HERR PAULUS: HIS RISE, HIS GREATNESS, AND HIS FALL.*

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXV, Issue 8986, 25 February 1888, Page 3 (Supplement)

HERR PAULUS: HIS RISE, HIS GREATNESS, AND HIS FALL.*

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

BY WALTER BESANT, Author of "All Sorts and Conditions of Men," &c.

BOOK THE SECOND. CHAPTER XI. ONLY A KISS. TnF.TiE WAS one room in the house which we have not yet penetrateda small room on the first floor, which for beauty, comfort, and daintiness, excelled all the other rooms in the house. It w«3 so beautiful and so dainty because it had been the girls' room, formerly so called, but was now Cicely's room. When school came to an end and tho last of the governesses departed, Sibyl left the room, but Cicely remained. Everything belonged to the blind girl: the books which Hetty read to her, the pictures, also read to her by Hetty ; the pretty things which uhe could" nob see ; yet it is undoubtedly good for a blind girl to be surrounded by things beautiful. Tho music was here which Hetty' played to her, the piano was hers on which she'herself played, letting her fingers wander over the keys, while to her sightless eyes there came —what visions? What do they see, the blind ? How do they shape anil colour the world ? What is form, what is colour to the blind ? How do they imagine the tender green of tho young leaves in June; the fragility of the flowers : tho thousand hues of nature; the charms of beauty; the magic of tho eyes ; the witchery of art; the slopes and shadows of the hills ; what are they like— visions anil the fancies of the blind ? I know not. Cicely visions came to her, bringing happiness unspeakable, sometimes when she heard sweet music, sometimes when she heard «nvat poetry, sometimes when she likened to the voice of a certain young man who spoke as she had never before heard any man *j»eak. He came often to this room ; ho came nearly everv day ; generally he came in the afternoon, between tea and the first dinner bell: a quiet and lazy time when the lamp was lit, the curtains drawn, and the cold east wind shut out. There was no concealment about his visits; he went openly to the room : anybody who wanted him at this time would look for him in Cicely's room. The whole house was his. If you had asked him why he came hero he would have replied. with as much candour as you have sny riszht to expectit is not possible, unhappily. for any man to be wholly candid— that he loved above all things (except, perhaps, distinction) material comfort, physical case, warmth, and the contemplation of things beautiful. Like many other preachers and "philosophers, while he despised riches, he ardently loved those things which only riches can procure. Indeed, it is too often forgotten, especially by parents, guardians, tutors, and teachers, how much more intense is the craving for these things in first manhood, when these things are the least attainable, than in age. In the early twenties a young man yearns and find craves for physical ease and for love and for beauty ; he grows sick for lack of these; life is worthless because he cannot get them. By the time he gets to fifty he has had much experience of little ease, hard work, and cold weather ; and, besides, has had some moderate share of happiness and of love, insomuch that the old yearning, like a tierce fire that has burned itself out, only smoulders ; and as for things beautiful, they are intimately connected with persons beautiful; and, therefore, it is no use yearning after what belongs to the young. Now, alas—

Love will not lip him ; Maid will not clip him: Maud and Marian pass him by. If further pressed, Paul would have gone on te confess— he had a most wholesome Protestant hatred of the Confessional —that he could get warmth and easy chairs in other parts of the house, even in his own room, by himself, or in Tom's room, but he could get nowhere else the undivided companionship of two beautiful girls, sweet, confiding, and believing. Every Prophet, even a False Prophet, loves to have disciples r»ho never question.

Hither he came, and here he talked of thing?, the contemplation of which lifts the soul which submits to be lifted and to be guided. Men are too stiff-necked to submit. I have never seen in any club smok-ing-room, a prophet who wanted to lift other men's souls or men who submitted their souls to be lifted. A shove up—as Baxter poetically put it —is the last thing which men ask of each other. But how many women are always looking for it! Paul spoke of life and death, of the barrier which lies between, of the eternal world of which this life is but a tiny episode as the soul marches upwards or downwards. Was it nonsense which he talked ? I know not. His soft and musical voice, his dark and beautiful eyes, his presence and his comeliness made it more than sense—divine wisdom, so that the hearts of the two girls glowed. There is not," his words flowed musically, "anything in this world that man can make or desire or aim at which is really of the smallest importance. Love ? He may Wait for it, because beyond the Barrier— we say, but there is no Barrier— awaits him far deeper and more holy than any earthly love. Wealth ? It can do nothing {or the soul. Knowledge? They do not understand—they can never understand — that the secrets of nature which they so painfully seek and so slowly acquire are all revealed in the wisdom we call the Hidden Way. Long life ? It is only to be desired while those we love are still unable to see and converse with the spirits. When all can see as I can see, and converse as I can converse, we shall die without a pang or a regret. Cicely—Hetty"— lowered his voice, " there are some things which one cannot speak of before the world ; in this room, with you, we may speak freely, for we believe. Oh ! we are always, everywhere, surrounded by spirits. I see them"— lie looked around —"they are in this room now, they .ore speaking together of you. They pass and are gone, and others follow. Some stay with us always to whisper word? which may warn and advise ; they protect us from evils—real evils ; they laugh when we complain of imaginary evils and of wrongs which cannot harm the soul; they fill us with lofty thoughts—you might see them if you had my eyes. Yet a little while and you shall see —yes, you shall see them, Cicely, you as clearly as Hetty. 1 cannot give you the power of seeing things tarthly, but things spiritual you shall see ilearly as I myself." - j

To read these things is foolishness ; to hear near them spoken in a soft and musical voice, in the accents of truth and conviction, by or,e who had shown that he could do things which to other men are impossible, in the seclusion of that room, was to these girls nothing short of a new Gospel— &U their own—all to themselves. Think of a new Gospel all to yourself ! And while the young man gave the girls these glimpses into the Unknown, his eyes wandered from cicely, listening like some sweet-cloistered saint to Francis of Assisi, her blind eyes looking heavenwards, with parted lips and Plowing cheeks, to Hetty, who lifted her heavy lustrous eyes not to heaven, but to the prophet, moved less by the delights J l ' eternal i;tudy—as some are moved lees by hose of eternal singing—than by the joys companionship widi those one loves. Sometimes he read poetry to them—the poetry which fills the soul with vague yearning; a nd he would leave the verses Jr finished, and in talk carry on the en ? e .. playing on their emotions as a Bir 81C r, an Produces variations of the same . • sometimes he would tell them stories, ttem" from I know not where, bub his Blr . mor y Was good and his imagination Writt^'' t ' 10y were stor ' es such as are not th, (in , down—no editor would receive Con e y had no plot, ant * they were not their U ? with any art; they ran on, and and 1 Ist1 st la in the manner of telling ; lie ot ?? tlmes ' like an imaginative child, day (' carr 011 the story from day to ohscnr bGn ? r ally the hero was a poor lad of fa m „ 6 ° ri gi [ i, who worked his way to great Beniu ° dutin ction by courage ana by HichuT 8 . 110 would tell them of places He knpu? v Been an d people he had met. vl w work_ ork and Boston ; he knew of , the New Zealand Herald I"""Norththii .tory

Florence, Rome, and Venice, Paris, and St. Petersburg ; he could tell them all kinds of strange and curious things. A young man who has travelled so far has seen many things, high and low. And, remember, this young man told the girls nothing that was low and common. He did not abuse his position. Always he raised their souls and lifted them above themselves. Always, at his coming, Hetty put on, mentally, her Sunday frock, and Cicely attuned her mind to higher things. A prudent young man, especially one who has been solemnly warned of the dangers which belong to the society of young ladies and knows beforehand that Love is fatal to the Higher Philosophy, would have kept out of this room, set with the only trap which Cupid ever laysa lovely girl or two— would have attended strictly to business*. Every young man's future, but especially Paul's, depends upon his sticking to business. Yet it is difficult when one is young to be always thinking of the future. The present, you see, is ever with us ; the future, child of the present, seems so far off. And then the present is for over changing, which prevents monotony, though it causes us to call it names, such as fugacious, illusory, a cheat, a false promiser, and the like. And even if the present bo a Fool's Paradise, that kind of garden is very delightful and wholly free from anxiety and forethought. Why, it is not everybody who can find out the tlowery lane that leads to that garden gate ; and when it is found there are very few who have a key that will open it. One afternoon— day or two after the failure of Brudenel and Company—Hetty was sitting alone in their room reading a story. The book was all about the happiness which love brings to those girls who are so lucky as to win a lover, young, rich, handsome, well born, and clever. I think the hero in this story was a Guardsmannothing less, if you please—of noble family, of course ; great wealth, naturally ; and the poetic temperament for which the Guards' Club— Skindlc's — so remarkable ; he was two-and-twenty and she was eighteen— ib is an ago too young for real and solid love, only most novelists and poets do nob perceive 'this great truthnor do the boys and girls who read them. It was a most beautiful story, in short, ending happily with rice but no wedding breakfast. Somehow, Hetty did not much care for it. Her thoughts wandered. Suddenly, without any footstep being heard, the door opened and Paul appeared. That was nothing unusual. Bub Hetty for some reason blushed a rosy red. Ho came in softly— not secretly—shutting the door behind him. He went to the window and looked out. It was six o'clock, in the middle of April. A grey sky covered the garden, where the eastwind ground together black branches of the trees ; there was not yet a touch of spring upon the boughs or on the flower beds. Paul shivered and half drew the curtain to keep out the sight of the cold. Then ho took Cicely's chair beside the fire, and sat down and looked at Hetty. She laid down her book and waited.

" Where is Cicely ?" he asked. " She is lying down. She has' a little headache."

"Bring her here and I will send it away." This young man had a surprising power of sending away the toothache, headache, earache, neuralgia, and all—or perhaps nearly allthe aches and pains which afflict humanity. He cured the servants and the servants' friends. His remedy was the application of his hand, which immediately caused the pain to vanish. In the same way I have seen a negro cause a sprain to disappear instantly. The human hand, accompanied by a certain amount of energy on the one side and faith on the other does it. Perhaps the toothache came again after a while, and in the end they had to co to the dentist and have the horrid clawed outbut think of the relief for the time!

Hetty rose to obey. "Nono," said Paul. "Let her stay. Lying down will do her good. And we will talk, Hetty." She sat down again and waited, submissive.

He rose and stood over her. " Look in my eyes," he said. "Oh ! Paul—nonospare me." " I will do you no harm, child." " You make me faint and dizzy. When I grow unconscious, you will make me tell you what you please. You will do with me as you did with the butler when you made him tell us how he drinks the wine. Spare me, Paul."

He laughed and sat down. "We will talk, then. Are you happier, Hetty ?" Yes."

"Are you happier because I am here?" "You know I am, Paul. You make us all happier—you have brought such happiness into this house as was never known before. Even Sibyl says that you have brightened the place." "Are you happier because you see a little more clearly than before?" " I did not desire to see more clearly. Yet it does make me happier to feel that things are not all pretence. Oh, Paul, it is a dreadful thing to feel ashamed of your mother. I know the things that are done. I have had to keep my eyes closed. In this house I have had to preserve silence even when I knew there was imposture and I could have exposed the cheat—but then I should have had to tell how I knew the tricks. And at last to feel that there is really truth in it in spite of all— know that my mother really does converse with the spirits even if they are only the lower kind. It has made me inexpressibly happy, Paul, to be certain of this." "I am glad, Hetty," he replied. "It is no small thing to make you happy, Hetty." " Besides, you have made Cicely happy. She has no knowledge of unworthy tricks. But you have marie her happier and more cheerful. And you have made the whole house cheerful. Formerly it was as gloomy, especially after another disappointment, as a sepulchre." "Hetty," Paul abruptly changed the subject. " You are youngyou will not always remain with Cicely. What will you do with your life?" "I do not know. I have not had the disposing of my own life so far. Ido not suppose that will ever be given into my hands."

"Do you look forward? Do you think what may be in the lap of Fortune for you •>" "Sometimes. But I dare: not think too much upon the future." "Look forward now, Hetty. Nay," he repeated, imperiously, " I command you. Look forward and tell me truthfully what you see. Remember it is not the real future that you will see : it is the future that you least desire and most dread."

The girl closed her eyes. Then she shuddered and trembled and opened them again. " I cannot, Paul."

"Tell me," he said. " You must."

She resisted no longer. "I see a long life of poverty. I am always somebody's companion. There will never be anyone so kind as Cicely. I get older and poorer, and I am always solitary. It is a dreadful life, Paul," she cried. " I see the end of it. I will not look any more."

" There is another picture," said Paul. Look again, Hetty. Sec what I see." "Oh! I see a girl, it is myself; and a man before her, and he leads her away by the hand ; and oh ! she is full of happiness." " Do you see the face of the man ?' No, I cannot see it. But I know the shape of his head. It is— !" she covered her face with her hands and said no more. " Play to me, Hetty," said Paul, springing to his feet. "Play me —quickly —play to me." She obeyed ; her cheek blushing and her eyes down dropped, and began to play such music as she played to Cicely when the blind girl wanted to dream and have the visions which music brought. Paul walked restlessly about the room. So in far off America a certain lad named Siphion walked to and fro, while a certain girl named Bethiah played to him. " Hetty !" he cried. She stopped and turned her head. " Your music does not soothe me. It maddens me. Oh ! stand up and take my hands. Hetty, Hetty. Look in my eyes again. Do they subdue Do they compel you? Do they make your brain r<"3l and your eyes move? Do they, child, make you afraid, now 1" " Oh ! no, no." " Because they are subdued by yours, Hetty. Because they are conquered." He drew her gently, and his arms lay round her neck' and waist, and ho kissed her a dozen times. Then, without another word, he pushed her roughly from him, and rushed out of the room, banging the door behind him.

CHAPTER XII. SIR PERCIVAL.

" Yes," said tho clerk in the secretary's office. "The man is here. You will find him within. Ho arrived in the Willing Bride, of Quebec, three months out, and he's madder than ever. Three prayer meetings he's held already, and he's at it again. I wonder how they stand it so well. You can go in if you want." The place was in the Sailors' Home, Dockstreet. Paul passed through a short passage and found himself in a large, low room, set with solid square timber pillars, to shore up tho roof ; tables of a heavy and solid kind were set about, and benches stood beside them. It was the common room of the Sailors' Home, where they take their meals and sit and converse. If you go through the common room you find yourself in a place which reminds you of a ship and of a monastery, and of those solitaries who lived in caves, high up in the sides of cliffs and precipices, and you turn dizzy and reel. For there arc rows of little cells or cabins, in every one a sailor, piled one above tho other, and, in front of each row, a gallery in light iron, with iron staircases, the sight of which makes you think of falling over or through. The common room,® this morning, was thinly attended. A lusty negro, coal black, rolled about, and, on one of tho benches, pipe in mouth, two or three mild-faced Norwegians sat with the paper of their native country in their hands; a dozen fellows lounged and leaned against tho pillars with crossed legs, doim* nothing with the contentment only possible with sailors and fishermen ; one or two men were writing, one or two smoking pipes ; there was a smell as of 'tween decks, one thought, of the fo'k'sle ; tar was present, and one thought of ropes; if the men had lurched and pitched as they went, one would not have been surprised. In the middle of this room, however, surrounded by a little group of sailors, chiefly young, was a young man sitting in a chair —talking and arguing. In reality he was preaching, but it seemed as if he was merely talking earnestly from his chair, while they gathered round and listened. Bub from time to time ho sprang to his feet and raised his voice, and addressed them in impassioned tones, which wero surely those of the preacher. And he used a' certain gesture which has of late become fashionable among orators of tho fervid type. I think it is an American importation, made, like all American things, for the purpose of impressing Demos. For my part I prefer the old English gestures used for impressing persons who possess the critical faculty, just as I prefer English cheeses, English bacon, English apples to the American importations. This gesture consists in throwing the right arm up and back, and then hurling the hand so to speak, at the audience. It is easily learned, and may bo acquired by half-an-hour's practice before a glass ; when a man is really and truly in earnest, and possesses the gift of impassioned speech, it helps him to become effective ; when a man only wishes to seem in earnest, and therefore shows the pretence in his words, the gesture is grotesque, and destroys what effect his oratory might otherwise produce. Demos is no fool; above all, ho is ready to detect a man who is not really in earnest. That is tho reason why so | much vigorous speech is thrown away and wasted.

Paul drew near and sat down to listen. The speaker was dressed as a common sailor ; his face was weather-beaten, but the features were regular ; his hands were tarry, but they were small; his figure was tall and graceful; his short hair was dark ; he spoke like a gentleman, and ho looked above the rank of a common sailor. His eyes were remarkable for their bright and even fiery appearance; in the low, dark room they glowed. They were fcho eyes of a fanatic or a madman. Once I saw crouching in the corner of a darkened cell a madman who had killed a warder. Ho was perfectly quiet, but his eyes were two balls of fire, aiiu he was ready to spring upon the first man who should venture within the cell. Such were the eyes of this young sailor.

It was apparent- immediately from his words that lie belonged to the narrowest order of Christians. We who live in great towns and choose our own religion, and sometimes choose a broader form of Christianity, permit ourselves to deride the narrow brethren. We should not deride them. They belong to a very big school indeed. There are ten millions of them in England, four millions in Scotland, two in Ireland, three in colonial Britain, and thirty millions in America who belong to this school. It is not, therefore, by any means extinct. Nor will it ever become extinct so long as men who are unlearned claim to exercise the right of private interpretation. And it will always be a narrow school, although its disciples hold all kinds of conclusions and divide themselves into as many sects as there are sauces in France. The arguments of this school are based upon premises which the wicked Rationalist will not allow; its followers know nothing of the Science of Religion or of the development of the great central idea; the school is as cruel and pitiless as the Letter of the Law ; it is selfsufficient. and arrogant. We may say all kinds of harsh things as regards this school, but those who remember how terrible a tyranny is authority, how truly hateful a thing is ecclesiastical rule, and how monstrous a being is the priest in power, will take heart though a dozen new sects are invented every day, and will continue to praise the Lord that such thinkers are enabled to exist at all.

Paul had been brought up in this school himself. He knew all the tags and the phrases of the school; if he was ever to get religion, it would be this sort of religion. But it was a long time since he concerned himself about the condition of his soul. For many reasons such an inquiry would have been undesirable and unsettling. Besides, was he not in the hands of friends who know all about the next; world ?

As Paul sat and listenedthe man who was peaking was a born orator — his mind went back to a certain plain building, whitewashed inside, where the people sat on narrow pews while a man in a black coat thundered and pleaded, threatened, coaxed, and promised, and threatened again. He remembered how that man looked and how his voice resounded in the building. Some of the congregation had already experienced religion ; these groaned, sighed, and murmured ; others were looking for it with anxious hearts; othcr3 only looked on with apathetic faces as if the thing did not concern them in the least. He remembered how they all looked, and how he from his seat in the gallery used to gaze into their faces below and read their thoughts. As this sailor went on, Paul's eyes closed ; ho was again a boy listening to an address for the uncoverted —it was delivered so often, and it converted so few. The arguments wore the same ; his memory took him back to the child who believed and wondered why religion was so long in coming to him, though Bethiah was already converted and was a church member. Then an unexpected phrase brought him back to the Sailors' Home. Why, this man was a preacher indeed. Had the pulpit been occupied by him in the old days Paul must have been converted along ago. He would have become, in fact, a church moinber. Ho would then have stayed in his native town. He would have risen to the proud position of superintendent of the Sunday-school and deacon. Or he might have gone to college and become a minister and preached those same things himself. Then he would have married Bethiah ! Where was Bethiah V And then he would have never seen Hetty ! Now his conversion was impossible. It would interfere too much with his prospects. He had, in fact, other engagements. Paul sighed and returned to business.

The speaker went on. He chained his audience. He forced them to listen. He told them that he had converted every hand aboard the Willing Bride, insomuch that when the men were paid off not one of them was found to go into a public-house nor would a single one venture in RatclilTe Highway, although we now call it by another name. And he said he was going to convert them too, and that right on and without any delay. At the prospect of immediate conversion some of those honest fellows looked blank, remembering what would follow —the renunciation, namely, of all those practices in which they had been accustomed to find their only joy. Not one or two, mind you, because the church of this gospeller is a very strict church indeed, and allows no indulgences at all. No more drink, neither beer nor rum. No more happy gatherings with pipe and pewter in snug back rooms. No more jovial evenings with grog and song and Polly of Poplar and Rosy of Ratcliffe. Poor Polly and Rosy ! Whither would they go 1 What would they do J No more fights ; no more

dances: no more anything. Oh ! my countrymen, what a blank was left! Others again looked as if they were fit to sib upon the stool of repentance. And others, just as it used to be in tha chapel, looked as if salvation belonged to the others and had nothing to do with themselves. The preacher stopped at last, with such a picture of the next world as made one poor lad burst into in a blubber while another trembled and shook. Then he sang a hymn — his voice was strong as well as musical— and then he began to go round and talk to each man in turn, of those who would listen. Most of them, however, broke away from tho circle, which is always the way, and only what every preacher expects. He knelt beside tho boy who wept and prayed for him. He knelt beside the boy who trembled and prayed for him. He knelt in the middle of tho room and prayed aloud for all, and then, his service over, he stood and looked around him with anxious eyes, as if he was still an unprofitable labourer and had neglected much. At this juncture Paul approached him. "I have a message for you," he said. "Have you finished your prayers and preaching ?" " Who are you ?" the sailor replied. "If you come on what the world calls business, you need not deliver that message. Do not speak to mo about moneybestow the money where you please." You do not know me. Ib is no use telling you my name. I come from your sister, not from your lawyer." " I have no sister."

" Don't talk nonsense. You have a sister who is blind and helpless. She wants to see her brother."

'' I have neither father nor mother, brother or sister, or wife. I belong to Christ alone. My hand is to the plough and I must nob turn, aside."

" Come to see your sister. You must. I know you, Sir Percival though you do nob know me.'

"lam no longer Sir Percival. Titles and honours are vain things. lam John Percy, able seaman. I am called to preach the gospel among tho sailors." 'By all means. Ido not ask you to abandon your vocation. I have just heard you preach. You have a very remarkable and persuasive power. You also believe in what you say. I should think that your efforts will be greatly successful. Some of your arguments are fresh, and your illustrations are apt." " I want no man's praise and I heed no man's blame," said the sailor, roughly. " Of course," said Paul, " there is nothing to praise. You have received the conviction of the truth of cortain doctrines ; you have the power of oratory ; you have therefore a natural desire to persuade others ; you have left your estate and the duties to which you were born for the sake of gratifying others: you have become a common sailor for their sake and have learned how to speak to them. There is nothing to praise in this. I did riot say there was. It is all quite common ; anybody could do as much. It is nothing." " Nothing at all," said the sailor, yet with a doubtful look. Could anybody do as much ?

" It would be impossible to persuade you to give up your life. I suppose you know that it will probably encl in being cast away with some ill-found crazy craft i" " It will end as my Master pleases. " Therefore, I do not ask you to giyc up your work for a single day," Paul continued. "I do not ask you to change your dress even. I ask nothing more than that you should pay a single visit, one—to your sister. It will make her profoundly uncomfortable, but she desires it."

'• I cannot leave my people. I am ordered to preach to them day and night. I must be continually in the service of the Master. Oh !" ho tossed his head impatiently, "I have no sister— have no relations at all."

" Your Master does not order you to neglect your sister. It is not as if she was like other girls. Sho is blind, and dependent on others. Come to seo her once, if for an hour only." "Is my sister converted ? Has she been yet convicted of sin V" "I don't know," said Paul. "I never asked her."

" And yourself—are you converted." " No."

" What aro you doing with hor?" " I am on a visit to Lady Augusta." " Ah !" the sailor looked at him fixedly. "I remember now. It is a house filled with devils. They practise forbidden things ; they conjure by means of tables and chairs. Are you one of those who delude and deceive them ?"

"I am not a Medium, if that is what you mean." " There is no voice permitted from the dead to the living. There is no Revelation except the one already made. Nothing can be added to what we know. After death we separate, each to his own place. Between the world and Heaven on the one hand and Hell on the other is a great gulf fixed, so that those in Hell cannot hear tho hymns of the saved, nor do those in Heaven hear the cries of the lost. It is vain and impious to inquire. Is my sister saved 2" " I do not know."

"I will see her," said Sir Pereival. "I may leave my work, provided that I cease nob from the task of saving souls alive. Think not that my sister's soul is any more precious to me than any soul among those poor fellows. All are alike in the eyes of Him who made them. Yet I will see hor, and if it is permitted, I will move her to repentance. We have talked enough. Tell her I wish to see her."

" When will you scoher ?'

"I do not know. When I am commanded," lie replied, with the light of fanaticism in his eyes. " I cannot promiso."

"You might come, for instanco, when she was not at home. It would bo a pity to waste your time.'

Sir Pereival seemed struck with this objection. It did not seem to him that if lie was commanded to go tho order would not be issued for a time when Ciccly was not at home.

" Will you come when I send you word ?" Paul asked. "Not to-day or to-morrow, because it is obvious that you are very much occupied with your labours. I wish they may meet with every successbut a little later."

" Send me word and I will como. Let mo look at you. I know you now— know you"—his eyes shot fire, and he recoiled as ono starts back at tho sight of a deadly snake; and then he assumed the attitude of one who is going for that snake to make an unpleasant minute for the creature.

" I remember you now. I remember where I saw you. Oh ! you are yourself one of those who go about to deceive. That house attracts everything that is of tho Devil. You are an emissary of the Devil. The house has been filled with devils invisible. Now it is a Devil incarnate in you. Is my sister in your hands ? Then I must lias ten to take her away from you. Liar and Deceiver !—go !"

Contrary to reasonable expectation, Paul did not fly at his throat. He staggered, hesitated, and then obeyed, leaving the place with no dignity at all. Outside, he felt mean. His early teaching, suddenly and vividly brought back to his mind, mado the —while he was still under the impression of that memory—fall upon his soul like a lash laid across his shoulders. They wero ignominious and humiliating words; ho ought to have hurled them back again. He didn't, because he couldn't. Emissary of the Devil ! Liar and Deceiver ! Alas ! while the old chapel was still in his mind could he deny those words ? Alas ! again—in the old days when he attended that chapel, if anyone had called him a Liar and a Deceiver, ho would certainly have gone for that accuser with any weapon that he could catch up.

He walked away, but the stiffening was out of his back; he was limp; he had meekly borne a most deadly insult. And what did the man mean when he said that he remembered him ? What did he remember ? The day of final triumph was rapidly approaching and he could not afford any awkward memories to come along. Paul not only felt mean and small; ho felt uneasy. [To be continued.]