the neighbourhood of Aberdaron that morning, for he bore upon him the dirt of that district. Dear brethren, you are having to-day a young minister who has a clean coat without a spot upon it. He comes to you with a bright character, let him be among you'without fear,' that you will ever mark him with the dirty end of your walking sticks in quizzing rudely into his affairs.'—I've no patience," continued Jenkin, "with people who with such an air of piety throw dirt on other people's characters."

"No," said John, "you and I haven't, but our heavenly Father has patience even with them. Listen:— 'And he said unto him, Son thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine.' Here the love of the father appears to me greatest of all. We blame the prodigal, and are tempted to despise his elder brother, but he neither blames the one nor despises the other; and the greatest wonder of all to me is that he doesn't do the latter, that he can give such a tender reply to such bitter and unkind words from the lips of his eldest son. Even when he rebukes, the sting of the reproof is dipped in honey. 'It was meet that we should make merry and be glad; for this thy brother'-notice, he had said thy son,' now the father says thy brother, thus reminding him that the prodigal boy he so despised was still his brother.

"The parable is now finished. The Pharisees and Scribes had murmured, saying, 'This man receiveth sinners and eateth with them.' This is Our Lord's answer to them, an answer to which the other two parables only prepare the way. Our blessed Lord would have them remember that the love that forgives poor wayward ones who are called 'the lost' is the only love which could bear with the pride, coldness, and bigotry of self-righteous men, who are too cautious to wander into the wilds of sin, and are too wide-awake to sell their birthright for a mess

of pottage, or, like the prodigal, to waste their substance in riotous living."

Just then the superintendent announced the time for closing the school. John took down his spectacles, folded them, and put them into a leathern case of his own making; David William, of Ty-mawr, shut Dr. Jenkins's. big Commentary and placed it carefully in the green baize bag in which it was generally carried; while all the Class, laying aside their Bibles, prepared for the concluding prayer and hymn.

CHAPTER XI.

The Great Revival.

N two or three occasions some of the old friends had visited the smithy, but nothing of special interest had occurred till a few evenings before Christmas, when the whole company met, with the exception of John Vaughan and Swash. John

was very busy

just at that time.

There were so many who or

dered new shoes

and boots for Christmas that, wonderful to relate, he had not been in the smithy for over a week. Swash, too, had to make arrangements for a sale, which was to take place the first week in the new year. Besides, there was no special arrangement to meet at the smithy that night, and Swash was not one of the most regular attendants there.

Although there was no general understanding that anything of importance would then take place, yet there was a good muster early in the evening, and when Llewellyn Pugh looked in a little later Shadrach accepted this as a good opportunity for ventilating the subject to which the old schoolmaster had recently referred.

"The other night, Mr. Pugh," said Shadrach, "you began to tell us about Mr. Rowlands, of Llangeitho, and the Great Revival of his time. I for one should like to hear a little more about that."

"Caleb knows far more than I do about Daniel Rowlands, of Llangeitho," said Llewellyn, "as he was born in the neighbourhood, and knows all the local traditions. about him."

"I have very little to tell that I haven't told before," said Caleb. "I spent the first thirty years of my life at Llangeitho, and of course can remember well what my father, grandfather, and others used to say about the old times, and especially about Daniel Rowlands. Wherever I went they used to tell me something about him-'There,' they said, Daniel Rowlands preached on such an occasion when so many were converted-in this field he used to study his sermons-and in that field the Communion Service was held during the summer months, when as many as three thousand met to take part in it—and along that road he walked last of all before he passed away.' Almost every spot within many miles of Llangeitho is connected with some event or other in his life. I used to feel that I was treading upon holy ground, and very often would look up from the village at the wooded slopes around; or when I climbed one of the hills would gaze upon the hamlet sheltered in the hollow beneath, and would watch the lovely Aeron winding its course through the valley, and murmuring on its way to the sea as it skirted the

meadow in front of Mr. Rowlands' house, and then I would wonder whether all appeared to him as they did to me. At other times I have looked at the grey old church in which, for twenty-six years after his conversion, he used to preach the Gospel so mightily, and near which his ashes now rest, though he himself during his life was excluded from its ministry. I have stood by his grave at the north end of the churchyard, round which there is an iron railing, and at the head a simple stone bearing the name of that holy man, and I have felt as if I would give all the world could I but hear him speak. But all is silent now; that powerful voice is still, and the surrounding hills will never again ring with the echoes of his mighty appeals. But there, I forget myself when I talk about dear old Llangeitho. I feel towards it very much as the Jew did towards Jerusalem."

"Go on Caleb, I like to hear you talk about it," said Shadrach, "it does my soul good."

"Yes, go on, Caleb," said his old friend, Hugh Roberts.

"Well, Mr. Rowlands was born at a farm-house called Pant-y-beudy, between Nantewnlle and Llangeitho. I have often seen the old house, with its thatched roof and its mud-built walls covered with ivy, but I have been told that only a small part of it stands now. They have built a new house on the old spot. I don't think I was ever told when he was born or where he was educated; you, Mr. Pugh, could tell that, no doubt."

"Daniel Rowlands," said Llewellyn," was born in 1713. His father and grandfather were clergymen. When as yet a youth he was intended for the Church, but his father was too poor to send him to Oxford or Cambridge; he was therefore sent to the Grammar School at Hereford, and when about twenty-one years of age was appointed curate