little suppers the Rector used to get pleasant, and enjoyed his sequent glass of port.

At this time Louisa attacked him; just when he had supped well, and was regarding the beeswing in his goblet as affectionately as a poet. regards a spark of absolute light in a sunset.

66

Uncle," suddenly said Louisa, "I wish you'd let me write your sermons."

Really," said the Rector, "the female children of the present age are remarkably precocious. What is the reason of your wish Louisa ?"

"Because nobody in this stupid parish can understand you-not even the Squire. Those beautiful sermons of yours ought to be printed and addressed ad clerum. I think I could write you some sermons that would do for the people who live in this parish."

"Try, child," said the Rector, and lighted his cigar.

She tried.

She took for her first text,

"Give us this day our daily bread." She

tried as much as possible to use monosyllables and dissyllables. She began with the statement that daily bread was not to be had if God chose to stop it. His power kept in existence both the materials of bread and the makers of bread. We sow wheat: God makes it to grow. Every blade, every ear, shows the presence of God—and so on.

Then further-are we not afraid of God? If so, we are fools; afraid of Him who made us; afraid of our best Friend. As you pass through the woods or fields, there is a flowerprimrose or anemone-God's gift to you. You hear the song of thrush or redbreast-God's minstrel. God would be near to you, and you put pale superstitions between Him and yourself. If you are afraid to meet God, no wonder you are on excellent terms with that dreadful rascal the devil.

For the devil is a gentleman of the latest fashion, and knows all the latest vices. He loves all forms of untruth and rascality. Some

people don't think he actually exists; but if he does not exist, it proves that there is a lurking devil in all of us. Does it not urge you to do a thing, my beloved brethren, if you think it rather wrong than otherwise?

This was the sort of sermon, or sermonette, that Louisa wrote for her uncle. Her uncle preached them cheerfully, and became unexpectedly popular. For Louisa knew the parish, and would descend upon any troublesome customer like a flash of lightning. The Rector had been in the habit of proving that the three persons of the Trinity, though distinct, were absolutely one; his niece pointed her sermons at people who did not keep the commandments.

It was quite a change in the Silchester Sundays. Louisa's sermons were a success. They went straight to the consciences of several people who before were not aware that they had consciences. The Rector had been dealing with abstractions. Louisa went in for the concrete.

She vilified the vices of the vicinage. It was wonderfully clever of her to know all about the vices of the vicinage-but some young ladies are wonderfully clever.

On a day in the month of May when the spring came slowly up that way, and the boughs began to swing and sway, and the larks were mad, and the linnets gay, and the sky was a strange divine blue and gray, it chanced that Louisa making way to some old pensioner grim and gray, who would soon be about five feet of clay, met our young friend Silvester astray, in search of amusement I dare say.

Now an introduction was not necessary, because the Rector had brought his niece to see the Squire, only Silvester chanced not to be at home. Louisa drooped her eyelids. Silvester blushed. They looked at each other in that decisive way which means mischief or marriage. Silvester was a tall fellow for his age; had run up a little too fast, would be as

strong as Herakles in a year or two, and as handsome as Apollo. Louisa was rather less rapid in her physical movement, plumper, more decidedly a young woman.

Well, in Nightingale Lane, where came the earliest violets, these two young folk had a talk. Shall it be repeated?

SILVESTER. I am so sorry I did not see you when you called, Miss Saint Osyth. I hope you like this part of the world.

LOUISA. It seems delightful. There never was a more charming village than Silchester. Don't you consider yourself very fortunate to live here?

SILVESTER. I have always found myself fortunate. What greater good fortune could I have than to meet you this morning?

LOUISA. You are given to flattery.

I

- know very well what I am, and I cannot place myself beside one of Shakespeare's creations.

SILVESTER.-Then I will place you there.