"The Royal Blues," said the little woman complacently. "It's a good regiment, you know, and it seems awfully hard, when I've seen all the amusement and fun of the smartest half of Indian society, that I should come to this."

What were her complaints to Madge in this sudden agony that had come upon her?

There before her very eyes was her rival-the girl who had won the heart of the man she loved away from her! And she was bound to sympathise with her sorrows, to console her, when it made her shudder to be in the same house with her!

She clenched her hands together in a bitter conflict: the most bitter she had known in her whole life.

And while she was fighting with herself, her eyes misty with pain, the little woman in front of her was prattling on petulantly about her trials and her cruel husband.

Then Madge's better feelings conquered, and she stretched out her hand with a shiver, for she felt strangely cold.

"Poor child!-poor little thing! I am so sorry for you!" she said tenderly.

And Rosamund Seton, looking up, thought that the tears in the beautiful eyes were for her own misfortunes, and she smiled languidly.

"Thank you so much, Miss Paton. I know you will sympathise with me. Of course, I was very silly to marry Tom, but then

Madge caught her breath quickly, a new light breaking in upon her.

She rose swiftly and went to her desk, and took out Jem Seaton's photograph.

Was this your husband?" she said in a strange hollow voice, as she held the picture before Rosamund's

eyes.

"That? no, oh dear no!" said Mrs. Seton, with some curiosity. "How did you know him? He was the other captain in the Royal Blues, and he never cared for my husband, because he did not like our keeping our engagement a secret. Tom exchanged into the Royal Blues, you know, for some reason, so they were not together long. But it was always rather awkward their being of the same name, only that it was differently spelled."

"Awkward!" what an inadequate word to use for the coincidence that had ruined two lives! Madge sighed impatiently.

"And, poor thing," went on Mrs. Seton's even tones : "a girl threw him over in a very cruel way. She was coming out to Calcutta to be married to him, and when he went down to meet the boat, she had got out at Malta, of course to marry someone else, and he was never the same after that."

Madge stood with her hand on her heart, the photograph fluttering to her feet.

"Don't you see! Oh, can't you see?" she moaned. "I am that girl. I was engaged to Jem Seaton, and I saw in the paper the announcement of what I thought was his marriage to you, and so, sooner than face him in Calcutta, I got off at Malta, and came here with Lady Forsytus as manager of this Home. What shall I do? oh! what shall I do?"

She had broken down now, and was sobbing passion

ately, and even Rosamund's selfish little heart was stirred within her.

“What a dreadful thing!" she said curiously. "I don't know what you can do now. Write to Calcutta, and explain your mistake."

"No, no!" moaned Madge's white lips: "I could not do that, for I must have killed his love by my doubts of him. I see it now-oh! I see it now. I ought to have trusted him, and gone on to Calcutta. He will never forgive me!"

Rosamund Seton stared at her with passionless round eyes of wonder.

What a foolish girl she had been to make such a mistake in her life! Surely she could not expect much pity when her troubles had been all her own fault? And Mrs. Seton carefully selected a macaroon and deliberately ate it, while Madge, her face buried in her hands, was sobbing tearlessly and hopelessly as she thought over her ruined life.

At last she rose to her feet, and pushed back her hair with a quiet gesture of self-repression.

"I can do nothing now. It is too late; and he will think that want of trust in a woman is worse than want of love. Thank you, Mrs. Seton, for telling me so much that must have been painful to you. Would you like to come and see your room?"

Rosamund, as she followed her guide, stared with amazement at the statuesque figure, with the face from which all traces of emotion were just vanishing. She felt that Madge could not have much heart, after all, to bear the news so calmly.

She could have sympathised with hysterics, but not with coldness, and she therefore kept Madge waiting upon her fretful little self till far into the night, demanding help and pity, which the girl patiently and dully gave her.

Then when she was at liberty, and shut herself into her own room to be alone, only her own heart knew the misery that those four walls witnessed till dawn of day.

And when the cold grey light began to steal in through the blind, she flung herself on her bed, to dream in a short troubled slumber of the man she had injured so cruelly.

CHAPTER IV.

MADGE had not only herself to think of in this great crisis of her life. She had to consider three people: the Vicar, Jem Seaton, and herself.

Of the first she scarcely dared to think, for his pain was quite undeserved; of the second, when she trusted her mind to dwell on him, she knew that till death should still her heart for ever it would beat for him alone, and therefore she had no right to wrong one man by marrying him when she loved another, who might cross her path again. For herself, she only prayed that she might be led to do right, and to follow, not her own inclination, but the path of goodness.

She kept indoors for two days, sending down a message to Maimie and the Vicar when they came that she had a bad headache, and could see no one.

But in the afternoon of the second day she braced up her nerves for action, and set out for the vicarage,

"God bless you both."-p. 197.

with an indefinite idea in her mind of putting an end to her uncertainty by some speedy means.

She passed swiftly up the frost-bound lane, between the tall hedges, and by the trout stream, where the icicles hung under the bank like crystal candles.

She made a pretty picture in her violet gown, with some soft black fur at her throat and round the brim of her little hat; though her face was pale with the conflict she had undergone during the past two days, she had altered wonderfully little since we first saw her on board the outward-bound steamer.

At the end of the lane, where the vicarage garden began, was a little walk, bordered by thick yew-trees on either side, which led up to the gate, and when she entered it there was a solitary figure pacing up and down in front of her.

At first she thought, in the shadow of the gloomy trees, that it was Basil Short, and her heart beat faster as she reflected on the painful interview that must inevitably take place between them.

But surely the figure was more youthful and erect than the Vicar of Puddleton's, and even as the truth struck her, Jem Seaton had wheeled impetuously round, and had seen and recognised her.

A cry so great went out from him that Madge paused, petrified with wonder and cold terror.

What if he should drive her from him with cruel, well-deserved words that would crush her very life out of her? and she turned away, half-prepared to fly from him.

But with one bound he had caught her in his arms, and was straining her fiercely to his heart.

"Madge, Madge!" he cried, and she could feel the mighty throbbing of his heart against her shoulder. Then he pushed her away from him as she lay motionless.

"Madge!" he said hurriedly, "what are you doing here? Where is your husband? Why have you come back to torture me again? Could you not have thrown me over in a less cruel fashion? Or are you, like so many other women, happy only as you can reckon so many male scalps at your waist?"

He laughed hardly, and Madge clung convulsively to him.

"No-no, Jem," she sobbed, "I am not married. I-oh, God, help me!-I thought-I saw in the paper that you-that Captain J. Seaton had married Rosamund Finch, and as you had never mentioned another man of the same name in your regiment, I thought it was you; so I got off at Malta, and came back with Lady Forsytus to be superintendent for her Home for Penniless Gentlewomen here."

He stared at her incredulously.

"You thought that I had married another woman, when I was daily expecting my little wife, and her home was ready waiting for her?" he said, with a faint touch of contempt that cut her like a knife.

"I was mad! oh, Jem, I was mad!" she wailed; "and poor Rosamund Seton has just come to the Oh! can Home, and I learned everything from her. you forgive me? I have been so miserable!" He looked into her eyes.

On her face lay the traces of many tears, and here and there a line scored deeply in the delicate skin told him she had suffered.

"Forgive you?" he said passionately.

"Yes,

Madge, I forgive you, but I shall never trust you out of my sight again."

It was then that she remembered the Vicar, and her promise to him.

"Jem," she said, in sudden dismay, "what shall I do? Only two days ago I promised Mr. Short to marry him, though I told him that I did not love him, and that all my love was buried with you."

"Mr. Short!" laughed Seaton, with a happy triumph in his voice, as he shut Madge's lips with a kiss. "My dear child, that old fogey, good and dear as he is, will not break his heart over your desertion. I should think he proposed to you out of sheer pity for your loneliness; all the heart he ever had is shut up in his Greek aorists. Just tell him that you have made a mistake, and it will be all right. I shouldn't wonder that he has forgotten your very existence already. He was in a regular brown study at breakfast this morning-over a Hebrew verb, I suppose. Bless your dear little heart! don't cry over him. He is right enough; and I ought to know, for I am one of his oldest friends."

From behind a clump of yew-trees, thick and dark, came the sound of a throbbing sigh, unheard by the lovers in their arcadia of happiness, but caught up perhaps by a listening angel, and wafted, a true selfsacrifice, to the very throne of God."

It was the Vicar who stood there, faint and dizzy, leaning against the thick branches.

He had unawares come upon the couple, and had heard every word they had spoken before he could collect himself sufficiently to be able to hide out of earshot.

Half an hour later, when the lovers were still in the yew walk, the black figure of the Vicar came towards them from the further end among the trees.

There was a quiet smile on his face as he got up to them, and if his face was ashen white, no one noticed it, for it is only the eyes of love that are quick.

"Jem, my dear boy-Madge," he said, taking a hand of each, still smiling, "God bless you both; what a strange and beautiful reunion! We will forget any little mistake we may have made, dear; for when I think it over, I see there was a mistake-on-both sides."

He laid their hands together, and passed on; and if, when he was out of sight, the smile faded in a rush of tears, no one was any the wiser.

Even his sister thought, when she found him buried in his beloved books once more, that he did not much care after all.

The thought consoled her for the loss of Madge as a sister, and she became quite enthralled in the romance of the reunited lovers.

And if Madge, with a woman's true instinct, guessed something of the storm that had passed over the pale student's head, she forgot to be more than a moment pitiful for him in the golden glory of her own happiness.

If there is much joy in this world, there must of necessity be sorrow for each child of man. And in the end, sorrow enriches the heart, and wings the soul to heaven.

N these words the Apostolic writer appeals to the life of our blessed Lord as illustrating in a remarkable degree the principle that pain is a means of discipline. A principle, this, hard to learn, but none the less true. Though we do not know why there should be pain at all, we do know that it serves many good purposes in the progress of the world; and among these the fact that it acts as an agent in the formation of character is not the least conspicuous.

The subject of pain is, no doubt, a subject from which we all turn with something of dislike. When we are not in trouble ourselves, we are unwilling to be drawn into the consideration of a subject so mournful, so full of gloomy possibilities and sad

memories; we prefer to dwell on the lights rather than on the shadows of human life. "Why not look on the bright side of things?" people say; "we should not anticipate pain by thinking of it beforehand." But yet, sorrow is so prominent a feature in ordinary experience-we are exposed to pain at so many points -that we are not acting as serious persons should if we do not, at least, occasionally set ourselves to consider it, and inquire what lesson it has for us, to what good effect it may be directed in our own lives. And further, we should remember that if we are to form any calm judgment upon this disciplinary influence of pain we must do so at a time when we are not overwhelmed by its presence. When we are in pain ourselves, we are not capable of reflecting dispassionately on its meaning or its message. A human soul carried away by the shock of overmastering sorrow cannot justly estimate either the greatness or

the purpose of the pain with which life is surrounded. At such moments the uppermost reflection is that it is too great to be borne: that in our case, at least, it is unjust and intolerable. Hence, it may be a prudent thing to direct our attention, now and then for a quiet quarter of an hour, to the educational value of pain. Our Lord, we read, was made "perfect through suffering." Is there any similar progress in the lives of ordinary men and women? Is it true o say that, in general, suffering refines and sanctifies the Christian character?

1. Reflect first upon the lesser pains of life, such as the pains of toil or the pains of poverty. These are pains which we can readily understand may often be full of blessing. "It is good for a man to bear the yoke in his youth" is true in more senses than one. And, on the other hand, the enervating influence of an unceasing round of thoughtless pleasure is manifest. It is not an uncommon thing to see a man endowed with great gifts-gifts of mind, body, and estate-deteriorating steadily in character from day to day, just because he has never encountered any obstacle to check him in his selfish, complacent round of delights. There seems no outlet for his energies but in pleasure, and so he seeks it there, with the result that he grows weaker and less manly, in spite of his better self. Here is a case in which pain, the loss of money, of position-aye, of reputation-may be an unmixed blessing. It puts him on his mettle; it is a means of strengthening his character. The strong men of this world are those who have had obstacles to overcome, whose path has not been always strewn with flowers.

It may be said, perhaps, that there are few people whose lives are so surrounded with pleasure that the pleasure becomes a source of weakness to the extent that has been suggested. But the truth is that we are all too much afraid of pain. The character of Tito, described with such terrible faithfulness by George Eliot in one of her great books, is a typical character. Many a life is wrecked, many a splendid possibility is thrown away, simply because the command "Take up the Cross" seemed too hard to obey. We may be sure of this: that it is not until one realises in some measure what is meant by "enduring hardness as a good soldier of Jesus Christ" that the full strength of the Christian character can be reached. Pain, then, even in its lesser forms, is a strengthening influence. We chafe under the restraints which it imposes upon our freedom; and in the struggle to overcome them we bring out whatever is strongest in our nature. No one who has not suffered is strong.

2. But, again, there are other pains, very common and very distressing while they last-the pains of disappointment. Failure in a long-planned undertaking, the despair which overtakes us when our motives are misunderstood, the severance of old friendships-these are some of the commonest pains of life. None of us is always successful; few of us

escape misrepresentation; many of us know what it is to lose a friend. It is often hard at the time to see what possible good effect upon our lives such trials as these can bring about; and yet, if we can recall any such sad experiences, we may remember at least one benefit that resulted from them. It is at such times that our true character becomes patent, if not to the world, yet to ourselves. The power of self-deceit is so strong that as long as things go well with us we may never question our own infallibility of judgment, candour of disposition, amiability of temper. But when we are driven in on ourselves by the rude questioning of sorrow, we begin to understand that, after all, things might have been different if we had been different. We may not-very likely we do not admit it to ourselves openly; but there is always after failure or disappointment-if we are not entirely filled with an inordinate self-conceit― a suspicion aroused that it might have been our own fault. The disgust, for example, with which we view the failure of a scheme professedly for the glory of God or the service of men may, perhaps, suggest to us that it was our own self-importance we were thinking about, and not the glory of God at all. The shock attendant upon the loss of a friend may reveal to us as a possibility that perhaps we are not altogether desirable as friends, that there may be something hard, or selfish, or uncandid in our conduct. And so in every case there is no agent more potent than pain in revealing to us our secret character as it is in the sight of God. If it puts upon us more honesty, more charity, more single-mindedness, it is a true blessing in disguise.

3. These, however, are not the most intense forms of human suffering: there is the pain of bereavement. When this is present with us, there seems to be no comfort, no mercy, in earth or heaven. And yet it is a discipline-a hard, a terrible discipline-by which God calls us to Him when lesser trials have elicited no response. It often seems a mockery to speak of blessing being contained in bereavement; often, indeed, "our safest eloquence is our silence"; but yet, many a time it has been in moments of sorrow and anguish that the full meaning and seriousness of life have been brought home to the heart. When oppressed by the nearness of the Valley of the Shadow of Death the soul is led to seek for some practical solution of the mysteries of life and suffering. "I found trouble and heaviness, and called on the name of the Lord," is not the experience of the Psalmist of Israel alone. The Via Dolorosa-the way of sorrow-is the way to the Cross.

And we must not overlook the sympathetic power of this pain of bereavement. The presence of a pain to which all men feel themselves exposed is a bond of union and the root of sympathy. Much of the kindliness and compaion of human beings in respect of their fellows in distress is called forth by the memory of their own sufferings of a like nature. Pain, even more than joy, makes the whole world kin.

In these different ways, then, as in many others, pain is a means of education, a factor in the development of individual, as well as of national, character. We can see in the case of others--though not so clearly in our own--that pain may bring blessing in its wake. And, indeed, under the conditions of life in this world, pain will be a discipline to us, whether we wish it or not. It remains with us to determine whether it shall be a discipline for good or for evil. It may influence us for evil: make us hard, unsympathetic, cynical. But it may also teach us, if we will, lessons of kindliness and patience; by its penetrating critieism it will exhibit us to ourselves as we are; it will strengthen us for achievement of our appointed tasks; and even by the shadow which it casts upon life, it will prompt us to look with more longing towards that country where is neither sorrow nor pain. For, indeed, suffering quickens our powers of spiritual perception in a strange way the Delectable Mountains, whence the pilgrims in Bunyan's allegory saw the vision of the Heavenly City, were not far from the Castle of Despair.

Thus the good or bad effect of pain on our Christian progress depends very much on our mental attitude in regard to it. There must be a deliberate acceptance of it, as containing lessons for our learning, if we are to extract from it that lesson which God wishes to teach us. So our Lord speaks of taking up the Cross. The burden is not merely to be endured; it must be taken up with something of a voluntary acceptance.

"All very easy to write," says some poor soul; "very easy to acquiesce in, but very hard to practise." And this is true enough. When we notice the sorrows and disappointments of our neighbours, we find it natural enough to say, "How that man's character has been purified and ennobled by hardship! How that woman's life has been sanctified by suffering!" But when the thing touches ourselves, general reflections of this sort are of little use. We know very well that

it is not happiness, but goodness, that we are put into this world to pursue. That goodness will bring happiness in the long run is indeed a principle of religion, but it is not obviously true as regards the present world. And so it is only by bringing home to ourselves the truth that pain is not merely a penalty exacted by nature for wrong-doing, not merely a factor in the forces of the evolution of the human race, but also a discipline controlled in every detail by a Father in heaven, that comfort can be gained by the stricken soul. "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth" is an Apostolic maxim; and that is, perhaps, as far as we can safely go in respect of the philosophy of pain.

And yet we must try to see a step further. In the presence of the mystery of the Passion pain seems to take upon itself a new aspect. The true consecration of suffering is at the foot of the Cross. "Though He were a Son, yet learned He obedience by the things which He suffered." Pain is a discipline of the Christian character, for it formed part of the discipline of the character of Christ. Sorrow brings us closer to the Man of Sorrows. Thus St. Paul speaks of our being "baptised into the death of Christ," of "being crucified with Him." These phrases are full of profounder meaning than we can grasp, but, at least, they teach that union with Christ involves union in suffering here, if in joy hereafter. "The disciple is not above his Master"; and we may learn by failure and sorrow something which joy could never teach us of that love of God in redemption which was consummated in the sacrifice of the Cross. "He Himself "the words are familiar-" went not up to joy, but first He suffered pain; He entered not into His glory before He was crucified." So, truly, our way to eternal joy is to suffer here with Christ, and our door to enter into eternal life is gladly to die with Christ, that we may rise again from death, and dwell with Him in everlasting life."

N most instances, it is well known, the devout people who were the first to separate themselves from the services performed in their respective parish churches in the seventeenth century made use of such existing buildings for their meetings as they found convenient for their purpose. Sometimes these were private houses; often, especially, they were the dwelling-houses of the ministers; sometimes they were disused buildings that had formerly been parts of monastic establishments; and sometimes they were the halls of the merchants' guilds. At Berwickon-Tweed use was made of the Free School for some time. We have plentiful evidence of the exact nature of these various arrangements in old diaries,

The

in public records, and in local memoranda. narrative of Edward Terrill, a schoolmaster in Bristol, gives us particulars of the gradual growth of the Puritan party in that city, and mentions that the first little group of nonconforming worshippers met together for prayer at the houses of a carpenter, a glover, and a grocer alternately, and that when the latter died his widow continued to give her adherence to the nonconforming movement, and was mobbed and had her windows broken in consequence. Tong, in his "Life of Matthew Henry," relates that this distinguished man was invited to preach at the house of Mr. Henthorne, sugar-baker, in Chester, and that so many good people flocked to it that it was found