delighted, uncle."
This was a stronger expression of content than I had yet heard her use, and I felt flattered accordingly.
"This is Christmas-time, you know, and that is just the time for story-telling," I added.
"I
