He was passing quickly along, when he caught sight of a boy leaning over the paling a little beyond the gate, in rather a disconsolate attitude; and first he paused for a minute, and then struck across the grass and laid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder.

'Come in with me, Cecil,' he said in his most cheery tone—knowing that the lad usually formed one of the choir when at home, and thinking that his ill success at school had made him shy of facing the other choristers, who probably knew all about it by this time.

'No, I mustn't,' said Cecil, turning round abruptly and colouring very much.

Mr. Yorke was surprised, and showed it. Knowing that Cecil's general conduct at school had been very good, he had not thought that exclusion from the choir would have formed part of his punishment.

'It's not because of that,' said the boy, reading his thoughts in his open, kindly face, 'at least not of that alone; it's because I don't say I'm sorry, and behave as I'm expected to behave. But oh, if father knew——'

He broke off and turned his face away; but Mr. Yorke, who liked the boy well, and had one of those sympathetic natures that can feel for everybody's troubles, was touched by the bitter, hopeless tone.

'Suppose you come home with me after service, and spend the rest of the day with me,' said he, feeling it might really do the boy good to have his Sunday free from the sort of atmosphere of disgrace which he felt or fancied surrounded him at home.

He could see that Cecil caught at the notion, by the eager way in which he looked up; though the answer was,

'Thank you; but perhaps father wouldn't like it.'

'I don't think he will mind; I'll ask him myself. Don't suppose I'm inviting you to any great treat: cold mutton and bread and marmalade are about all that I have to offer. I don't like to keep my landlady from church.'

'Oh, thanks,' said Cecil, laughing, not at all as if the prospect alarmed him; and Mr. Yorke laughed too, and saying, 'Well, then, look out for me after service,' strode away across the grass, looking back, however, at the vestry door, to see if Cecil were turning his steps towards the church.

Cecil had not at all liked the idea of taking his place among the congregation: he thought that those who noticed him would wonder why he was not in the choir, and in his present mood the least humiliation was intolerable to him. The two days which had intervened since his coming home had not been well or happily spent: he had gone about in a sulky injured way, keeping aloof from his father and mother, answering shortly when spoken to, and being anything but sociable even with his brothers and sisters. Some of them had almost ceased to be sorry for him, because he made himself, as they said, 'so disagreeable;' but his faithful friend Jessie had borne with him uncomplainingly, and continued to feel for him with all her heart. He was a little cheered now by the thought that Mr. Yorke felt for him too, and did not seem to condemn him altogether; and so—rather slowly—he walked towards the church and went in, and took a place near the door, where he thought scarcely anybody would see him.

His thoughts wandered far and wide during the prayers, though now and then he recalled them by an effort, and tried to attend for at least a few minutes; but he could not help listening to the sermon, which was preached by his father—his father, whom at the bottom of his heart he did warmly love and respect, spite of all the rebellious feelings of the last day or two. The text was, 'While I live will I praise the Lord: I will sing praises unto my God while I have any being;' and there followed a beautiful, fervent exhortation to the spirit of constant praise, and then a consideration of the hindrances which check this flow of thankfulness in Christian souls. Cecil listened most attentively, and with a kind of awe, when among these was named the pride of heart which would not acknowledge as deserved such punishment as God might send, either directly from Himself or through others—the temper which called it 'very hard' that this or that suffering should be laid upon us. He did not suppose that his father was thinking of him—nor was he; but in the vivid description of feelings which followed he recognised his own, and a strange thrill of heart seized him when Mr. Cunningham went on: 'There is no peace like the peace of those who have conquered all such rebellious impulses, such self-justifying thoughts, who have given themselves up lovingly to God to be chastened as much and as long as He wills. There is no praise like the praise of a soul that can say with holy Job, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him;" or with Habakkuk, "Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines; the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls: yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in the God of my salvation."'

'If I had sung in the choir to-day, it wouldn't have been real praise; I shouldn't have thought of it or meant it,' Cecil owned to himself; and it did not seem to him so hard as before that he had been excluded, though he was far from entering fully into the spirit of submission which Mr. Cunningham had set before his people as the thing to be longed and striven for. Entering fully! Ah, with most of us it takes a lifetime to do that; but none of us are too young to begin to learn it.

Cecil went back to his old position by the churchyard palings after service to wait for Mr. Yorke, but could not quite escape some greetings from his village friends, who were 'glad to see him back, and hoped he had his health.' He looked up anxiously when he saw his father and the curate come forth from the vestry together; but they soon parted, and Mr. Yorke came across the grass to him, saying, 'All right, Cecil; you can come home with me.'

'Home' was some bachelor lodgings in a very rustic cottage with a porch all overgrown with Tangier peas, and a queerly-shaped dining-room, the ceiling of which was so low that Mr. Yorke's head seemed but a little way off it as he walked about. On the other side of the passage was a drawing-room, wonderfully smart and uncomfortable, with groups of wax fruit under glass shades on rickety tables, crochet couvrettes over the back of almost every chair as well as on the sofa, and a wonderful festoon of green and yellow tissue paper round the glass above the mantelpiece. Mr. Yorke took Cecil in there while the cloth was being laid, but told him he never sat there, as there was not a single chair which would bear his weight, nor a table which did not creak when it was leant upon.

'I should turn all this trumpery out, and make Mrs. Keeling give me something sensible,' said Cecil, with a boy's rough-and-ready way of disposing of difficulties.

'No, you wouldn't, if you saw what a delight she takes in it all, and what a solace it is to her to come and dust and admire. Between the dining-room and a little den I have up-stairs, I do very well. I only hope you'll have as snug a little hole and as worthy a little landlady when you are a curate in lodgings.'

'I don't know whether I shall ever be a clergyman now,' said Cecil gloomily.

Mr. Yorke, who was standing at the window looking out, while his guest had ventured on one of the dangerous chairs, turned round in surprise. 'You don't mean to say you are giving up that? I thought you had wished it ever since you were four years old.'

'So I have; and if I had stayed at Eastwood, I might some day have got one of the Hulston scholarships, and that would have helped me at college; but now there's no chance for me. I'm going to old Bardsley's day school in Fairview, and there's nothing to be got there.'

'Still I wouldn't give up if I were you, my boy; I would keep the hope before me. There's nothing like a high aim to help one through the drudgery of school-work, and keep one out of stupid, little, mean temptations.'

'I know, and it was for that I worked,' said Cecil, 'at least for that chiefly; but it was all no use, and it doesn't seem worth while to try any more.'

Mr. Yorke, who had supposed that Cecil hadn't worked, did not quite know what answer to make to this.

'I think it seems more worth while than ever,' he said after a minute. 'If one has lost ground, one must make it up again somehow. You know you might be ordained even without going to Oxford, though I don't mean to say that a college education is not a good thing, if one can have it.'

'Father went to Oxford, and so did you, didn't you?' said Cecil.

'Yes, there was no difficulty about that, as it happened; but my way was not all smooth, any more than yours. I had not been meant for a clergyman, and there were objections to be got over, and a good deal that was discouraging; but it all came right at last.'

He broke off his sentence rather abruptly, but in his heart it was ended thus: 'Thanks be to God for it.'

If Cecil had ever seen the luxurious home from which the curate came, or had known what good worldly prospects he had given up to enter holy orders, he would have made quite a hero of him in his own mind; but, even as it was, he looked up admiringly at the tall manly figure and bright resolute face. He liked to feel that Mr. Yorke was his friend, and for the moment longed to tell him all his trouble, and see if he could give him more help in bearing it than little Jessie could. But he was shy of beginning; and before he had opened his lips, a plump little old woman in a black silk dress and spotless apron appeared at the door, and announced, 'Your lunch is ready, sir.'

Lunch!—so they were to dine late; and though the cold mutton was not likely to prove a much greater dainty at six than at one, Cecil felt a little pride and pleasure in keeping such grown-up hours.

In honour of the young guest, Mrs. Keeling had set out every small luxury that either her lodger or she possessed; and there were poached eggs, and gooseberries, and sardines, and honey, and pickles, and gingerbread, and potted meat, arranged with great display upon the table, while the bread and butter and cheese, as being altogether ordinary, were exiled to a little sideboard behind Mr. Yorke's chair.

'Is there anything more you require, sir?' said the old dame before withdrawing, in a complacent tone that seemed to say, What could they require when such a variety was before them?

'Thank you, let me see: would you like some mutton, Cecil?'

Mrs. Keeling almost frowned at this proposal. How could the good young gentleman be so inconsiderate, she thought, as to propose to his visitor for lunch what was by and by to come up for dinner? She was quite relieved, however, by Cecil's eager negative, and went off to her kitchen well satisfied; while Mr. Yorke, after saying grace, proceeded to do the honours of the repast.

'May I give you some pickles, Cecil?' he said mischievously. 'I don't see anything to eat with them, so I suppose they are meant to form a course by themselves.'

'They wouldn't be bad with bread and cheese,' rejoined Cecil, laughing; 'some of our seniors eat them with all sorts of things.'

'Well, you can try the combination if you like, but I don't see any cheese; and oh, hulloa! there's no bread either. Will you ring the bell while I help the eggs?'

'I see them—they're behind you—I'll get them,' and Cecil jumped up and set down the bread, but, among the array of dishes which covered the small table, could find no room for the butter or cheese.

'We can turn out the pickles, and the gooseberries too, for the present,' said Mr. Yorke with a look of amusement. 'Thank you, Cecil; I seem to have brought you here to wait upon me.'

'Oh, it's such fun!' said Cecil delightedly. A thoroughly well-arranged meal would not have given him half the pleasure that this queer little bachelor lunch did.

Before it was over, his spirits were such as entirely to satisfy his host; and Mrs. Keeling, when she came to clear away, was gratified to find that her home-made gingerbread had by no means been despised, though she had been a little offended in the interval by water being rung for. What could Mr. Yorke be thinking of, to let the little gentleman drink water, when there was cowslip wine and raspberry vinegar of her own making in the house, supposing that ordinary wine or beer were thought too strong for him?

But Cecil had affirmed that he always drank water at home, and wished for nothing else, and Mr. Yorke knew better than to try to lead him to other tastes. He liked Cecil's bringing-up altogether—the hardiness and the good sense of it, and the kindness that was never spoiling; and could sympathize the more with the boy, under the cloud which had come between him and his father, because he knew how happy the relations between them had been till now. He was ready to talk about school and cricket, and his own younger brothers, and anything that seemed to interest him; and was rather startled when, as they sat together after lunch in a queer little arbour at the end of the garden, Cecil suddenly said, 'Do you think a person can help being miserable when they are punished for a fault they haven't done?'

'I think it is a great trial,' he answered after a moment's reflection. 'But surely they would have more reason to be miserable if they had committed the fault.'

Cecil pondered over this a minute; then he said, 'But how is it just that they should be punished for what they haven't done?'

'Why, I suppose the person punishing thinks they have done it.'

'Yes, the person,' said Cecil,—and there he hesitated,—'I mean,' he said at last, not irreverently, but in a low, earnest tone, 'why are things like this let happen?'

Mr. Yorke could only guess what 'this' was, and did not seek to have it explained, not wishing to make himself a judge of anything that lay between Cecil and his father.

'You mean, why is disgrace allowed to come upon a person which they cannot feel they have deserved? I don't think we can always tell why—I think we must be content to trust and submit; but it may often be to teach them some lesson which they could not have learned without it. For instance, suppose a very proud person were punished for telling an untruth, which he had not really told: the humiliation might be a check to his pride, and in that way might be for his real good.'

'And he deserved it, you mean, for being proud, though he didn't for untruth?'

'Yes; and when he came to see this, he would no longer say it was very hard.'

This reminded Cecil of his father's sermon, which indeed Mr. Yorke had in his mind when he spoke. He was silent a good while, then he began on what seemed at first another subject. 'If something that wasn't your own fault had come to hinder you when you were being educated for a clergyman, shouldn't you have thought you weren't meant to be one?'

'I think it would have depended on what the hindrance was, and a good many other circumstances. It isn't only book-learning that makes people fit to be clergymen; perhaps I might have been hindered in that, only to make me more fit in some other way.'

'What kind of way?'

'Well, I might have needed to learn submission or humility, or a hundred things.'

Cecil clasped both hands round his knees, and went swaying himself backwards and forwards in a queer kind of way that was more reflective than polite.

'I suppose it wouldn't do for a clergyman to be cock-a-hoop,' he said presently.

'Well, not exactly, if he meant to be in any sense an example to his flock,' returned Mr. Yorke with a smile.

'I know I was very cock-a-hoop just before this disappointment came,' thought Cecil, 'and that last week I was careless and all. I wonder whether that is why all this has happened!'

He did not say any of this aloud, but it was not pride that kept him from the avowal, only a very natural and reasonable shyness of talking about himself. He stopped rocking, and sat with his gaze fixed on the trees in the distance, without really seeing them a bit. A new feeling of half-dismayed contrition was springing up in his heart, but the bitterness of resentment and the sense of injury were passing away.

He started when the church bells began to ring. There was evening prayer, with catechizing, at three o'clock at Wilbourne Church, and evening prayer again, with a sermon, at seven. 'Are you going, sir?' he said as Mr. Yorke rose up.

'Not to church now, but I must be off to Bar-end, where I have my class of hobbledehoys from the farms.'

'Do you think father will expect me at the catechizing?'

'I should think he would be glad to see you there.'

'I mustn't stand with the choir, I suppose,' said Cecil, hesitating.

'No; but I think, if I were you, I should be all the more anxious to go. You're not sulking, I can see, Cecil; so why should you let any one think you are?'

'I have been, though,' said Cecil rather awkwardly, breaking through his shyness now that truth seemed to require it.

'Well, Sunday is a good day for turning over a new leaf,' said Mr. Yorke, with a smile in his eyes that seemed to make no doubt at all of Cecil's willingness to do it.

'It seemed so hard at first,' he answered, feeling as if he must excuse himself a little.

'Yes, it is a struggle sometimes to accept one's position; but when once one has, all the bitterness goes, and one finds oneself not half so miserable as one expected.'

How true this was, Cecil soon began to find out from his own experience. It was a struggle to take his place beside the schoolboys, instead of with the choir, at the catechizing;
it cost him something to open his
lips when first his father seemed to address a question to him, but after the first effort it was not half so hard as he had thought it would be. He answered thoughtfully and well, and, without putting himself unduly forward, showed that he was paying attention, and was really anxious to understand and to learn.

Jessie ran up to him in the churchyard after service.

'Oh, Cecil, I am so glad you came! I thought you would have gone to Bar-end with Mr. Yorke. Are you coming home now?'

'No, I am going back to his place; he said I might amuse myself with his books till he came in. I haven't had dinner yet,' and Cecil felt a momentary importance in saying it.

'How hungry you must be!' rejoined Jessie innocently. 'Are you going, Cecil? I shall wait for father.'

'Here he is!' said Frances, who was waiting also.

Cecil felt an impulse to rush away instantly, but was glad he had not, when his father said in a kind voice, 'Are you coming with us, Cecil?' Though he answered, of course, in the negative, his heart felt lighter for that kind tone and those few casual words. It was his own sulkiness which had made great part of his misery before, and he could see that plainly now that he was beginning to get the better of it.

The rest of the day passed very pleasantly, and Cecil enjoyed his talk with his good-natured friend very much, though nothing more was said on the one subject which absorbed him the most. It was quite bed-time when he went home, so he had no opportunity of putting in practice that night the good resolutions which were springing up within him; but the next day all the brothers and sisters remarked how much more amiable he was, and little Jessie's intense belief in his goodness revived in full force. He was not so merry as usual: it was impossible he should be after his deep disappointment, and with the sense of his father's displeasure resting on him, and the prospect of the day school before him. Both father and mother were touched sometimes when they caught the sad expression of his face; but he was no longer sullen; and if a pettish word escaped him, he seemed to catch himself up quickly before it could be followed by another.

'I can't see the rights of it yet,' he said to Jessie privately, 'nor why I should be so served out for not working, when I did work; but I think there were things—feeling set up, you know, and crowing over other fellows, and all that—which may have brought me in for this in a kind of way.'

Jessie could hardly bring herself to believe that he could have deserved it in any way, but his submission was much less grievous and perplexing to her than his rebellion had been; and she received these few words—spoken rather gruffly, with his back turned to her—as a great proof of confidence, which indeed they were.

'If being very good makes people ready to be clergymen, I'm sure Cecil's getting ready as fast as he can,' she remarked to Frances.

And though Frances was not so firmly convinced as her sister that Cecil's troubles had not been brought on him by his own fault, she answered readily, 'Yes, he has been so nice and pleasant since Sunday, and hasn't grumbled once about having to go to Mr. Bardsley's.'