"Thou hast found ….
Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams,
And homestall thatched with leaves."

The walls of the house were, to an Englishwoman, a curiosity. They were made of reeds; three layers or thicknesses of them being placed different ways, and bound and laced together with sinnet; the strong braid made of the fibre of the cocoanut-husk. It was this braid, woven in and out, which produced the pretty mosaic effect Eleanor had observed upon the outside. Mr. Rhys took her to a doorway, where she could examine from within and from without this novel construction; and explained minutely how it was managed.

"This looks like a foreign land," said Eleanor. "You had described it, and I thought I had imagined it; but sight and feeling are quite a different matter."

"I did not describe it to you?"

"No—O no; you described it to aunt Caxton."

He drew her back a step or two and laid her hand upon the post of the door.

"What is this?" said Eleanor.

"That is a piece of the stem of the palm-fern."

"And these are its natural mouldings and markings! It is like elegant carved work! It is natural, is it not?" she said suddenly.

"Certainly. The natives do execute very marvellous carving in wood, with tools that would drive a workman at home to despair; but I have not learned the art. Come here—the pillars that hold up the roof of your house are of the same wood."

A double row of pillars through the whole length of the house gave it stability; they were stems of the same palm fern, and as they had been chosen and placed with a careful eye to size and position, the effect of them was not at all inelegant. The building itself was of generous length and width; and with a room cut off at each end, as the fashion was, the centre apartment was left of really noble proportions; broad, roomy, and lofty; with its palm columns springing up to its high roof of thatch. Standing beside one of them, Eleanor looked up and declared it a beautiful room.

"Do not look at the doors and windows," said Mr. Rhys. "I did not make those—they were sent out framed. I had only the pleasure of putting them in."

"And how did that agree with all your other work?"

"Well," he said decidedly. "That was my recreation."

"There is the prettiest mixture of wild and tame in this house," said Eleanor, speaking a little timidly; for she was conscious all the while how little Mr. Rhys was thinking of anything but herself. "Are these mats made here?"

"Pure Fijian!"

The one at which Eleanor was looking, her eyes having fallen to the floor, was both large and elegant. It was very substantially and neatly made, and had a border fancifully wrought all round it, a few inches in width. The pattern of the border was made with bits of worsted and little white feathers. This mat covered all the centre of the room; under it the whole floor was spread with other and coarser ones; and others of a still different manufacture lined the walls of the room.

"One need not want a prettier carpet," said Eleanor, keeping her eyes on the mat. Mr. Rhys put his arm round her and drew her off to one side of the room, where he made her pause before a large square space which was sunk a foot deep in the earth and bordered massively with a frame of logs of hard wood.

"What do you think of that?"

"Mr. Rhys, what is it?"

"You would not take it for a fireplace?" he said with a comical look.

"But is it a fireplace?"

"That is what it is intended for. The Fijians make their fireplaces in this manner."

"And you are a Fijian, I suppose."

"So are you."

"But Mr. Rhys, can a fireplace of this sort be useful in an English house?"

"No. But in a Fijian house it may—as I have proved. The natives would have a wooden frame here, at one side, to hold cooking vessels. You do not need that, for you have a kitchen."

"With a fireplace like this?"

"Yes," he said, with a smile that had some raillery in it, which
Eleanor would not provoke.

"Suppose you come and look at something that is not Fijian," he went on. "You must vary your attention."

He drew her before a little unostentatious piece of furniture, that looked certainly as if it was made out of a good bit of English oak. What it was, did not appear; it was very plain and rather massively made. Now Mr. Rhys produced keys, and opened first doors; then a drawer, which displayed all the characteristic contents and arrangements of a lady's work-box on an extended scale. Love's work; Eleanor could see her adopted mother in every carefully disposed supply of needles and silks and braids and glittering Sheffield ware, and the thousand and one appliances and provisions for one who was to be at a very large distance from Sheffield and every home source of needle furniture. Love recognized love's work, as Eleanor looked into the drawer.

"Now you are ready to say this is a small thread and needle shop," said
Mr. Rhys; "but you will be mistaken if you do. Look further."

And that she might, he unlocked a pair of smaller inner doors; the little piece of furniture developed itself immediately into a capital secretary. As thoroughgoing as the work-box, but still more comprehensive, here were more than mere materials and conveniences for writing; it was a depository for several small but very precious treasures of a scientific and other kinds; and even a few books lay nestling among them, and there was room for more.

"What is this!" Eleanor exclaimed when she had got her breath.

"This is—Mrs. Caxton! I do not know whether she expected you to turn sempstress immediately for the colony—or whether she intended you for another vocation, as I do."

"She sent this from England!"

"It was made by nobody worse than a London cabinet-maker. I did not know whether you would choose to have it stand in this place, or in the only room that can properly be called your own. Come in here;—the other part of the house is, you will find, pretty much public."

"Even your study?"

"That is no exception, sometimes. I am a public man, myself."

The partition wall of this room was nicely lined with mats; the door was like a piece of the wall, swinging to noiselessly, but Mr. Rhys shewed Eleanor how she could fasten it securely on the inside. Eleanor had been taken into this room on her first arrival; but had then been unable to see anything. Now her eyes were in requisition. Here there was even more attention paid to comfort and appearances than in the dining-room. In the simplest possible manner; but somebody had been at work there who knew that elegance is attainable without the help of opulence; and that eye and hand can do what money cannot. Eye and hand had been busy everywhere. Very pretty and soft native mats were on the floor; the windows were shaded with East Indian jalousies; and not only personal convenience but tastes were regarded in the various articles of furniture and the arrangement of them. Good sense was regarded too. Camp chairs and tables were useful for packing and moving, as well as neat to the eye; white draperies relieved their simplicity; shelves were hung against the wall in one place for books, and filled; and in the floor stood an easy chair of excellent workmanship, into which Mr. Rhys immediately put Eleanor. But she started up to look at it.

"Did aunt Caxton send all these things?" she said with a tear in her eye.

"She has sent almost too many. These are but the beginning, Look here,
Eleanor."

He opened a door at one end of the room, hidden under mat hangings like the other, which disclosed a large space lined with shelves; several articles reposing on them, and on the floor below sundry chests and boxes.

"This is your storeroom. Here you may revel in the riches you do not immediately wish to display. This is yours; I have a storeroom on my own part."

"And what is in those chests and boxes, Mr. Rhys?"

"I don't know! except that it is aunt Caxton again. You will find tablecloths and napkins—I can certify that—for I stumbled upon them; but I thought they had best not see the light till their owner came. So I locked them up—and here are the keys."

"And who put up all these nice shelves?"

"Your head carpenter."

"And have you been doing all this for me?" said Eleanor.

He laughed and took her in his arms again, looking at her with that mixture of expressions.

"I wish I could give you some of my content!" he said.

"I do not want it!" said Eleanor laughing.

"Is that declaration entirely generous?"

Eleanor had no mind, like a wise woman, to answer this question; but she was held under the inspection of an eye that she knew of old clear and keen beyond all others to untie the knot of anybody's meaning. She flushed up very much and tried to turn it off, for she saw he had a mind to have the answer.

"You do not want me to give account of every idle word after that fashion?" she said lightly.

"Hush—hush," he said, with a gravity that had much sweetness in it. "I cannot have you speak in that way."

"I will not—" said Eleanor, suddenly much more sober than he was.

"There are too many that have the habit of using their Master's words to point their own sentences. Do not let us use it. Come to my study—you did not see it before dinner, I think."

Eleanor was glad he could smile again, for at that minute she could not. She felt whirled back to Plassy, and to Wiglands, to the time of their old and very different relations. She could not realize the new, nor quietly understand her own happiness; and a very fresh vivid sense of his character made her feel almost as much awe of him as affection. That was according to old habit too. But if she felt shy and strange, she was the only one; for Mr. Rhys was in a very gay mood. As they went through the dining-room he stopped to shew and display to her numerous odd little contrivances and arrangements; here a cupboard of rustic, and very pretty too, native work; or at least native materials. There a more sophisticated beaufet, which had come from Sydney by Mrs. Caxton's order. "Dear Mrs. Caxton!" said Mr. Rhys,—"she has forgotten nothing. I am only in astonishment what she can have found to fill your new invoice of boxes."

"Why there are not many," said Eleanor.

He looked at her and laughed. "You will be doing nothing but unpacking for days to come," he said. "I have done what I never thought I should do—married a rich wife."

"Why aunt Caxton sends the things quite as much to you as to me."

"Does she?"

"I am sure, if anybody is poor, I am."

"If that speech means me," said Mr. Rhys with a little bit of provokingness in the corners of his mouth,—"I don't take it. I do not feel poor; and never did. Not to-day certainly, with whole shiploads coming in."

"I do not know of a single unnecessary thing but your microscope."

"Have you brought that?" he said with a change of tone. "It would be just like Mrs. Caxton to come out and make us a visit some day! I cannot think of anything else she could give us, that she has not given. Look at my book-cases."

Eleanor did, thinking of their owner. They were of plainest construction, but so made that they would take to pieces in five minutes and become packing cases with the books packed, all ready for travel; or at pleasure, as now, stand up in their place in the study in the form of very neat bookcases. They were not large; a Fijian missionary's library had need be not too extensive; but Eleanor looked over their contents with hurried delight.

The rest of the room also spoke of Mrs. Caxton; in light neat tables and chairs and other things. Here too, though not a hand's turn had apparently been wasted, everything, simple as it was, had a sort of pleasantness of order and fitness which left the eye gratified. Eleanor read that and the meaning of it. Here were contrivances again that Mr. Rhys had done; shelves, and brackets, and pins to hang things; nothing out of use, but all so contrived as to give a certain elegant effect to this plain work-room. Even the book and paper disorder was not that of a careless man. Still it was not like the room at the other end of the house. The mats that floored and lined it were coarser; there were no jalousies at the windows; and no easy chair anywhere. One thing it had like the other; a storeroom cut off from it. This was a large one, like Eleanor's, and filled. His money-drawer, Mr. Rhys called it. All sorts of articles valued by the natives were there; Mrs. Caxton had taken care to send a large supply. These were to serve the purposes of barter. Mr. Rhys displayed to Eleanor the stores of iron tools, cotton prints, blankets, and articles of clothing, that were stowed away there; stowed away with an absolute order and method which again she looked at as significant of one side at least of Mr. Rhys's character. He amused himself with displaying everything; shewed her the whole of the new and strangely appointed establishment over which she had come to preside, so far at least as the house contained it; and when he had brought her to something like an apparent share in his own gay mood, at last placed her in a camp chair in the dining-room, which he had set in the middle of the floor, and opened the door of the house. It gave Eleanor a lovely view. The plantations had been left open, so that the eye had a fair range down to the river and to the opposite shore, where another village stood. It was seen under bright sunshine now. Mr. Rhys let her look a moment, then shut the door, and came and sat down before her, taking both her hands in his own; and Eleanor knew from a glance at his face that the same thoughts were working within him that had wrought that moved look before dinner—when she first came. She felt her colour mounting; it tried her to be silent under his eye in that way.

"Mr. Rhys, do you remember preaching to me one day at Plassy—when we were out walking?"

"Yes," he said with a half laugh.

"I wish you would do it again."

"I will preach you a sermon every morning if you like."

"No, but now. I wish you would, so as to make me realize that you are the same person."

"I am not the same person at all!" he said.

"Why are you not?" said Eleanor opening her eyes at him.

"In those days I was your pastor and friend simply. The difference is, that I have acquired the right to love you—take care of you—and scold you."

"It seems to me that last was a privilege you exercised occasionally in those times," said Eleanor archly.

"Not at all! In those days I was a poor fellow that did not dare say a word to you."

Eleanor's recollections were of sundry exceptions to this rule, so marked and prominent in her memory that she could not help laughing.

"O Mr. Rhys, don't you remember—"

"What?" said he with the utmost gravity.

But Eleanor had stopped, and coloured now brilliantly.

"It seems that your recollections are of a questionable character," he said. Eleanor did not deny it.

"What is it you wish me not to remember?"

"It was a time when you said I was very wrong," said Eleanor meekly, "so do not call it back."

He bent forward to kiss her, which did not steady Eleanor's thoughts at all.

"Do you want preaching?" he said.

"Yes indeed! It will do me good."

"I will give you some words to think of, that I lived in all yesterday. 'Beloved of God.' They are wonderful words, that Paul says belong to all the saints; and they were about me yesterday like a halo of glory, from morning to night."

Now Eleanor was all right; now she recognized Mr. Rhys and herself, and listened to every word with her old delight in them. Now she could use her eyes and look at him, though she well saw that he was considering her with that full, moved tenderness that she had felt in him all day; even when he was talking and thinking of other things he did not cease to remember her.

"Eleanor, what do you know about the meaning of those words?"

"Little!" she said. "And yet, a little."

"You know that we were Gentiles, carried away unto these dumb idols—or after others in our own hearts—as helplessly as the poor heathen around us. But we have got the benefit of that word,—'I will call them my people, which were not my people; and her beloved, which was not beloved.'"

"Yes!"

"Then look at our privileges—'The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by him; and the Lord shall cover him all the day long, and he shall dwell between is shoulders.'—Heavenly security; unearthly joy; a hiding-place where the troubles of earth cannot reach us."

Mr. Rhys left his position before Eleanor at this, and with a brow all alight with its thoughts began to pace up and down in front of her; just as he had done at Plassy, she remembered. She ventured not a word. Her heart was very full.

"Then look how we are bidden to increase our rejoicing and to delight ourselves in the store laid up for us; we are not only safe and happy, but fed with dainties. All things are ready; Christ says he will sup with us; and we are bidden—'Eat, O friends; drink, yea, drink abundantly, O beloved.' 'He that cometh to me shall never hunger, and he that believeth on me shall never thirst.'

"And then, Eleanor, if we are the elect of God, holy and beloved, what bowels of mercies should be in us; how precious all other beloved of him should be to us; how we should be constrained by his love. Are you? I am. I am willing to spend and be spent for these people among whom we are. I am sure there are many, many children of God among them, come and coming. I seek no better than to labour for them. It is the delight of my soul! Eleanor, how is it with you?"

He had stood still before her during these last words, and now sat down again, taking her hands and looking with his undeceivable gaze into her face.

"I desire the same thing. I dare not say, I desire it as strongly as you do,—but it is my very wish."

"Is it for the love of Christ—or for love of these poor creatures? or for any other reason?"

"I can hardly separate the first two," said Eleanor, looking a little wistfully. "The love of Christ is at the bottom of it all."

"There is no other motive," he said; "no other that will do the work; nothing else that will work true love to them. But when I think of my Master—I am willing to do or be anything, I think, in his service!"

He quitted her hands and began slowly walking up and down again.

"Mr. Rhys," said Eleanor, "what can I do?"

"Are you ready to encounter disagreeablenesses, and hardships, and privations, in the work?"

"Yes; and discouragements."

"There are no such things. There ought to be no such things. I never feel nor have felt discouraged. That is want of faith. Do you remember, Eleanor, 'The clouds are the dust of his feet?' Think—our eyes are blinded by the dust, we look at nothing else, and we do not see the glory of the steps that are taken."

"That is true. O Mr. Rhys, that is glorious!"

"Then you are not afraid? I forewarn you, little annoyances are sometimes harder to bear than great ones. It is one of the most trying things that I have to meet," said Mr. Rhys standing still with a funny face,—"to have Ra Mbombo's beard sweep my plate when I am at dinner."

"What does he do that for?"

"He is so fond of me."

"That is being too fond, certainly."

"It is an excess of affectionate attention,—he gets so close to me that we have a community of things. And you will have, Eleanor, some days, a perpetual levee of visitors. But what is all that, for Christ?"

"I am not afraid," said Eleanor with a most unruffled smile.

"I wrote to frighten you."

"But I was not frightened. Are things no better in the islands than when you wrote?"

"Changing—changing every day; from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God. Literally. There are heathen temples here, in which a few years ago if a woman or a child had dared cross the threshold they would have been done to death immediately. Now those very temples are used as our schools. On our way to the chapel we shall pass almost over a place where there used to be one of the ovens for cooking human bodies; now the grass and wild tomatoes are growing over it. I can take you to house after house, where men and women used to be eaten, where now if you stand to listen you may hear hymns of praise to Jesus and prayer going up in his name. Praise the Lord! It is grand to be permitted to live in Fiji now!"—

Eleanor was hushed and silent a few minutes, while Mr. Rhys walked slowly up and down. Then she spoke with her eyes full of sympathetic tears.

"Mr. Rhys, what can I do?"

"What you have to do at present," he said with a change of tone, "is to take care of me and learn the language,—both languages, I should say! And in the mean while you had better take care of your pins,"—he stooped as he spoke, to pick up one at her feet and presented it with comical gravity. "You must remember you are not in England. Here you could not spend pin-money even if you had it."

"If I were inclined to be extravagant," said Eleanor laughing at him, "your admonition would be thrown away; I have brought such quantities with me."

"Of pins?"

"Yes."

"I hope you will not ever use them!"

"Why not?"

"I do not see what a properly made dress has to do with pins."

But at this confession of masculine ignorance Eleanor first looked and then laughed and covered her face, till he came and sat down again and by forcible possession took her hands away.

"You have no particular present occasion to laugh at me," he said.
"Eleanor, what made you first willing to quit England and go anywhere?"

The answer to this was first an innocent look, and then an extreme scarlet flush. She could not hide it, with her hands prisoners; she sat in a pretty state of abashment. A slight giving way of the mouth bore witness that he read and understood it, though his immediate words were reassuringly grave and unchanged in tone.

"I remember, you did not comprehend such a thing as possible, at one time. When was that changed? You used to have a great fear."

"I lost part of that at Plassy."

"Where did you lose the rest of it, Eleanor?"

"It was in London."

He saw by the light in Eleanor's eyes, which looked at him now, that there was something behind. Yet she hesitated.

"Sealed lips?" said he bending forward again to her face. "You must unseal them, Eleanor."

"Do you want me to tell you all that?" she asked questioningly.

"I want you to tell me everything."

"It is only a long story."

"Do not make it short."

An easy matter! to go on and tell it with her two hands prisoners, and those particularly clear eyes looking into her face. It served to shew the grace that belonged to Eleanor, the way that in these circumstances she began what she had to say. Where another woman would have been awkward, she spoke with the simple sweet poise of manner that had been the admiration of many a company, and that made Mr. Rhys now press the little hands closer in his own. A little evident shy reluctance only added to the grace.

"It is a good while ago—I felt, Mr. Rhys, that I wanted,—just that which makes one willing to go anywhere and do anything; though not for that reason. I expected to live in England always. I wanted to know more of Christ. I wanted it, not for work's sake but for happiness' sake. I was a Christian, I suppose; but I knew—I had seen and felt—that there were things,—there was a height of Christian life and attainment, that I had not reached; but where I had seen other people, with a light upon their brows that I knew never shined upon mine. I knew whence it came—I knew what I wanted—more knowledge of Christ, more love of him."

"When was this?"

"It is a good while ago. It is—it was,—time seems so confused to me!—I know it was the winter after you went away. I think it was near the spring. We were in London."

"Yes."

"I was cold at the heart of religion. I was not happy. I knew what I wanted—more love to Christ."

"You did love him."

"Yes; but you know what it is just to love him a little. I went as duty bade me; but the love of him did not make all duty happy. I had seen you live differently—I saw others—and I could not be content as I was.

"We were in town then. One night I sat up all night, and gave the whole night to it."

"To seeking Jesus?"

"I wanted to get out of my coldness and find him!"

"And you found him?"

"Not soon. I spent the night in it. I prayed—and I walked the floor and prayed—and I shed a great many tears over the Bible. I felt as if I must have what I wanted—but I could not seem to get any nearer to it. The whole night passed away—and I had wearied myself—and I had got nothing.

"The dawn was just breaking, when I got up from my knees the last time. I was almost giving up in despair. I had done all I could—what could I do more? I went to the window and opened it. The light was just creeping up in the sky—there was a little streak of brightness along the horizon, or of light rather, but it was the herald of brightness. I felt desolate and tired, and like giving up hope and quest together. The dull grey canopy overhead seemed just like my heart. I cannot tell you how enviously I looked at the eastern dawn, wishing the light would break upon my own horizon. I shall never forget it. It was dusky yet down in the streets and over the housetops; the city had not waked up in our quarter; it was still yet, and the breath of the morning's freshness came to me and revived me and mocked me both at once. I could have cried for sadness, if I had not been too down-hearted and weary.

"While I stood there, hearing the morning's promise, I suppose, without knowing it—there came up from the streets somewhere below me, and near, the song of a chimney-sweep. I can never tell you how it came! It came—but not yet; at first I only knew what he was singing by the notes of the air; but the next verse he began came up clear and strong to me at the window. He was singing those words—

"'Twas a heaven below
My Redeemer to know;
And the angels could do nothing more,
Than to fall at his feet,
And the story repeat,
And the Lover of sinners adore.'

"I thought, it seemed that a band of angels came and carried those words up past my window! And the dawn came in my heart. I cannot tell you how,—I seemed to see everything at once. I saw what a heaven below it is, to know the love of Christ. I think my heart was something like the Ganges when the tide is coming in. I thought, if the angels could do nothing more than praise him, neither could I! I fell at his feet then—I do not think I have ever really left them since—not for long at a time; and since then my great wish has been to be allowed to glorify him. I have had no fears of anything in the way."

Eleanor had not been able to get through her "long story" without tears; but they came very much against her will. She could not see, yet somehow she felt the strong sympathetic emotion with which she was listened to. She could hear it, in the subdued intonation of Mr. Rhys's words.

"'Keep yourselves in the love of God.' How shall we do it, Eleanor?"

She answered without raising her eyes—"'The Lord is good unto them that wait for him.'"

"And, 'if ye keep my commandments, ye shall abide in my love.'"

There was silence a moment.

"That commandment must take me away for a while, Eleanor." She looked up.

"I thought," he said, with his sweet arch smile, "I might take so much of a honeymoon as one broken day—but there is a poor sick man a mile off who wants me; and brother Balliol has had the schooner affairs to attend to. I shall be gone an hour. Will you stay here? or shall I take you to the other house?"

"May I stay here?"

"Certainly. You can fasten the door, and then if any visiters come they will think I am not at home. I will give Solomon directions."

"Who is Solomon?"

"Solomon is—I will introduce him to you!" and with a very bright face Mr. Rhys went off into his study, coming back again in a moment and with his hat. He went to a door opposite that by which Eleanor had entered the house, and blew a shrill whistle.

"Solomon is my fast friend and very faithful servant," he said returning to Eleanor. "You saw him at dinner—but it is time he should know you."

In came Solomon; a very black specimen of the islanders, in a dress something like that which Eleanor had noticed on the man in the canoe. Solomon's features were undeniably good, if somewhat heavy; they had sense and manliness; and his eye was mildly quiet and genial in its expression. It brightened, Eleanor saw, as he listened to Mr. Rhys's words; to which she also listened without being able to understand them, and wondering at the warm feeling of her cheeks. Solomon's gratulations were mainly given with his face, for all the English words he could get out were, "glad—see—Misi Risi"—Mr. Rhys laughed and dismissed him, and went off himself.

Eleanor was half glad to be left alone for a time. She fastened the door, not for fear, but that her solitude might not be intruded upon; then walked up and down over the soft mats of the centre room and tried to bring her spirits to some quiet of realization. But she could not. The change had been so sudden, from her wandering state of uncertainty and expectation to absolute content and rest, of body and mind at once, that her mental like her actual footing seemed to sway and heave yet with the upheavings that were past. She could not settle down to anything like a composed state of mind. She could not get accustomed yet to Mr. Rhys in his new character. As the children say, it was "too good to be true."

A little unready to be still, she went off again into the room specially prepared for her, where the green jalousies shaded the windows. One window here was at the end; a direction in which Eleanor had not looked. She softly raised the jalousies a little, expecting to see just the waving bananas and other plants of the tropical garden that surrounded the house; or perhaps servants' offices, about which she had a good deal of curiosity.

Instead of that, the window revealed a landscape of such beauty that Eleanor involuntarily pulled up the blind and sat entranced before it. No such thing as servants or servants' offices. A wide receding stretch of broken country, rising in the distance to the dignity of blue precipitous hills; a gorge of which opened far away, to delight and draw the eye into its misty depth; a middle distance of lordly forest, with patches of clearing; bits of tropical vegetation at hand, and over them and over it all a tropical sky. In one direction the view was very open. Eleanor could discern a bit of a pathway winding through it, and once or twice a dark figure moving along its course. This was Vuliva! this was her foreign home! the region where darkness and light were struggling foot by foot for the mastery; where heathen temples were falling and heathen misery giving place to the joy of the gospel, but where the gospel had to fight them yet. Eleanor looked till her heart was too full to look any longer; and then turned aside to get the only possible relief in prayer.

The hour was near gone when she went to her window again. The day was cooling towards the evening. Well she guessed that this window had been specially arranged for her. In everything that had been done in the house she had seen that same watchful care for her pleasure and comfort. There never was a house that seemed to be so love's work; Mr. Rhys's own hand had most manifestly been everywhere; and the furniture that Mrs. Caxton had sent he had placed. But Mrs. Caxton had not sent all. Eleanor's eye rested on a dressing-table that certainly never came from England. It was pretty enough; it was very pretty, even to her notions; yet it had cost nothing, and was as nearly as possible made of nothing. Yes, for she looked; the frame was only some native reeds or canes and a bit of board; the rest was white muslin drapery, which would pack away in a very few square inches of room, but now hung in pretty folds around the glass and covered the frame. Eleanor just looked and wondered; no more; for the hour was up, and she went to her window and raised the jalousies again. She was more quiet now, she thought; but her heart throbbed with the thought of Mr. Rhys and his return.

She looked over the beautiful wild country, watching for him. The light was fair on the blue hills; the sea-breeze fluttered the leaves of the cocoanut trees and waved the long thick leaves of the banana. She heard no other sound near or far, till the quick swift tread she was listening for came to her ear. Nobody was to be seen; but the step was not to be mistaken. Eleanor got to the front door and had it open just in time to see him come.

They stood then together in the doorway, for the view was fair on the river side too. The opposite shore was beautiful, and the houses of the heathen village had a great interest for Eleanor, aside from their effect as part of the landscape; but her shyness was upon her again, and she had a thorough consciousness that Mr. Rhys did not see how the light fell on either shore. At last he put his arm round her and drew her up to his side, saying,

"And so you did not get my letters in Sydney.—Poor little dove!"

It struck Eleanor with a curious pleasure, these words. They would have been true, she knew, in the lips of no other mortal, as also certainly to no other mortal would it have occurred to use them. She was not the sort of person by any means to whom such an appellation would generally be given. To be sure her temper was of the finest, but then also it had a body to it. Yet here she knew it was true; and he knew; it was spoken not by any arrogance, but by a purely frank and natural understanding of their mutual natures and relations. She answered by a smile, exceeding sweet and sparkling, as well as conscious, to the face that was looking down at her with a little bit of provoking archness upon its gravity; and their lips met in a long sealing kiss. Husband and wife understood each other.

Perhaps Mr. Rhys knew it, for it seemed as if his lips could hardly leave hers; and Eleanor's face was all manner of lights.

"What has become of Alfred?" he asked, in an irrelevant kind of manner, by way of parenthesis.

"I have not seen him—hardly—since you left England. He is not under mamma's care now."

"And my friend Julia? You have told me but a mite yet about everybody."

"Julia is your friend still. But Julia—I have not seen her in a long, long time."

"How is that?"

"Mamma would not let me. O Mr. Rhys!—we have been kept apart. I could not even see her when I came away."

"Why?"

"Mamma—she was afraid of my influence over her."

"Is it possible!"

"Julia was going on well—setting her face to do right. Now—I do not know how it will be. Even our letters are overlooked."

"I need not ask how your mother is. I suppose she is trying to save one of her daughters for the world."

Eleanor's thoughts swept a wide course in a few minutes; remembered whose hand instrumentality had saved her from such a fate and had striven for Julia. With a sigh that was part sorrow and part gratitude, Eleanor laid her head softly on Mr. Rhys's shoulder. With such tenderness as one gives to a child, and yet rarer, because deeper and graver, she was made at home there.

"Don't you want to take a walk to the chapel?"

"O yes!"—But she was held fast still.

"And shall we give sister Balliol the pleasure of our company to tea, as we come back?"

"If you please—if you like."

"I do not like it at all," said Mr. Rhys frankly—"but I suppose we must."

"Think of finding the restraints of society even in Fiji!" said Eleanor trying to laugh, as she brought her bonnet and they set out.

"You must find them everywhere—unless you live to please yourself;" said Mr. Rhys, with his sweet grave look; and Eleanor was consoled.

The walk to the church was not very long, and she could have desired it longer. The river shore, and the view on the other side, and the village by which they passed, the trees and the vegetable gardens and the odd thatched roofs—everything was pretty and new to Eleanor's eyes. They passed all they had seen in coming from the landing that morning, taking this time a path outside the mission premises. Past the house with the row of pillars in front, which Eleanor learned was a building for the use of the various schools. A little further on stood the chapel. It was neat and tasteful enough to please even an English eye; and indeed looked more English than foreign on a distant view; and standing there in the wilderness, with its little bell-tower rising like a witness for all that was good in the midst of a heathen land, the feelings of those who looked upon it had need be very tender and very deep.

"This chapel is dear to our eyes," said Mr. Rhys. "Everything is, that costs such pains. This poor people have made it; and it is one of the best pieces of work in Fiji. It was all done by the labour of their hearts and hands."

"That seems to be the style of carpentry in this country," said Eleanor.

"The chief made up his mind on a good principle—that for a house of the true God, neither time nor material could be too precious. On that principle they went to work. The timber used in the building is what we call green-heart—the best there is in Fiji. To find it, they had to travel over many a mile of the country; and remember, there are no oxen here, no horses; they had no teams to help them. All must be done by the labour of the hands. I think there were about eighty beams of green-heart timber needed for the house—some of them twelve and some of them fifty feet long. In about three months these were collected; found and brought in from the woods and hills, sometimes from ten miles away. While the young men were doing this, the old men at home were all day beating cocoanut husk, to separate the fibre for making sinnet. All day long I used to hear their beaters going; it was good music; and when at the end of every few days the woodcutters came home with their timber—so soon as they were heard shouting the news of their coming—there was a general burst and cry and every creature in the village set off to meet them and help drag the logs home. Women and children and all went; and you never saw people so happy.

"Then the building was done in the same spirit. Many a time when I was busy with them, overlooking their work, I have heard them chanting to each other words from the Bible—band against band. One side would sing—'But will God indeed dwell on the earth? Behold, the heaven of heavens cannot contain thee; how much less this house that I have builded.'—Then the other side would answer, 'The Lord hath chosen Zion; he hath desired it for his habitation.' I cannot tell you how sweet it was. There was another chant they were very fond of. A few would begin with Solomon's petition—'Have thou respect unto the prayer of thy servant, and to his supplication, O Lord my God, to hearken unto the cry and to the prayer, which thy servant prayeth before thee to-day: that thine eyes may be open toward this house night and day, even toward the place of which thou hast said, My name shall be there: that thou mayest hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall make toward this place,'—and here a number of the other builders would join in with their cry—'Hearken unto the prayer which thy servant shall make!' And so in the next verse, when it came near the end the others would join in—'And when thou hearest, forgive!'—"

"I should think you would love it!" said Eleanor, with her eyes full of tears. "And I should think the Lord would love it."

"Come in, and see how it looks on the inside."

The inside was both simple and elegant, after a quaint fashion; for it was Fijian elegance and Fijian simplicity. A double row of columns led down the centre of the building; they looked like mahogany, but it was only native wood; and the ornamental work at top which served for their capitals, was done in sinnet. Over the doors and windows triangular pediments were elaborately wrought in black with the same sinnet. The roof was both quaint and elegant. It was done in alternate open and close reed-work, with broad black lines dividing it; and ornamental lashings and bandings of sinnet were used about the fastenings and groinings of spars and beams. Then the wings of the communion rail were made of reed-work, ornamented; the rail was a beautiful piece of nut timber, and the balusters of sweet sandal wood. The whole effect exceeding pretty and graceful, though produced with such simple means.

"Mr. Ruskin ought to have had this as an illustration of his 'Lamp of
Sacrifice,'" said Eleanor. "How beautiful!—"

"The 'Lamp of Truth,' too," said Mr. Rhys. "It is all honest work. That side was done by our heathen neighbours. The heathen chief sent us his compliments, said he heard we were engaged in a great work, and if we pleased he would come and help us. So he did. They built that side of the wall and the roof."

"Did they do it well?"

"Heartily."

"Do they come to attend worship in it?"

"The chapel is a great attraction. Strangers come to see—if not to worship,—and then we get a chance to tell the truth to them."

"And Mr. Rhys, how is the truth prospering generally?"

"Eleanor, we want men!—and that seems to be all we want. My heart feels ready to break sometimes, for the want of helpers. I am glad of brother Amos coming—very glad!—but we want a hundred where we have one. It is but a few weeks since a young man came over from one of the islands, a large and important island, bringing tidings that a number of towns there had given up heathenism—all wanting teachers—and there were no teachers for them. In one place the people had built a chapel; they had gone so far as that; it was at Koroivonu—and they gathered together the next Sunday after it was finished, great numbers of the people, filled the chapel and stood under some bread-fruit trees in front of it, and stood there waiting to have some one come and tell them the truth—and there was no one. My heart is ready to weep blood when I think of these things! The Tongan who came with the news came with his eyes full of tears. And this is no strange nor solitary case of Koroivonu."

Mr. Rhys walked the floor of the little chapel, his features working, his breast heaving. Eleanor sat thinking how little she could do—how much she would!

"You have native helpers—?" she said gently.

"Praise the Lord for what they are! but we want missionaries. We want help from England. We cannot get it from the Colonies—not fast enough. Eleanor,"—and he stopped short and faced her—"a few months ago, to give you another instance, I was beholder of such a scene as this. I was to preach to a community that were for the first time publicly renouncing heathenism. It was Sunday."—Mr. Rhys spoke slowly, evidently exercising some control over himself; how often Eleanor had seen him do that in the pulpit!—

"I stood on the shores of a bay, reefed in from the ocean. I wish I could put the scene before you! On the land side, one of the most magnificent landscapes stretched back into the country, with almost every sort of natural beauty. Before me the bay, with ten large canoes moored in it. An island in the bay, I remember, caught the light beautifully; and beyond that there was the white fence of breakers on the reef barrier. The smallest of the canoes would hold a hundred men; they were the fleet of Thakomban, one of Fiji's fiercest kings formerly, with himself and his warriors on board.

"My preaching place was on what had been the dancing grounds of a village. I had a mat stretched on three poles for an awning—such a mat as they make for sails;—and around me were nine others prepared in like manner. This was my chapel. Just at my left hand was a spot of ground where were ten boiling springs; and until that Sunday, one of them had been the due appointed place for cooking human bodies. That was the place and the preparation I looked at in the still Sunday morning, before service time.

"At that time, the time appointed for service, a drum was beat and the conch shell blown; the same shell which had been used to give the war call. Directly all those canoes were covered with men, and they were plunging into the water and wading to shore. These were Thakomban and his warriors. Not blacked and stripped and armed for fighting, but washed and clothed. They were stopping in that place on their way somewhere else, and now coming and gathering to hear the preaching. On the other side came a procession from the village; and down every hillside and along every path, I could see scattering groups and lines of comers from the neighbouring country. These were the heathen inhabitants, coming up now to hear the truth and profess by a public act of worship that they were heathens no longer. They all gathered round me there under the mat awnings, and sat on the grass looking up to hear, while I told them of Jesus."

Mr. Rhys's voice was choked and he broke off abruptly. Eleanor guessed how he had talked to that audience; she could see it in his flushing face and quivering lip. She could not find a word to say, and let him lead her in silence and slowly away from the chapel and towards the mission house. Before entering the plantation again, Eleanor stopped and said in a low voice,

"What can I do?"

He gave her a look of that moved sweetness she had seen in him all day, and answered with his usual abruptness,

"You can pray."

"I do that."

"Pray as Paul prayed—for your mother, and for Julia, and for Fiji, and for me. Do you know how that was?"

"I know what some of his prayers were."

"Yes, but I never thought how Paul prayed, until the other day. You must put the scattered hints together. Wait until we are at home—I will shew you."

He pushed open the wicket and they went in; and the rest of the evening Eleanor talked to Mrs. Amos or to Mr. Balliol; she sheered off a little from his wife. There was plenty of interesting conversation going on with one and another; but Eleanor had a little the sense of being to that lady an object of observation, and drew into a corner or into the shade as much as she could.

"Your wife is very handsome, brother Rhys," Mrs. Balliol remarked in an aside, towards the end of the evening.

"That is hardly much praise from you, sister Balliol," he answered gravely. "I know you do not set much store by appearances."

"She is very young!"

Both looked over to the opposite corner where Eleanor was talking to Mrs. Amos, sitting on a low seat and looking up; a little drawn back into the shade, yet not so shaded but that the womanly modest sweetness of her face could be seen well enough. Mr. Rhys made no answer.

"I judge, brother Rhys, that she has been brought up in the great world,"—Mrs. Balliol went on, looking across to the ruffled sleeve.

"She is not in it now," Mr. Rhys observed quietly.

"No;—she is in good hands. But, brother Rhys, do you think our sister understands exactly what sort of work she has come to do here?"

"She is teachable," he answered with great imperturbability.

"Well, you will be able to train her, if she wants it. I am glad to know she is in such good hands. I think she has hardly yet a just notion of what lies before her, brother Rhys."

"When did you make your observations?"

"She was with me, you know—you left her with me this morning. We were alone, and we had a little conversation."

"Mrs. Balliol, do you think a just notion of anything call be formed in half an hour?"

His question was rather grave, and the lady's eyes wavered from meeting his. She fidgeted a little.

"O you know best, of course," she said; "I have had very little opportunity—I only judged from the want of seriousness; but that might have been from some other cause. You must excuse me, if I spoke too frankly."

"You can never do that to me," he said. "Thank you, sister Balliol. I will take care of her."

Mrs. Balliol was reassured. But neither during their walk home nor ever after, did Mr. Rhys tell Eleanor of this little bit of talk that had concerned her.