There is no doubt he has a natural right to everything; and in many lands he would have the legal right. English law, however, steps in, and says every man may do as he likes with his own, with certain restrictions. He may indeed limit his successor to a life interest only in his estate, and entail it upon others. Dick's ancestors might have done this; and his father could not have disinherited him. But they each left their successor free; and you have reaped the benefit. Still the natural right remains the same. What my father and forefathers gained ought to be mine, not another man's. I considered old Herford's will unjust, and I did my utmost to get him to alter it. You must take all these circumstances into calm and fair consideration, Justin."

"Do you think me covetous?" asked Justin, with a half smile.

"No," answered his uncle, in a dubious tone, "but you know the value of money. You only reckon twenty shillings to the pound, while poor Dick counts five-andtwenty. Covetous? Why, no! Not miserly nor greedy. About as covetous, I suppose, as other men, who have a good, snug income in their hands and are making a good use of it. You were always afraid of being poor, when you were quite a little lad."

"Was I?" he asked sorrowfully.

"Well! You have the eyes of all the country upon you," said Mr. Watson, "there's nothing else talked about at Lowborough. I am satisfied you will deal liberally with your brother, whether you love him or not. I always feel sorry for that elder brother in the parable, you know, who stayed at home, and was good to his father; and when young scapegrace turned up again, and all the house went mad over him, I don't wonder he was angry. It was all right for the father to be glad; but brothers are different. I hope he made the best of it however; and you will do the same, Justin."

Mrs.

steady refusal to accompany him. Cunliffe could not think of quitting Herford whilst a storm was hanging over it which might sweep away her own welfare in its swift career.

From the time that Justin had given up the living, it had been his practice to take his friend's duty in his absence. As soon as the office ceased to be compulsory it became a pleasure to him. He had a sense of solemn enjoyment in standing up among his own people, and leading their prayers, like the princes of old, who were also the priests of their subjects. The villagers on their part, liked to look up occasionally to Master Justin in the pulpit; though on the whole they were inclined to be more critical of his sermons, than of their vicar's. "Master Cunliffe's head has got only one thing inside it," they were wont to say, "but Master Justin's got fifty. We cannot look for as much from him." Justin knew quite well their estimate of his ministrations; but he knew also they enjoyed them as much as he did. He could not be jealous of his friend's superiority on his own ground.

There was a great concourse of curious people the Sunday of Mr. Cunliffe's absence. What brought some of them there, they could not tell themselves. Mr. Watson had driven over from Lowborough. Leah Dart had walked along the cliffs from Rillage; and still more strange, Diana Lynn had come, and was seated beside Pansy in the Court pew. The crowded congregation filling every nook of the little church struck Justin with an unusual sense of awe. There was scarcely a strange face among them; but he felt as if it would have been an easy task to face strangers in the stead of these neighbours and dependants, looking up at him with their keen and eager gaze. Their thoughts had been occupied on the same topic as his own. They had been trying him, and sitting in judgment upon him; though as yet their verdict was in suspense. It required a great effort to steady his voice and read the old familiar words.

An ever-growing gloom and heaviness of spirit oppressed him. He feared that it must make itself heard in the tones of his voice, and visible in the expression of his face. He struggled to get the mastery over himself, and he partly succeeded. But who was he, that he should seem thus to stand between God and man? Why should his voice, rather than any other, be lifted up in the solemn accents of prayer? All the week he had been in conflict on the battle

Then there rushed through his mind the recollection that he had once filled this place, and quitted it, to go up, as he thought, to a higher. He had ceased to be the vicar of Herford in order to become its master. The broad acres, with their promising outlets into worldly prosperity, had seemed better to him, more worthy of his powers, than the charge of these poor peasant souls. It was true he had given to them a better pastor than he had been himself. Yet all the same, his own choice had been the owning of lands, and the possession of influence and reputation, and the good things of this life. He had deluded himself with the fancy that he was serving God. He had in fact been serving Mammon.

How he got through the service, and the sermon that followed it, he could not tell. All the faces below him blended into a confused mass, as he repeated mechanically the words that his eye fell upon. He felt glad when it was over to take refuge in the vestry, and sit there in a blank stupor. The old sexton came in, when the congregation had dispersed, but he bade him go, and leave the key in the church door. Pansy tapped at the window, and his eyes were lifted to her sweet face, looking in upon him through the dim panes; but he only shook his head at her invitation to walk up the cliff with her and Diana. How quickly would he cut the knot he could not untie, but for Diana and Pansy! How joyfully would he go back to his old despised post of vicar of Herford, could he but blot out these last few years!

the sun.

The bells did not ring for afternoon service; and the news ran from lip to lip that Master Justin was not well enough to do the vicar's duty again. Such a circumstance had never occurred before, and it seemed as astonishing and portentous as an eclipse of Moreover he was remaining alone in the vestry, with the door locked inside. Mr. Cunliffe was known to indulge in long spells of meditation and prayer inside the church, with the key turned to prevent intrusion. But Master Justin was altogether a different personage. There must be something amiss.

A large number of strangers had come again for the afternoon prayers; and there was a good deal of visiting of neighbours in consequence. The early tea-tables of the

guessing going on, and a fine thrill almost of terror. Could it be true, as Leah Dart had said, that Master Dick was going to law to turn out his elder brother? And did Master Justin feel somehow that he was in the wrong? Why could not they share and share alike? If they went to law they would lose all their money no doubt; and what would become of Herford then? It was quite clear, in any case, that something must be going to happen.

The day was still warm and bright at seven o'clock, the hour for old Fosse's meeting. There were more people than usual wending their way along the rocky pathway on the lantern-hill, for they eagerly needed a centre for meeting, and old Fosse was sure of having some very clear opinions of his own. Leah Dart had been spending the day with her mother, who made her appearance with her, feeling that once a year it was incumbent upon her to pay her duty to the Almighty, by listening to a few good words; and she preferred old Fosse's good words to Mr. Cunliffe's more regular and more cultivated ministrations. Mrs. Fosse locked up her straying poultry, and went with her husband to the lighthouse. The ancient chapel was as full as it had ever been in the days when the most popular preaching friar had called his congregation together, by the tinkling of the bell in the low, square belfry. Jeremy took up his post on the threshold, as being the most convenient spot from which to address his hearers, and from which he commanded a view of the rocky pathway leading up to the lighthouse.

It was a little after seven in the evening when Justin left the church, and was seen by many inquisitive eyes to saunter down to the beach slowly and languidly. He turned mechanically to the path up the Lantern-hill. It had been a favourite haunt of his since his early boyhood. The little tongue of rock stretching out into the water was ordinarily quiet and deserted, and from the far end all view of the village was cut off, and there was nothing to be seen except cliff and sea. Justin had forgotten it was Sunday evening. He was so absorbed in the conflict still raging within him that he could not give a thought either to the time or place. He was going on, like a man deaf and blind, who is led by some friendly hand which has grown so familiar that he hardly feels its clasp. It was here he had come the night old Herford died, and he was coming again, half-unconsciously, to knit up the ravelled memories of

the past. But as he came below the lighthouse, he was startled out of his reverie by the sound of voices.

Old Fosse's sunburnt face and silvery head stood out clearly against the grey and weather-stained stones of the ancient porch. There was an expression of placid happiness upon his face. He saw Justin at the foot of the steep rocky staircase, and he beckoned to him to come up with a gesture of welcome, though he did not pause in giving out the hymn that was about to be sung by the congregation within. Justin could distinguish a crowd of men and women in comparative darkness within the lighthouse, swaying to and fro with the energy in which they put their whole strength of voice into the singing. It was the custom still in that remote country place for two lines, or half a verse, to be read out aloud by the preacher and sung by the people, producing a quaint alternation of full-toned singing and quiet speech. Fosse was reading in rapturous tones as Justin mounted the steps

'No foot of land do I possess ;
No dwelling in the wilderness;
A poor, wayfaring man!"

Whilst these lines were being sung, with many an old-fashioned quaver, he offered half his book to Justin, as he had often done when the master of Herford had been a boy, before he had gone to college and taken orders. The memory of those days brought a smile to his worn face, as he took his place beside old Fosse. The heart of the old fisherman glowed with delight. Master Justin was as dear to him as his own son could have been, and he felt no embarrassment at the idea of preaching before him. When Fosse was preaching, no thought of himself could intrude. He spoke to his little congregation as he would have talked to each man singly, if he had been sitting beside him on the rude bench under the lighthouse wall. Now as Justin sat just within the porch, old Fosse stood on the threshold, and with his white head thrown back and his every feature bright with inward gladness, he prepared to address his uneducated audience. There had been a slight stir and commotion amongst the people at sight of Justin, but it quickly subsided into decorous tranquillity, and the pleasant, cheery tones of old Fosse alone broke the silence.

CHAPTER XXVIII.-OLD FOSSE'S SERMON. "AND when Jesus saw that, He was very sorrowful, and said, How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the kingdom of

God! For it is easier for a camel to go through a needle's eye, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God!'

"Jesus was very sorrowful when he saw that! What do you s'pose he saw? The poor widow that had only a mite, all the livin' she had, and she put that into the treasury box? Or the blind beggars, poor men! sittin' by the roadside beggin'? Or that sick woman, which had suffered many things of many physicians, and spent all she had, and was nothin' bettered, but rather grew worse? Or did he look into that bag Judas took care of, which was so often empty? Or was He thinkin' of his own disciples, that had neither silver nor brass in their purses? P'raps, if we'd been set to guess, we should have guessed any o' these. Or we might have guessed He was thinkin' how lonesome He was, and how far from His Father and His Father's house. Jesus. was very sorrowful, but it was for none of these things. He had just seen a rich man ! "Ah! the dear Lord was thinkin' about rich men. A minute before He felt so sorrowful, one o' them had come to Him, very eager to learn how to win eternal life. He was a young man, a ruler, with plenty of power, and I dare say he ruled over his folks quite well and justly; better than most men, p'raps. There's not a word said against him by anybody. We know he wasn't too much set up by bein' a ruler; for he comes runnin' to Jesus, and kneelin' down to Him in the way; ay! kneelin' in the sight of all th' crowd, and on the dusty road, just like the poor leper that once came to Jesus, beseechin' Him, and kneelin' down to Him, and sayin' unto Him, "If thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.' No, no; he didn't give himself airs, though he was a ruler and a rich man.

He knew Jesus could tell him how to win eternal life; and he was not too grand to kneel down for such a blessin' as that.

"Ay! and Jesus beholdin' him, loved him. Loved him; think of that! Jesus loves us, every one, thank God! but maybe there was somethin' very special about this young man, that made him very pleasant in the Lord's eyes. We all know what it is to see some kind, sweet face, like our Miss Pansy's, God bless her! and we love it all in a moment, without stoppin' to think why. We know Jesus loved His disciple John and chose him to sit beside Him at supper, and let him rest his head upon His bosom. And he loved this young ruler. Poor rich young man! He might have had the Lord Jesus Christ