to pray for others. Yet this prayer of his was not for the dead, but for the living.

Now the voice of prayer ceased, and all stood in deep silence round the form of the departed. The grief of Philo was communicated to these tender, these sympathetic hearts. They mingled their tears with his.

But now, amid the silence, there arose a strain so sweet and so sad, that it thrilled through all the being of Cineas, and rang in his memory afterward for many a long year.

The early Christians had at first come out from among the · Jews, and in their meetings they preserved the traditions of the synagogue. The chants of old psalms were prominent among these. The Gentile Christians adopted these old Jewish forms, and the chant lived side by side with the hymn.

But the chant that arose now sounded forth words to which the Christian alone could attach any meaning. To the Jew in his synagogue they had none. To the Christian they meant everything; they were divine words, which carried within them a lofty consolation at all times; but now, over the form of the dead, and among the graves of the departed, they gave triumph to the soul.

"I know that my Redeemer liveth,

And that he shall stand, at the latter day, upon this earth:
And though after my skin, worms destroy my body,

Yet in my flesh shall I see God:

Whom I shall see for myself,

And mine eyes shall behold, and not another;

Though my veins be consumed within me."

Down through the long vaulted passages the sound was borne, passing on, in its wild cadences, till it died out in hollow murmurs far away. And the hope, and the solemn exultation of that song seemed to convey a new feeling into all the hearers. Cineas bowed his head, and yielded himself up to the emotion that overpowered all. He knew to whom and to what that song referred. The Redeemer, the resurrection, these

were its themes; and he saw something which made death lose its terrors.

And there, on his knees, Philo felt a new rush of feeling, which broke in upon his remorse and his despair. He raised his head and looked upward, with streaming eyes; but an expression of hope was on his face, and they all knew that his soul's agony had at last been conquered by faith.

Next to redemption, the great doctrine that attracted the Christian of this time was that of the resurrection. He awaited from day to day the coming of the Lord. He buried his dead, and knew that at the last trump they would rise again. As the Lord himself had risen, so would all his followers. For this he glorified God, and in this he exulted.

In this doctrine Paul also rejoiced, and preached it everywhere. It was, in his eyes, one of the grandest facts in Christianity. It gave something for the strong reliance of the soul. Yet with all this he did not teach that the soul should sleep till this resurrection, or that it could not exist without the body.

While he cherished so ardently this grand doctrine, and laid so much stress on the resurrection, he had no idea that the soul, after death, could pass into even a temporary oblivion. For he habitually spoke of his desire to depart and be with Christ, knowing that his departure from this world would be an immediate entrance into the next; and knowing, too, as he himself said, that to be absent from the body was to be present with the Lord. Best of all, he knew it from his own high experience, on that time when he had been caught up into the unutterable glories of the world of light.

And such things he spoke at this time, and his words brought new comfort to the bereaved son.

It was with such words in their ears, and such thoughts in their hearts, that the little company lifted the body of the departed into her last resting-place.

It was Philo whose hands arranged those dear remains, whose eyes took the last look, and who for the last time pressed her cold forehead with his lips. He lifted up the tablet which shut in the opening of the narrow the following words:

cell, and on that tablet there were

"IN CHRIST-PEACE.

"THE SORROW OF CLYMENE ON EARTH LED TO EVERLASTING BLISS IN HEAVEN. HER SON PHILO SET UP THIS STONE IN TEARS."

XXI.

The Resolve.

FTER that solemn burial scene, Julius made up his mind to delay no longer about a step which he had purposed taking for some time.

A

to Cineas.

"Why should I not join them at once?" said he

"All my sympathies are with them, and have been now for a long time. I have no desires or tastes anywhere else. The meek lives and the mutual affection of these men would affect me even if there were nothing more; even if there were no high aim after eternal life, which pervades all their thoughts, and makes this life seem only a short and temporary stay.

"And now I find that this aim is my own chief desire. I wish to secure the same immortality, and, besides, that immortal life in which they believe—an immortality of happiness and of love.

"Cineas, I long and yearn to be one of them, not merely to stand among them as an external sympathizer, but to be numbered among them, and to hear and give the salutation of 'Brother.' Could I—if all else had failed to move me—could I be unshaken by that spectacle of radiant hope that but lately lighted up the souls of those who buried their dead in those gloomy vaults, and knew that the departed was not dead but alive, and knew where that soul was, and what? I can now delay no longer. I believe that this religion is the revelation of the Supreme. I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that the soul that believes on him shall have life everlasting."

Cineas heard this without surprise, for he well knew how strongly Julius had been drawn towards the Christians ever since his memorable voyage with Paul. He felt a kind of envy of his friend, and for a moment wished that he himself might have the same calm faith. For it was his nature to question all things; he struggled with doubt that rose behind every belief, and the habit of a lifetime of speculation could not readily be lost.

"I am glad, my friend," said he, in tones that expressed a pensive melancholy, "glad that you at least have decided so. For me it is very different. Yet I confess that I am shaken to the soul by the memory of all that I have heard and seen. The song that arose out of those vaults seemed to me like the soul of the dead rising from the gloom of the sepulchre, and soaring upward to its God. I admire that faith which can enter into the mind of the humblest and most ignorant, and make him believe in a spiritual life, and live so as to attain to it. I wonder, too, at the power of that religion which can change an ignorant, untutored man, and make him turn all his thoughts and affections to a lofty spiritual idea. How comes it? You will answer that it comes from God. Be it so. At any rate, all that I know is that he has not yet given to me a belief that all this came from him.

"If I believed as you do, with your unquestioning faith, I would do as you propose at any sacrifice. But I do not and cannot believe so."

"But why not?" said Julius. "Does not Plato himself testify to the truth of an Incarnate God? You yourself have often acknowledged that God might descend among men. If so, is it difficult to believe that he might suffer? I do not know so much as you, but I have studied Plato, and well I remember how the master used to comment on some wonderful passages. Do you not remember how Socrates says :-' It is not possible that any man should be safe, who sincerely