if he might have the honour “o' fitten a farewell pair on to the feet o' the greatest scholar, and the littlest man, as he ever knew." Dan thankfully sat down, not a little affected at his old friend's kindness, and putting out his tiny feet, the good cordwainer heartily and reverently pulled on the boots; and then, while still on his knees, taking Danny's hand, as if the chair were a throne and Danny the king seated on it, he respectfully kissed it, and said with a homely burst of homage that "This hand, before it be many years older, will be the hand of a Bishop, or else the more glorious palm of an angel in heaven! Goodbye, sir; good luck to you, and the good lady, the mother as bore ye, and loves ye, and is proud of ye so she ou't to be-but aint prouder on ye than the old shoemaker as begs a pair o' yer old shoes for a keepsake in the room of them boots, which the Lord give ye health and happiness to wear down to the welt, and then send 'em back to me to mend 'em." The worthy baker had called over-night to say "his covered cart was goin' in town for a load o' biscuits in the morning, and would be glad to give them, and their luggage, a cart to the steamer." It would save a deal of money, so the arrangement was very acceptable. Accordingly at the appointed hour, Dan and the baker managed to pack inside, or on the roof, all their few remaining goods and chattels; and cheered by the friendly adieus and good wishes of their old neighbours, the widow and her son were driven the five miles to the shore, and embarked for the Isle of Wight. Ventnor is as warm as or warmer than any winter quarter round the coast, but the season was unusually severe, and tried Danny's constitution to its utmost powers of endurance. He grew weaker and worse every month. Constant medical attendance, the cost of furnished lodgings, and expensive diet for the invalid, made sad inroads on their little capital. Dan was ordered to cease all reading, to keep perfectly quiet and unexcited, and to live as much as possible in the same temperature. Twice during that weary winter he was brought into crises of imminent danger by the breaking of a blood-vessel. His state of health grew daily more precarious. The winter pastspring was far advanced, yet he had not recovered strength enough to resume his studies, much less to return to Oxford. Summer set in, and the air of Ventnor no longer suited the invalid. He needed a more bracing atmosphere. Their nearly exhausted means left them no resource but to return to Cosham, where they were able to procure a very humble lodging, and lived in the deepest privacy and seclusion. The old shoemaker found them out, and, begging Danny's pardon, looked at the soles of his boots. He shook his head at observing how little they were worn, indicating the little exercise the poor invalid youth, confined to his apartment, could have taken. I 'Ah," said the old man, "them soles give more odds for the angel nor the Bishop. doubt the wearer has been wearin' out instead o' the boots. The Lord love ye, poor Master Dan, I wish ye could ha' worn 'em better nor that. They're not the fit they was, I'm afeared." Summer gently stole into autumn, and autumn dropped noiselessly, as one of its own leaves on the greensward, into winter again, before Dan was sufficiently renovated to indulge the hope of resuming his college career. He however got back at last, having lost a year. He was advised to resume his book. work cautiously, take exercise moderately, and avoid excitement. The widow engaged apartments in Oxford, and her son lived with her. They practised the most rigid economy. The hope of academical distinction had faded away with Danny's health, and he dared not recover lost time by extra exertion lest it should precipitate a return of his malady. So he read on steadily, but not hard. Never a day passed without a step onwards. He looked above for strength and succour; neither neglected his religious duties nor his studies, and both made progress together. He was often hard put to for books-new and expensive books beyond his means; but somehow or other-now through the sale of other books, then through the loan of a friend-it generally happened that he procured what he wanted. At length he went in for his degree, and anxiously at the close of each day's examination, mother and son conversed together on the amount of answering he had been equal to; and both were satisfied he should pass creditably, if with no great éclat. It was the crisis of Danny's after-life, the result of those few days of trial and intense excitement. They were soon over, and after the usual interval the class lists were published, and Danny ran home to his mother, his eyes overflowing with tears of joy all the way, breathless, and panting to tell her the glorious news; which when he reached her, he could not tell-his heart was in his mouth and choked his utterance He looked wildly at her moving face for a moment or two, and then got out—“ Hurrah, mother!" threw himself on her dear neck, and faintly whispered "First class." Yes, the noble little Danny had scored another name on the escutcheon of his school; had multiplied its honours by the addition of his own; had recompensed his admirable mother for all her trials, privations, and anxieties; and secured, under God, a provision and a standing for them both in after-life. It was a moving as well as exemplary spectacle, which the world saw not, but " angels desired to look upon,” and the eye of God approved, when mother and son fell instinctively upon their knees and consecrated this happy tidings by an act of devout, heartfelt thanksgiving to the blessed Lord who loved the young son of Zebedee, and vouchsafed him the august title, open still to all who believe in Him and serve Him, "the disciple whom Jesus loved." Thus Danny planted his foot upon the first stepping stone to his prophetic mitre. Oxford rang with the rumour of the little pale "Worcester" man who had "worsted" his host of competitors, and run in first; suggested that he was suckled in stirrups, and slept on the saddle; that he was a diamond edition of the classics, a pocket Euclid, an algebraic formula, a microcosm, "a brick"-this was the culmination of undergraduate eulogy-"a thorough little brick, with plenty of mortar about him to stick into anything he liked." When little Danny walked into the theatre on Degree-day, to be admitted B.A., leaning on the arm of his little mother, both in black gowns, and as near a height as possible, but for the bit of a bonnet both might have been taken for incepting bachelors. They were no sooner recognized than the galleries raised a deafening shout for the little lady, "The Firstclass man's mother!" and then a still louder shout for Danny himself. The publicity, the enthusiasm, the honour done her for her son's sake, rather frightened the widow, and the continuance of the applause overcame her. She felt faint, and to avoid a scene, sat down, and a gush of exulting tears relieved her. The formalities were soon over, and the widow walked out of the theatre on the arm of her Bachelor of Arts, looking proudly and lovingly on his symbolical hood and bands-the thoughts of her heart, "My son, my Danny! Oh, if his poor father had seen this day!"—"Thy will be done!" Thus Danny gained a first! He stood at college, where he had stood at school, number one. A first-class man at Oxford is a made man for life-like Adam, "has all the world before him where to choose." Spite of ill. health and of a lost year, the sound scholarship which was in him overcame these obstacles, so fatal to the whileom, desultory, or imperfect student, who unpossessed of literary capital to fall back upon, has to condense into the brief collegiate course the energy and application essential to a high position, which had been far better spread over several previous years of mental training. With such a degree he had no difficulty in immediately obtaining pupils at a high scale of remuneration. He removed into the country, and in due time was ordained upon a rural cure in their old neighbourhood, the limited duties of which did not prevent his continuing his pupils. He and his excellent mother were rapidly placed in circumstances of comparative affluence. Their humble benefactors in the time of their need received an ample recompense in having the supply of the very large establishment which the widow and her son conducted. In this field of real usefulness to his pupils, alike in a spiritual and intellectual point of view, Danny laboured for many years. At length a colonial bishopric; involving also the charge of an institution for the training of a native ministry, becoming vacant, Danny was selected, alike on the score of character and learning. He accepted the post on condition of his beloved mother accompanying him to the scene of his distant labours. It was so agreed between them, and the prediction of his schoolfellows was thus fulfilled: "The Boy-Bishop" was consecrated to the see of lies There for a few years, and only a few, he lived and laboured; then fell a victim to the climate, at an age so early as scarcely to have lost the soubriquet of "The Boy-Bishop," so young was he in years, and so much younger still in figure and personal expression. The Right Rev. Daniel, Lord Bishop of · beneath an aisle of the lowly minster which he had been permitted to add to the accommodation of his Cathedral Church. His pious mother, "a widow indeed," and "a mother in Israel," returned to her own land, not sighing, like Naomi, "Call me Mara, for the Lord hath dealt bitterly with me," but bowing down in meek submission to His will who gave and hath taken away, acknowledging in both issues, "Blessed be the name of the Lord." HEART CHEER FOR HOME SORROW. THE COMFORT OF THE HOLY GHOST. When the leaves of life are falling, When youth's verdure all is fading, When the frost of time has found me, - When the worn-out flesh is sinking, Mighty Spirit, comfort! When the skies look wan and dreary, Mighty Spirit, comfort! When the once keen eye is failing, When past sins are flocking round me, When I think on manhood wasted, Mighty Spirit, comfort! When my farewells I am taking, Mighty Spirit, comfort! Holy Spirit! strength in weakness, Ah, Thou wilt not then forsake me, HORATIUS BONAR, D.D. THE MISSION OF SORROW. A great sorrow re-casts a soul; it either draws it nearer to the Friend whose intimacy must elevate it, or drives it into the far cold space of rebellion and despair, When the stripes of affliction are dealt to those whom God has called into His great school of work for souls, it is manifestly to give them new faculty in their calling, They needed to see deeper down into their own hearts, and thus into the hearts of others. Oh, how many a sorrow of the poor may we have striven to comfort, while their experiences have told them that we stood outside it! But the great leveller, Death, has admitted us now into an inner circle of fellowship with the human family "born unto trouble." True human loneliness is only found in living apart from God and His work. It has been said that "the infinite ocean of human woes makes every idle moment in a Christian's life quiet before God." Life Work. Pleasant Beadings for our Sons and Daughters. MISS VIVIAN AND HER RELATIONS. BY A. G., AUTHOR OF "AMONG THE MOUNTAINS," "MABEL AND CORA,” CHAPTER IV. "How little can the rich man know Of what the poor man feels, When want, like some dark demon foe, Nearer and nearer steals. He never saw his darlings lie Shivering-the flags their bed; He never heard that maddening cry, 'Daddy, a bit of bread!"" Manchester Song. APTAIN VIVIAN was sitting on one of the low rustic seats under the trees at the back of the house, when Constance came round the west wing and along the path to where he sat. It was about two or three weeks after his return. "Oh, Leonard, are you here? I thought I knew where to find you. Mamma could not think where you had gone. Are you listening to the dear old rooks?" In a clump of large trees just outside the garden wall was an ancient rookery, after which no doubt the house had originally been named. Incessant was the Caw! caw!" in tones of varied harshness, but softened a little by the distance; and Constance dearly loved the sound, to which she had been accustomed from infancy. Very few would have denied that it made a pleasant addition to the country sounds which filled the air-the singing of birds, the buzzing of bees, and the gentle murmuring of the wind amongst the trees. "Edwin suggests that they are holding a consultation," said Leonard, glancing at the boy, who was perched upon the back of the seat, having already attained to terms of close friendship with his new brother. "They seem very wise and earnest, whatever they are saying," observed Constance. "I do so love to hear that cawing." "So do I. It recalls old days very strongly to me. Are you going out for a walk ?" "Yes, to the Wentworths'. Beatrice promised Miss Vivian to spend this afternoon with her, and then discovered that Mrs. Wentworth had set her heart on a regular shopping excursion. She always likes a companion to discuss her purchases with; and as Beatrice is not ubiquitous, she has begged me to take her place with Mrs. Wentworth. No one can do so with Miss Vivian." "Are you going now ?" "I have a few minutes to spare. I came here to see what you and Edwin were doing. I expected to find you together. How you must enjoy this change after seven years of the tropics." "Don't I!" said Leonard. "Take care, Edwin, that you don't overbalance yourself and the seat too. You will come to grief if you do." Edwin was swinging to and fro, and responded laughingly, "Then you would come down too." "And then what would the doctor say?" asked Leonard, shaking his head. "Don't you know, Mr. Wentworth has forbidden my being excited; and what state of mind do you suppose I should be in after a fall like that?" Edwin was quiet instantly: his round blue eyes wide open, and fixed on Captain Vivian's thin bronzed face with an expression of such wondering awe that they both burst into a fit of laughter. "Edwin, you are the drollest little fellow I ever saw!" exclaimed Constance. "I'm not little," said Edwin, drawing himself up. "Papa told me yesterday I should soon be a man. And I mean to be just like Leonard when I'm grown up. Am I like him now, Constance ?" Constance laughed again, as she contrasted his round, fair, fresh, childish face with Leonard's sunburnt sallow complexion and hollow cheeks. "The only likeness I can see is that you both look very happy. I suppose I must be going soon, or I shall not be at the Wentworths' in time." * "You don't seem much delighted with the prospect," said Captain Vivian. "I imagined all ladies enjoyed shopping." "I like it sometimes-if I have plenty of money to spend," added Constance, with a smile. "But Mrs. Wentworth is always so dreadfully long in making her choice, that I get tired long before she has done. I believe if she had nothing to buy but a yard of green ribbon, she would manage to spend ten minutes or a quarter of an hour in discussing the respective merits of satin and sarsenet, border and no border, light green and dark green. I always like to take the first thing that is offered to me." "Whatever the price?" "If I can afford it. I acknowledge that I always spend more than I intend, and in consequence I am often run rather short. But I really could not make up my mind to be always calculating and counting, and hesitating over every penny. That is Mrs. Wentworth's way -at least, not so much in the shops: that is the most curious part of it. She will pay almost anything she is asked in a grand shop, and gets most expensive things-rich silks such as mamma hardly ever wears, except in an evening; and then excuses herself by saying they are more economical in the end." "But I thought that was the very plan you were advocating. You like people to buy the first thing they see, and of course that is often an expensive thing." "No, I don't mean that exactly-not always," said Constance. "You don't understand yet. It is not that of itself which makes me so indignant with Mrs. Wentworth. You know they are not rich, and she has to be careful; but instead of denying herself in dress, and buying plain quiet things like Beatrice, she buys everything she can possibly want for herself at good, expensive shops; and then in her housekeeping she makes up for her extravagance in dress by haggling over every penny she spends. I wouldn't mind so much if she did it at the large shops, where the people are well off and able to take care of their own interests. But it is the poor that she beats down-the orange-women, for instance, and the vegetable-women that come round to her door with their baskets. She buys from them because she thinks it cheaper than at the shops; and she will argue over a Constance's glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes fully bore out her assertion. Edwin, finding the conversation uninteresting, had before this moved away, and was playing about at a little distance. "It is very wrong," said Leonard. "I do not think anything is worse than such oppression of the poor." "And if one says anything, Mrs. Wentworth always has her answer ready-that they are not rich, and can't spend more than a certain sum in housekeeping. And she always quotes, "Take care of the pence, and the pounds will take care of themselves.' I do detest that proverb," added Constance, warmly; "people just make it an excuse for spending as many pounds as they like on their own dress and comforts, and for beating down the poor who sell penny things. I am sure numbers do." 'Some do, unquestionably. Yes, there is truth in what you say, Constance. I have my doubts certainly of the wisdom of the assertion that the 'pounds' ever can or will take care of themselves.' There is such a thing as being 'penny wise and pound foolish.'" Constance clapped her hands. "So there is! and I never once remembered that proverb. I must quote it to Mrs. Wentworth." "Not from me, if you please," said Captain Vivian, drily; "I do not consider it exactly my place to teach Mrs. Wentworth how to spend her money." "Or mine either, you mean," said Constance, her countenance falling. "No, it isn't, and it would be impertinent, and only do harm. Leonard, do you know I sometimes wish I were not quite so quick to see my neighbours' faults.” "If you are obliged to see them, you are not obliged to discuss them, Constance," he suggested, kindly, though rather gravely. "No, I know," said Constance; "I know that, and I often determine that I won't, and then I forget, and do the same again. It seems as if I couldn't help speaking." "I would be careful to whom I spoke, Constance, if you will excuse my saying so; and, above all, I would be cautious about mentioning names." |