“Are you, after all, one of these modern, highly-trained lady nurses in disguise? If so, you must be inwardly laughing at my venturing thus to dictate to one who knows so much better than myself what to do in all emergencies." "My only school has been experience.' Good night. I "And the best school too, for women at any rate. can tell you I leave this house with a better heart than I've done since that poor trot of an Alice ran open-mouthed for me on Saturday night. Poor Mrs. Erle has youth on her side, and great quiet common sense to give her strength of mind to keep still and obey orders when, poor woman, she has the wit to understand what we're about at all." "She knows about the baby's death?” Yes, and it will all come back to her, and clearly, although now she's forgotten it in that of her first child, who died suddenly at three weeks old, unchristened. Fancy your brother—” "Nephew, Mr. Erle is my nephew," said Elizabeth, gently. t Having wit to quell her terror lest no one should arrive in time, -Rector and curates all at morning service,-by bidding me christen the child myself! It quite quieted her, poor soul! thought I must have laid myself open to all manner of ecclesiastical pains and penalties, but he assures me not, and, of course, I as both layman and dissenter, understand nothing about such things,-I won't say care nothing, for I too have lost a child. Good night, I don't think I need warn you to keep nurse upon good terms with herself, and treat her as the only possible authority in the sick room when I am out of it. She's a valuable little woman, and quite trustworthy and sober, but has her little silly foibles like most of us." And he was gone at last. S. ETHELREDA. ОСТОВЕР 17тн. "My soul fleeth unto the LORD." WHERE the winds sigh round the Isle of Ely, Where the bitterns cry all night, And the grey alders through the moonlight Gather ghostly white, Far across the waters broad Flash the lights of the House of GOD : When the sun rises at break of morning, For Awdry has passed from the land of Humber To the lonely isle where the waters meet: O lovely eyes that in prayer grow bright, There is balm below for a wounded heart,2 That ever in prayer and in solitude The rush of the storm, the waters' fall, Has a message for such from their own bright GOD: Thus ever her life grows strong by prayer, M. 1 Elthelreda, or Awdry, was married to Egfried, King of Northumbria, who reluctantly gave his consent at last to her embracing the religious life at Ely. She was first married to a prince named Toubert, who died in youth, and for whom she greatly mourned. Both her first and second husband respected her previous vow of chastity. ONE Sunday afternoon we took the tram which goes down the Boulevard St. Germain, with the intention of finding Père Hyacinthe's little church in the Rue d'Arras. That part of Paris being quite unknown to us, we started early in order to have plenty of time to inquire our way. A fellow passenger told us we must leave the tram at Rue Monge, which would soon bring us to the street we were seeking. There is very little difficulty in finding our way anywhere in Paris, for the people are so anxious to direct us that they will sometimes accompany us half the length of the street to be sure that we take the right turn. An old man, in the blue linen coat of the French workman, was selling oranges at a stall in the street, and we stopped to ask him where the church was. Not only did he leave the oranges, and walk up the street with many directions, but an old woman joined him in his explanations, and her gesticulations and high-pitched voice guided us till we were out of sight. This part of Paris was very different from anything else we had seen; an artistic group of foreign musicians were seated outside a house drinking wine and smoking, and queerlooking children were playing in the street. and The orange-seller need not have been so lengthy in his directions, for the Rue d'Arras, painted in blue letters, soon caught our eye, we turned to the right, and saw over a doorway, "Eglise Gallicane." We went along a short passage, passing through a door into the church, which is small, with galleries round it. The east end is very nicely fitted up, and everything well arranged, though, from the absence of any architectural beauty, we judged the building had been at first intended for a large room. We had arrived early, and had half-an-hour to wait before the service began. The congregation gradually assembled, and a stranger set of men I had never seen. Some at first sight I judged to be Americans, others had an air of carelessness and hardness, a look of having tasted 1 We have allowed the following account of M. Loyson and his chapel to appear in our pages because we believe it will prove very interesting to our readers,—but we must request that it be distinctly understood we do not intend thereby to express any opinion whatever on himself or his opinions.-ED. C. C. life to the very dregs and found it bitter, and determined to keep their discovery to themselves, and present a bold face to the world. There were men with long, loose hair, and wrinkled, old faces, who had lived long enough in Paris to doubt what they had once believed, to lose, even as they had lost their freshness and their youth, the faith of their childhood. There were men whose only belief was the Republic, whose idea of man was something lower than the image of God. They sat waiting, with papers or books, while the church filled with persons of all classes. A lady in black, with a little boy, occupied two of the chairs in front of us, and from the manner in which she supplied her neighbours with books I concluded she was, in some way, connected with the church. The harmonium sounded from the gallery, and we stood up as three choir men, a young Priest and Père Hyacinthe entered, and took their places at each side of the altar. I had just been reading the April number of Scribner's Magazine, and at once recognised Père Hyacinthe from its account of him; and looked with interest at the man who has vexed the ecclesiastical world more, perhaps, than any man since the time of Savonarola. We knelt down while in clearly enunciated French he read the Commandments, the congregation, led by some voices in the gallery, singing the Kyrie in French to Berthold Tours' setting. Then followed the Confession, Absolution, and Apostles' Creed, after which we sat and sang the three first Psalms for Vespers, a man in the gallery with a rich voice singing the alternate verses alone. An elderly lady behind me, not understanding, or approving of, this arrangement, uplifts her querulous voice, and warbles these verses with him. After the Magnificat, while the Père is announcing for what the offertory is, we see, with a pang of disappointment, that the young Priest is ascending the pulpit. He gives out his text, and the queer old men in the gallery take out their glasses, and peer down at him; the lady in black hands my friend a lozenge for her cough, and we look up at the high pulpit, and the very youthful looking Priest. Then we soon forget our disappointment at not hearing Père Hyacinthe, as the preacher unfolds his subject, the impossibility of morality without religion. He speaks of the Roman empire when it had reached the height of its power, and points out that, when luxury increased, in spite of the greatness of the empire of the world, morality fell away without religion, and the glory of Rome decreased. Speaking of the existence of morality without re ligion, with the delicate shades of the French language, and the striking similes so forcible to the French character, he asks them if they would veil the sun and yet expect light; would they rob a tree of its branches, and then hope to gather fruit? He tells them what man is, as GOD meant him to be, a reflection of the Divine Image, ever reaching on to a more perfect character, and striving for a higher life; and then he contrasts the mere brute-like existence of man, living only for the present, disbelieving in a future state. He speaks simply yet deeply, with gestures and action which come so naturally to the French, and the hard, stern faces seem to brighten a little as they listen; and "Mes frères" comes touchingly from the young, earnest Priest, with his fresh, bright life, to these men whose lives are saddened and worn out. Passing easily from the religion of the individual to that of the nation, he speaks of it as the only true basis of a Republic, and pleads the interests of France as one only can do to whom her welfare is very dear. When the musical voice ceases we come back again from the ideal France, which has been placed before us, and the service is over, my friend is thanking the lady in black for the lozenge, and a bright, clever face is turned towards us. An idea comes into my mind that this is Madame Loyson, and we ask some one if it is so. "Yes. Have you not seen the little boy?" We have seen the little boy, with his smooth, brown hair and large French collar, but we did not said by the devout Catholics in Paris, that he is deformed, as a judgment for his father's marriage. He was a singularly well-grown activelooking boy, and the idea seemed absurd. know he was the child of whom it is In the passage outside the church was Mdme. Loyson, who spoke to us in English. Were we staying long in Paris? They were always so glad to see English friends; do we wish to hear the Père? We must come at ten on Sunday morning for High Mass. She gave me two pamphlets on the Gallican Church, and we came away, determining to come the next Sunday morning. There was something strangely attractive in the little church in the Rue d'Arras, and meeting a friend in Paris the following Thursday, in discussing the places of interest to be visited, we decided on a visit to it, having heard that there was a service at three. At this hour we reached the church, but found no service going on; two women only were there, and we waited to see what would take place. After a little time I saw an official go and speak to these women, |