We had only one incurable sorrow in St. Cuthbert's manse. That of course had to do with Margaret and her love—for whoso would heal sorrow must find a cure for love. We could not find it in our hearts to give her up to a union so wounding to our pride as her marriage to Angus would have been. The righteous will have cried out long ago against this unseemly spirit on the part of a gospel minister. But my only care is to set down things, myself among them, as they really were.

Besides, it is easy to prescribe sacrifices for another, or even for one's self, provided always that they be made before the necessity arises. All parents are models in their treatment of each other's offspring, rivalling, in this regard, even those proverbial patterns who never took the initial step to parentage.

Our relations with Margaret were happy enough, marked by love and tenderness as of yore. We were deliberately cheerful, and at times even resolutely gay. But our house had its skeleton closet, and each of us kept a key. Apart from this, all our home was bright. Other wounds had healed. Margaret was home again, and she had been kept from the scourge's awful breath. I had accepted St. Cuthbert's second call, and I felt as though my pastorate had begun anew; for young and old gathered about me, and the chariot wheels rolled gladly.

Yet one dear and long honoured face was absent; and one seat in St. Cuthbert's, long occupied by a familiar form, was vacant now. For Michael Blake had gone.

Silently, without telling us why or where, he had departed, although the heart of all New Jedboro seemed warm to him, and although St. Cuthbert's had given him its pledge of continued confidence. But he had steadfastly refused to resume the duties of his office.

This was almost a sorer wound to us than the other; for we somehow could not but construe it as the collapse of shame. He shirks the discipline of God, we said, or thought; and some even voiced the darksome fear that he had cast off the restraints of his office, done with religion when he could no longer wear its mask. He would be a saint, said some, or nothing. The rÔle of the publican has no charm for him, said others, because he never really knew its luxuries. And some were secretly angry that he had escaped, as they chose to term it, for they loved to see the scarlet letter on another's breast.

It was one of the first genial days of early spring, and an ocean steamer was swiftly making for the Mersey. The green fields of the initial isle had been declared the greenest of God's green earth, and they received the panegyric with national complacency, knowing not that they had three thousand miles of grassless ocean to thank for it every bit. The fragrance of the land was sweet to the weary voyagers, and the most taciturn was disposed to unwonted mirth. The Captain, question-driven, had taken wing and soared aloft, looking down in safety from the bridge.

But neither mirth nor gladness was upon the face of one traveller, though no face was turned more intently towards the shore. Sadness of heart and seriousness of purpose were there instead, not unmixed with light; for memory and hope, these old-world combatants, had joined battle in his soul.

His gaze was fixed on the still distant land, and varying emotions played upon his face. This very shore enclosed all whose memory filled his life with shame and sorrow—within it, therefore, by God's unchanging law, must be found their relief and cure. For the serpent's bite, the healing is the serpent still, but lifted high.

This man, so silent and self-contained, had been the centre of much curious wonder among his fellow passengers. Much apart he had been, unmingled with the ship's social life, despite all allurement. The children called him blessed, for he had entered with their own relish into all their games, and when these palled, he had brought forth things new and old out of the treasure of his mind. The aged and ailing were his almost worshippers, for he had made their wants his daily care.

"I am sorry to part, Mr. Blake, although we have seen so little of you on the voyage. One has to be quite young, or quite sick, or quite old, to see much of you aboard ship."

"You have neither of the last two qualifications," answered the man addressed, with a pleasant smile.

The voice which had broken in upon his reverie was that of a lady past middle life, richly and fashionably dressed; for you never know the real plumage of fair travellers till they are about to leave you. She was beautifully enamelled, powdered, massaged, and otherwise put in the best possible repair. Sparkling diamonds adorned her hands. A gold cross hung upon her bosom.

"Nor the first one either, I fear," she rejoined; "however, I am trying to keep as young as I can. I do wish we were at Liverpool. There is to be a bridge party at one of my friends this afternoon and a military ball to-night, and I had counted on getting in for both. I accepted from New York! I am not thinking so much about the ball, but I shall die if I miss the bridge."

"Indeed," replied her companion, glancing at the cross.

"Yes, it will be too cruel. I have picked up some awfully good points on bridge—got them in New York. I got them from my friend's clergyman, the Rev. Dyson Bartlett, rector of the Holy Archangels. He is a lovely man. You'd never think to hear him preach that there was so much in him. Do you know of him?"

"No," answered Mr. Blake, "I don't think I ever heard of him before."

"Probably not; he lives a very quiet life—very restful sort of nature, he has; he never gets up till eleven; but of course he is always up very late at night. Can't burn the candle at both ends, can you? Clergymen are only human, and must get their rest. But on Sunday mornings he gets up at half-past six for early mass, and of course he plays on Saturday nights too, so sometimes he must get very little sleep. Clergymen don't have such an easy life after all. Are you an Episcopalian, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I don't belong to that church."

"Isn't that too bad? But I don't know why I should say that. I think lots of people go to heaven who belong to other churches. But then, of course, I am very broad in my views. I can't bear narrow people—I just can't stand narrow people; and besides, I met a lovely man once in Tarrytown, and he was a Presbyterian. I hope I will meet him in heaven."

"I hope you will," said Mr. Blake.

"Yes," she resumed, "that is what I liked about Mr. Bartlett—he was so broad in his views. I remember I asked him once if he thought dissenters would go to heaven, and I shall never forget how beautifully he spoke. We were having a little game at the time—only a dollar stake—and it was his turn to play. But when I asked him that about the dissenters, he laid down his cards on the table, and his hands unconsciously took hold of the cross he always carried on his coat, and he said: 'God is very merciful, Mrs. Drake'—then he dropped the cross, and took up the cards again, and gave a little sigh before he played, and there was a beautiful smile on his face—a kind of sad, sweet smile."

"Did you attend his church when in New York?" said her listener, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes, sometimes, but you wouldn't think he had such deep thoughts, just from hearing him preach. He was very deep. One night we were all discussing whether it was a sin to play for stakes. It was after the game was over, and Mr. Bartlett had won the whole thing. He put the money away quietly in his pocket—he gives it to the poor people in the Holy Archangels, he said, for some of the Holy Archangels are quite poor—he put it quietly in his pocket, and he took hold of his cross, and he was silent for a little while. Then he said: 'Stakes are everywhere in life—faith itself stakes the soul,' and that sad, sweet, smile came back again. Wasn't that deep?"

"Yes, very deep," answered Mr. Blake, thinking of the pocket.

"Another time, I remember, he said it had often occurred to him that it was the great Creator who had caused bridge to be discovered; he said God gave us bridge so that good Christians could give up playing poker. Wasn't that deep?"

Mr. Blake ventured some reply such as courtesy and conscience could agree upon. "I really never gave the matter much thought," he concluded.

"Oh, dear! There we are at half speed again! I know I'll be too late. Yes, even some of his sermons were very deep. He had a beautiful poetic mind; and he gave everything such a lovely turn. I shall never forget his last sermon. It was beautiful; he was preaching on the text: 'Wash me whiter than snow'—the church was so hot, but you could just see the snow. And his divisions were beautiful. I can tell them yet. His first point was that we should all be pure and white like the snow. Then the second one, he said, grew out of the first, that if we were pure and clean like the snow, we would not be impure or unclean. And the last point was a very solemn one. He said that if we were not pure and white like the snow, by and by we would go down where there was no more snow. That was a beautiful thought, wasn't it? I thought it was such a lovely ending."

"I never heard a sermon just like that," remarked Mr. Blake, his mind reverting to St. Cuthbert's.

"Neither did I," went on the worshipper, "and I told him so the next night when we met at Mrs. Bronson's for a little farewell game. He took hold of his cross again and he said: 'We must deal faithfully, Mrs. Drake'—and he was just starting to deal as he spoke. But he never smiled, except that sad, sweet smile that he always wore—except when he lost. And he told us that after that service he found the curate weeping in the vestry. But the curate fairly worships Mr. Bartlett. It was Mr. Bartlett who first taught him bridge, I think. Do you play bridge, Mr. Blake?"

"No, I never learned the game."

"Oh, I forgot; you're a Presbyterian, you said. It's pretty much a church game, I fancy. Excuse my rudeness, but why don't you wear a cross, Mr. Blake?"

"What?" said Mr. Blake abruptly, "why don't I what?"

"Isn't that dreadful? The engines are scarcely moving; I know we won't get in till five, and the bridge begins at three. There is nothing but disappointments in this world. Oh, yes, why don't you wear a cross? Not so much for the ornament, of course. I got this one at Tiffany's and it cost me ten pounds. But, as Mr. Bartlett said, the cross stands for sacrifice, so I don't begrudge it. I think, in this world of sin and sorrow every one should wear a cross. We're going a little faster now, don't you think?"

"Yes, madam, I think we are—and I do wear a cross—if you have not forgotten your question."

"Oh, you do. I am so glad. Where? I suppose you've changed your clothes. But I never noticed it before."

"No, I don't think you have seen it."

"Oh, I see, lots of men carry them under their vests. But I think we should let the world see it. Do you carry yours next your heart?"

"No, madam, deeper still," said Mr. Blake.