The week passed without any further communication with the 'Hall,'as Arthur was evidently fearful that we might 'wear out our welcome';but when, on Sunday morning, we were setting out for church, I gladlyagreed to his proposal to go round and enquire after the Earl, who wassaid to be unwell.

Eric, who was strolling in the garden, gave us a good report of theinvalid, who was still in bed, with Lady Muriel in attendance.

"Are you coming with us to church?" I enquired.

"Thanks, no," he courteously replied. "It's not--exactly in my line,you know. It's an excellent institution--for the poor. When I'm withmy own folk, I go, just to set them an example. But I'm not known here:so I think I'll excuse myself sitting out a sermon. Country-preachersare always so dull!"

Arthur was silent till we were out of hearing. Then he said to himself,almost inaudibly, "Where two or three are gathered together in my name,there am I in the midst of them."

"Yes," I assented: "no doubt that is the principle on which church-goingrests."

"And when he does go," he continued (our thoughts ran so much together,that our conversation was often slightly elliptical), "I suppose herepeats the words 'I believe in the Communion of Saints'?"

But by this time we had reached the little church, into which a goodlystream of worshipers, consisting mainly of fishermen and theirfamilies, was flowing.

The service would have been pronounced by any modern aestheticreligionist--or religious aesthete, which is it?--to be crude and cold:to me, coming fresh from the ever-advancing developments of a Londonchurch under a soi-disant 'Catholic' Rector, it was unspeakablyrefreshing.

There was no theatrical procession of demure little choristers, tryingtheir best not to simper under the admiring gaze of the congregation:the people's share in the service was taken by the people themselves,unaided, except that a few good voices, judiciously posted here andthere among them, kept the singing from going too far astray.

There was no murdering of the noble music, contained in the Bible andthe Liturgy, by its recital in a dead monotone, with no more expressionthan a mechanical talking-doll.

No, the prayers were prayed, the lessons were read, and best of all thesermon was talked; and I found myself repeating, as we left the church,the words of Jacob, when he 'awaked out of his sleep.' "'Surely theLord is in this place! This is none other but the house of God,and this is the gate of heaven.'"

"Yes," said Arthur, apparently in answer to my thoughts, "those 'high'services are fast becoming pure Formalism. More and more the peopleare beginning to regard them as 'performances,' in which they only'assist' in the French sense. And it is specially bad for the littleboys. They'd be much less self-conscious as pantomime-fairies.With all that dressing-up, and stagy-entrances and exits, and beingalways en evidence, no wonder if they're eaten up with vanity,the blatant little coxcombs!"

When we passed the Hall on our return, we found the Earl and LadyMuriel sitting out in the garden. Eric had gone for a stroll.

We joined them, and the conversation soon turned on the sermon we hadjust heard, the subject of which was 'selfishness.'

"What a change has come over our pulpits," Arthur remarked, "since thetime when Paley gave that utterly selfish definition of virtue,'the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and forthe sake of everlasting happiness'!"

Lady Muriel looked at him enquiringly, but she seemed to have learnedby intuition, what years of experience had taught me, that the way toelicit Arthur's deepest thoughts was neither to assent nor dissent,but simply to listen.

"At that time," he went on, "a great tidal wave of selfishness wassweeping over human thought. Right and Wrong had somehow beentransformed into Gain and Loss, and Religion had become a sort ofcommercial transaction. We may be thankful that our preachers arebeginning to take a nobler view of life."

"But is it not taught again and again in the Bible?" I ventured to ask.

"Not in the Bible as a whole," said Arthur. "In the Old Testament,no doubt, rewards and punishments are constantly appealed to as motivesfor action. That teaching is best for children, and the Israelitesseem to have been, mentally, utter children. We guide our childrenthus, at first: but we appeal, as soon as possible, to their innatesense of Right and Wrong: and, when that stage is safely past,we appeal to the highest motive of all, the desire for likeness to,and union with, the Supreme Good. I think you will find that to be theteaching of the Bible, as a whole, beginning with 'that thy days may belong in the land,' and ending with 'be ye perfect, even as your Fatherwhich is in heaven is perfect.'"

We were silent for awhile, and then Arthur went off on another tack."Look at the literature of Hymns, now. How cankered it is, through andthrough, with selfishness! There are few human compositions moreutterly degraded than some modern Hymns!"

I quoted the stanza

"Whatever, Lord, we tend to Thee,Repaid a thousandfold shall be,Then gladly will we give to Thee,Giver of all!'

"Yes," he said grimly: "that is the typical stanza. And the very lastcharity-sermon I heard was infected with it. After giving many goodreasons for charity, the preacher wound up with 'and, for all you give,you will be repaid a thousandfold!' Oh the utter meanness of such amotive, to be put before men who do know what self-sacrifice is,who can appreciate generosity and heroism! Talk of Original Sin!"he went on with increasing bitterness. "Can you have a stronger proofof the Original Goodness there must be in this nation, than the factthat Religion has been preached to us, as a commercial speculation,for a century, and that we still believe in a God?"

"It couldn't have gone on so long," Lady Muriel musingly remarked,"if the Opposition hadn't been practically silenced--put under what theFrench call la cloture. Surely in any lecture-hall, or in privatesociety, such teaching would soon have been hooted down?"

"I trust so," said Arthur: "and, though I don't want to see 'brawlingin church' legalised, I must say that our preachers enjoy an enormousprivilege--which they ill deserve, and which they misuse terribly.We put our man into a pulpit, and we virtually tell him 'Now, you maystand there and talk to us for half-an-hour. We won't interrupt you byso much as a word! You shall have it all your own way!' And what doeshe give us in return? Shallow twaddle, that, if it were addressed toyou over a dinner-table, you would think 'Does the man take me for afool?'"

The return of Eric from his walk checked the tide of Arthur's eloquence,and, after a few minutes' talk on more conventional topics, we took ourleave. Lady Muriel walked with us to the gate. "You have given me muchto think about," she said earnestly, as she gave Arthur her hand."I'm so glad you came in!" And her words brought a real glow of pleasureinto that pale worn face of his.

On the Tuesday, as Arthur did not seem equal to more walking, I took along stroll by myself, having stipulated that he was not to give thewhole day to his books, but was to meet me at the Hall at abouttea-time. On my way back, I passed the Station just as theafternoon-train came in sight, and sauntered down the stairs to see itcome in. But there was little to gratify my idle curiosity: and, whenthe train was empty, and the platform clear, I found it was about timeto be moving on, if I meant to reach the Hall by five.

As I approached the end of the platform, from which a steep irregularwooden staircase conducted to the upper world, I noticed two passengers,who had evidently arrived by the train, but who, oddly enough, hadentirely escaped my notice, though the arrivals had been so few.They were a young woman and a little girl: the former, so far as onecould judge by appearances, was a nursemaid, or possibly anursery-governess, in attendance on the child, whose refined face,even more than her dress, distinguished her as of a higher class thanher companion.

The child's face was refined, but it was also a worn and sad one, andtold a tale (or so I seemed to read it) of much illness and suffering,sweetly and patiently borne. She had a little crutch to help herselfalong with: and she was now standing, looking wistfully up the longstaircase, and apparently waiting till she could muster courage tobegin the toilsome ascent.

There are some things one says in life--as well as things onedoes--which come automatically, by reflex action, as the physiologistssay (meaning, no doubt, action without reflection, just as lucus issaid to be derived 'a non lucendo'). Closing one's eyelids, whensomething seems to be flying into the eye, is one of those actions,and saying "May I carry the little girl up the stairs?" was another.It wasn't that any thought of offering help occurred to me, and thatthen I spoke: the first intimation I had, of being likely to make thatoffer, was the sound of my own voice, and the discovery that the offerhad been made. The servant paused, doubtfully glancing from her chargeto me, and then back again to the child. "Would you like it, dear?"she asked her. But no such doubt appeared to cross the child's mind:she lifted her arms eagerly to be taken up. "Please!" was all shesaid, while a faint smile flickered on the weary little face. I tookher up with scrupulous care, and her little arm was at once claspedtrustfully round my neck.

[Image...The lame child]

She was a very light weight--so light, in fact, that the ridiculousidea crossed my mind that it was rather easier going up, with her inmy arms, than it would have been without her: and, when we reached theroad above, with its cart-ruts and loose stones--all formidable obstaclesfor a lame child--I found that I had said "I'd better carry her overthis rough place," before I had formed any mental connection betweenits roughness and my gentle little burden. "Indeed it's troubling youtoo much, Sir!" the maid exclaimed. "She can walk very well on the flat."But the arm, that was twined about my neck, clung just an atom moreclosely at the suggestion, and decided me to say "She's no weight,really. I'll carry her a little further. I'm going your way."

The nurse raised no further objection: and the next speaker was aragged little boy, with bare feet, and a broom over his shoulder, whoran across the road, and pretended to sweep the perfectly dry road infront of us. "Give us a 'ap'ny!" the little urchin pleaded, with abroad grin on his dirty face.

"Don't give him a 'ap'ny!" said the little lady in my arms. The wordssounded harsh: but the tone was gentleness itself. "He's an idlelittle boy!" And she laughed a laugh of such silvery sweetness as I hadnever yet heard from any lips but Sylvie's. To my astonishment, theboy actually joined in the laugh, as if there were some subtle sympathybetween them, as he ran away down the road and vanished through a gapin the hedge.

But he was back in a few moments, having discarded his broom andprovided himself, from some mysterious source, with an exquisitebouquet of flowers. "Buy a posy, buy a posy! Only a 'ap'ny!" hechanted, with the melancholy drawl of a professional beggar.

"Don't buy it!" was Her Majesty's edict as she looked down, with alofty scorn that seemed curiously mixed with tender interest, on theragged creature at her feet.

But this time I turned rebel, and ignored the royal commands.Such lovely flowers, and of forms so entirely new to me, were not to beabandoned at the bidding of any little maid, however imperious.I bought the bouquet: and the little boy, after popping the halfpennyinto his mouth, turned head-over-heels, as if to ascertain whether thehuman mouth is really adapted to serve as a money-box.

With wonder, that increased every moment, I turned over the flowers,and examined them one by one: there was not a single one among themthat I could remember having ever seen before. At last I turned to thenursemaid. "Do these flowers grow wild about here? I never saw--"but the speech died away on my lips. The nursemaid had vanished!

"You can put me down, now, if you like," Sylvie quietly remarked.

I obeyed in silence, and could only ask myself "Is this a dream?",on finding Sylvie and Bruno walking one on either side of me,and clinging to my hands with the ready confidence of childhood.

"You're larger than when I saw you last!" I began. "Really I think weought to be introduced again! There's so much of you that I never metbefore, you know."

"Very well!" Sylvie merrily replied. "This is Bruno. It doesn't takelong. He's only got one name!"

"There's another name to me!" Bruno protested, with a reproachful lookat the Mistress of the Ceremonies. "And it's--' Esquire'!"

"Oh, of course. I forgot," said Sylvie. "Bruno--Esquire!"

"And did you come here to meet me, my children?" I enquired.

"You know I said we'd come on Tuesday, Sylvie explained. "Are we theproper size for common children?"

"Quite the right size for children," I replied, (adding mentally"though not common children, by any means!") "But what became of thenursemaid?"

"It are gone!" Bruno solemnly replied.

"Then it wasn't solid, like Sylvie and you?"

"No. Oo couldn't touch it, oo know. If oo walked at it, oo'd go rightfroo!"

"I quite expected you'd find it out, once," said Sylvie. "Bruno ran itagainst a telegraph post, by accident. And it went in two halves.But you were looking the other way."

I felt that I had indeed missed an opportunity: to witness such anevent as a nursemaid going 'in two halves' does not occur twice in alife-time!

"When did oo guess it were Sylvie?" Bruno enquired.

[Image...'It went in two halves']

"I didn't guess it, till it was Sylvie," I said. "But how didYou manage the nursemaid? "

"Bruno managed it," said Sylvie. "It's called a Phlizz."

"And how do you make a Phlizz, Bruno?"

"The Professor teached me how," said Bruno."First oo takes a lot of air--"

"Oh, Bruno!" Sylvie interposed. "The Professor said you weren't to tell!"But who did her voice?" I asked.

"Indeed it's troubling you too much, Sir! She can walk very well onthe flat."

Bruno laughed merrily as I turned hastily from side to side, looking inall directions for the speaker. "That were me!" he gleefullyproclaimed, in his own voice.

"She can indeed walk very well on the flat," I said. "And I think Iwas the Flat."

By this time we were near the Hall. "This is where my friends live,"I said. "Will you come in and have some tea with them?"

Bruno gave a little jump of joy: and Sylvie said "Yes, please.You'd like some tea, Bruno, wouldn't you? He hasn't tasted tea,"she explained to me, "since we left Outland."

"And that weren't good tea!" said Bruno. "It were so welly weak!"