CHAPTER IV.

HENRY ST. GEORGE.

"Call him wise whose actions, words, and steps, are all a clear because to a clear why."

LAVATER.

MR ST. GEORGE was not long in settling down in Wintelthorpe, and becoming a great favourite with the people. Their attachment to Mr Wheeler prepared the way for their appreciation of the young friend he had left in charge, and of whom he had spoken so enthusiastically; and, as time went on, giving them an opportunity of knowing more of him, young and old were ready to admit that their clergyman was one of the right sort; what he preached he practised, indeed his every-day life of earnestness and activity was a splendid commentary upon his Sunday

sermon.

After he had been there a month, Mr St. George sent for his mother and sister, declaring he could no longer live alone in that pretty parsonage ; they must, at least, come for a few months, if not for the entire time of Mr Wheeler's absence. It did not

need much persuasion to induce Mrs St. George to follow her favourite son to his village charge, but Alice-her only daughter-grumbled sorely in having to give up the refined and intellectual society of a cathedral town for the rough and uncultured people of a village.

Alice's deformity-spinal-and consequent invalid life and habits, had not softened her somewhat severe and exacting nature. Clever, and of strong mental power, she had from girlhood looked down upon inferior minds; she had grown up with a distaste for anything that was not stamped with the mark of culture and refinement, thinking the poor vulgar, because uneducated, and having no sympathy with any good or philanthropic work which would bring one in contact with what she called the "cruel unrefinement of lower life." It was not for a moment to be thought that Alice St. George was happy. She was far from it, happiness and selfishness cannot live together, and while so wrapt up in self, there was little hope of the poor girl knowing anything of the joy and peace which exist in proportion as we give up ourselves to others.

It was Sunday, the second Sunday in November. Henry St. George was very silent during the early dinner (which was taken somewhat hurriedly always between the morning service and afternoon Sundayschool); his mother watched him anxiously, Alice somewhat sneeringly. Alice was the first to speak,

after a lengthy pause, in the occasional talking—it could not be called conversation.

"If you should happen to see Miss Sullivan to-day, Henry," she said in a cold formal voice, "you can tell her I kept in all the week expecting her to call, as she promised to do; people who profess so much should be a little more careful about keeping their word."

"Miss Sullivan's time is very much taken up," said Henry St. George, with great difficulty pitching his voice in a pleasant key, for Alice's continual faultfinding was very hard to bear with an unruffled temper; "you must remember she has every day occupied with her poor, many of whom send for her at all odd hours and seasons."

"Well, it's a thing I cannot understand," continued Alice, a minute afterwards, "how any one possessing -or seeming to possess-a refined mind like Grace Sullivan, can be satisfied with the sort of life she leads. Her daily contact with what is low and vulgar must be very distressing to her; why, it would kill me in a week, to have to talk to people who were for ever dropping or too eagerly picking up their h's, let alone the objectionable manners of the uneducated! I suppose it is a lower kind of soul, which, demanding less, is satisfied with little; but, for my part, give me intellectual culture; my idea of enjoyment is when the mind is fed in such a way that it naturally expands and rises above all that is common and vulgar; moun'tain scenery and master minds minister to my happi

ness. I cannot help being thankful that I have had my tastes thus highly cultivated; it makes me shudder to think of living as half the girls of my age do, with such small conceptions of the beautiful and true! I should like to see a little of Grace Sullivan. I might be useful to her, it is just possible that her mind and feelings may yet be educated and refined, if brought under right influence; she is too pretty to waste her life in mere philanthropic enterprises and pursuits : " and Alice pealed a pear, and smiled complacently to herself.

Mrs St George looked troubled, but said nothing. She was so accustomed to Alice's harsh and egotistical speeches, that to have allowed a discussion to arise from them would be to have constant warfare, whereas there was now only a one-sided skirmish; yet she grieved none the less that her daughter, with all her intellectual culture and refinement, was so utterly narrow in her views of life. She knew but little of Grace Sullivan, yet that little convinced her that her life and character were rich in beauty, power, and worth. To be in her presence was to breathe a purer air than the atmosphere of other lives; to see her total self-abnegation was to feel the strength of her religion; while to watch her joyousness, the gladness of her free spirit, was to apprehend instinctively the beauty of that faith which enables one to be in the world, yet not of the world— in the midst of care, and thought, and sadness, yet

far above tribulation and sorrow-looking for, and hastening unto, the land and life wherein no darkness comes, no anguish enters.

Henry St George rose from his seat and walked to the window after Alice's last remark. He made it a principle never to argue with her, but her view of life-so sadly warped and untrue-greatly distressed him, and he found it very difficult at times to listen and not reply. It might have been better for Alice had some one argued with her occasionally. She was too apt to take for granted that her ideas were accepted, because not opposed; yet, after all, the gentle teaching of her mother's and brother's life was better than all words or arguments.

To-day the trial of patience was even greater than usual to Mr St George, for his sister had been indirectly censuring the woman whom, next to his mother, he was learning to reverence most in the world. Henry St George could not help reverencing Grace, as the beauty of her character gradually unfolded itself to him. He admired with all the noble instincts of his nature the utter unselfishness of her life; he marvelled at her power,-so complete, yet so unconscious,-and was touched with the purity and simplicity of her mind, so full withal of vigour and force. It was not unnatural that he should have seen and thought much of Grace during the three months he had been at Wintelthorpe: he was constantly meeting with her in his visits to the poor, and