the rough young fishermen who tried their rude fashion of courtship with her. For Leah Richard Herford was still alive, and certain to come home sooner or later. Probably she was the only person in Herford who really believed him to be alive, or wished for his return.

CHAPTER XI.-OLD FOSSE'S TEMPLE.

IMMEDIATELY below the cliff on which Herford Court was built a tongue of rugged crags stretched out abruptly into the sea, rising at the end into a precipitous platform about a hundred feet from the water. On this platform stood the lighthouse which old Martha Dart preferred as a place of worship to the church in which Mr. Cunliffe officiated. A narrow path ran along the lower edge of the ridge, which was never quite under water, though in stormy weather the surf and foam broke over it in such a manner as to make the lighthouse keeper's task far from pleasant. But since Justin came into his kingdom he had made the path secure and safe by strong walls built on each side, founded so firmly on the living rock that old Jeremy Fosse had been able to set up his Sunday evening meetings without fear of being left without a congregation.

The lantern hill, with its old chapel converted into a lighthouse, had always been a favourite haunt of the Herford fishermen. But as for the women, it was only on the fairest and mildest of summer evenings that they were to be found among Jeremy's hearers; Martha Dart made her appearance there not more than once or twice in the year.

When Mr. Cunliffe left his incorrigible parishioner, Martha Dart, he turned his steps towards the lighthouse. It was a fair, sunny day late in February; the gorse bushes were ready to burst into golden bloom, and the buds on every bush and tree were beginning to thicken and glisten in the warm sun-light. The vicar passed along with a vague mournfulness of spirit, altogether at variance with

the joyousness of the coming spring. He was not sure to find Jeremy Fosse at his post, but the lantern hill was a favourite spot of his own; for beneath the old grey building was a stone bench, where he and Justin had spent many an hour in friendly communion, and from which the sunset could be seen, even so early in the year, flinging its ruddy streaks upon the waves. In another hour the sun would sink below the unbroken line of the sea; and he paced along slowly with long deliberate strides across the ridge, where, on either side of him, the tide was washing up softly and secretly against the cruel rocks. He fancied he was meditating; but the lulling murmur of the waters had cunningly stolen away his thoughts, and left him mechanically repeating over and over again the words of some old rhyme which had taken possession of his brain. It was only when he turned the point of the road, and saw old Fosse mending nets on his favourite seat, that his mind was aroused again.

Jeremy Fosse was not as old as many of the men in Herford, but he had been called old so long that it had become part of his proper name. He was a tall, athletic man, between sixty and seventy years of age, with a brown, honest, weather-beaten face, hair bleached white as snow, and blue eyes, still keen and sharp enough to discern objects far out at sea without his telescope. Possibly he had earned his epithet "old" from having set himself up early as a teacher of others. He had joined the Methodists of Lowborough when there was a drunken and swearing vicar of Herford, in old Richard Herford's bachelor days; and his affection for Justin and reverence of Philip Cunliffe had not shaken his loyalty to his early choice. He had been a local preacher for the Methodists at a time when to be that exposed him to ill-will and persecution in his native village; but he had never wavered. He had forsaken neither his village, nor his work as a preacher in it; and his dogged perseverance and undoubted courage had prevailed over his persecutors in the long run.

Justin had always felt a strong friendship for old Fosse, even as a lad, when he had stolen within earshot of his out-door preaching, and found it more interesting than the more literary sermons of the vicar. Old Fosse was also an excellent authority about the weather and the tides, and he had been the best fisherman in the village, until a sharp attack of rheumatic fever had laid him low, and made it dangerous for him to resume

his old occupation. Justin had then made him keeper of the lighthouse, where, as he said gratefully, he had always a good roof over his head, and strong walls to keep the wintry storms out. No danger of old Fosse neglecting his duties as the last keeper had done.

Mr. Cunliffe had found more real friendship with Jeremy Fosse than with any other of his parishioners; and old Fosse prized his friendship next to Justin's. Ever since Justin had become vicar of Herford he had led the choir at the morning service, though he could not be present in the afternoon; for he was appointed by the Methodist minister at Lowborough to preach in distant villages, often having to walk five or six miles after his preaching was over, and hasten back without resting, to kindle his lamp in the lighthouse and hold his own special service there. This February afternoon, as his clergyman approached him, he stood up and took off his knitted woollen cap, whilst a bright light came into his blue eyes, which were growing a little sunken under his white eyebrows.

"It's a rare sight always, sir," he said, after they had shaken hands cordially, and Mr. Cunliffe had taken a seat beside him; “it's a rare sight is the sea! I'd never grow weary of it. It's part of the Lord's speech that He's utterin' to us day after day; but oh, what a world o' meanin' there is in every word of it! I wonder sometimes if I shall make it out through all eternity. Sometimes it seems to mean perfect peace, and sunshine, and love, and praise; and it looks like unto the sea o' crystal mingled with fire, stretchin' out before the throne o' God, with the harpers standin' on it, harping with their harps. And then a change comes, and it's all wild, and cruel, and ragin', and like unto the wicked that have no peace, and it's constantly castin' up mire and dirt; and I say in my heart, Thank God, there'll be no more sea o' wickedness, but there'll be a sea o' glass before the throne.' Ah, there's a meanin' in every look of it, if I could only make it

out."

"Jeremy," said Mr. Cunliffe abruptly," what sort of lad was young Richard Herford ?"

"Why," answered old Fosse, "he was like the sea when it's all foam, and froth, and breakers, and mischief. He was never quiet, was Master Dick. If I'd only know of his repentance I could almost wish him safe in Abraham's bosom with poor beggar Lazarus. It 'ud be a rare bad thing for Herford if he ever came back troublin'; even if he'd got

conversion he'd always be a light-headed, skittish fellow; like the silly women that Paul says are ever learnin', and never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.' Some folks need a deal o' conversion, and he'd be one of them. He'd want convertin' scores o' times before he'd leave off backslidin.' No, no; pray God Master Dick may never come back to Herford!"

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Why, Jeremy!" exclaimed Mr. Cunliffe, "are you setting your face against a prodigal?"

"No, sir; not if he be a true prodigal," he answered; "let him come home a true prodigal, willin' to be one of th' hired servants, and he'd be welcome. But Master Dick 'ud never be like that. In these times prodigals are quite angered if they don't find the fatted calf cooked at once for 'em, and rings ready for their fingers, and the easiest shoes for their feet. They think it a far finer thing to have gone away and wasted their substance in riotous livin', than to have stayed quiet at home, like th' elder brother that was always with his father. And there are folks that teach as much. The greater the sinner the greater the saint,' they say. No, I say; the saints o' the Bible were never great sinners to begin with. There's Abraham, and Moses, and Daniel, and the prophets, and John and his fellow disciples. I'd not trust to Master Dick ever bein' much of a saint; but Master Justin, God bless him, isn't far off the kingdom o' heaven; he's very nigh its gates." "Not inside yet?" asked Mr. Cunliffe with a smile.

"Folks aren't altogether sure," answered old Fosse; "there was a talk just at first, a bit o' whisperin' talk, that Master Justin didn't seem quite easy about taking the place. We were all hearkenin' out for some fresh news, either as Master Dick was come, or Master Justin would na' enter altogether into full possession. There were folks as said the Darts knew where he was bidin'; but it's ten years ago now since his father died, and no news of him yet. It was his own father that ruined him; for 'He that spareth his rod hateth his son; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.''

A slight shadow of anxiety flitted across the vicar's face, as the thought of his own children rapidly crossed his mind. He was well aware that they never received any chastisement from himself, beyond a mild rebuke, which was seldom heeded.

"It's a hard thing to be a good father," he said.

"Ay, so it is," assented old Fosse; "it's not a easy thing to be good at aught; even a good lighthouse man. Now and again I leave my oil-can till there's barely enow' to keep my lamps burnin' all night. I sometimes do wonder that the Lord said as half the virgins were wise, and only half of 'em foolish. If He'd a said nine out o' the ten were foolish, it 'ud have seemed more life-like. I've had to melt down all sorts o' grease to keep my light up, and all because o' my own folly. There's plenty of oil kept up at the Court for me if I'd only recollect it betimes; but instead o' that I've been forced to take my wife's grease, ay, and the butter too once. I made a kind of a parable of it the next Sunday, and told 'em how we were forced to use up our own good things to keep our lamps a burnin' if we neglected goin' to Him as was willin' and eager to give us the best of oil. God Almighty doesn't wish to take away His gifts, our boats, and nets, and flocks, and houses, and children; but if we won't keep our lamps burnin' for want of the oil He's ready to give us into th' bargain, we're forced to use up those other gifts of His. That seemed to take hold on them, sir. My wife didn't mind the loss of her butter when she saw what came of it; but she takes care I'm never out of oil since then."

"Have you many of the men up here on Sunday nights?" asked Mr. Cunliffe.

"Mostly the wastrels," he replied, "them as would come whether there's meetin' or no ; them as have no pleasant fireside, and them as are out at service with the farmers, and

them as love to keep a watch o'er the sea. A few of the lasses and women come in the summer, but I give them no encouragement; it's like havin' them in the forecastle. Keep to your own deck, says I. There's the church, with a good roof and comfortable seats, and plenty o' light, and no slippy path to travel along, shriekin' if they slip on a bit of seaweed. My wife goes to church quite regular. If there was nobody but a dumb dog at church, as there used to be, why, my duty would be different, or if there was a wolf in sheep's clothing-women's souls are as worthy as men's. But you've been here hard upon eight years, and if you can na' lead 'em the right way I'm afraid I canna'."

Old Fosse had spoken out of the fulness of his heart, and the vicar neither misunderstood him nor felt offended with him, though he smiled with a sudden sense of humour quickly repressed. The sun had gone down while they were talking, and he went indoors with Fosse to kindle the lamp in the small, square tower. It was no dwelling-place, but simply the four bare walls of the old chapel, with a small stove in one corner, and a single chair and table beside it. A few rude benches stretched across the room; planks, with the bark left on the under side, supported on rough logs. At the western end rose the belfry, now the lighthouse tower, with a ladder leading up into it. This was old Fosse's temple.

CHAPTER XII.-MRS. CUNLIFFE'S CHICKENS. OLD Fosse's home was in a little cottage, scarcely a gun-shot away, but well sheltered from the fury of the winds and waves which beat against the lantern-hill. Behind it a meadow sloped up the cliff; and before it lay a little plot of garden, never touched by the salt tides, but kept always cool and green by the moist breezes sweeping across the sea. Mrs. Cunliffe had been to visit Mrs. Fosse this very afternoon. A very quiet woman was old Fosse's wife, a little older than himself, and accustomed to regard him somewhat as an indulgent mother regards a grown-up son, whom she has spoiled a little in his young days. She usually left him to talk, while she sat by in silence, with a placid smile of approbation and pride on her tranquil face. But when Mrs. Cunliffe met with her alone, it was necessary to exert herself, and play the hostess to the best of her ability to the vicar's lady. She placed her in the arm-chair nearest to the fire, and put on an additional log before taking a seat herself.

"Mrs. Fosse," said Mrs. Cunliffe in her low, hushed voice, "wherever I go I hear nothing but praises of your fine breed of chickens. Mrs. Fosse's chickens are talked of all round the country. Mrs. Herford was talking to me about them; and Miss Pansy said, 'It's no use trying to rear them yourself. Old Martha Dart has never managed it, and she's lived all her life among poultry.' But I own I should like to try for once, Mrs. Fosse."

"It's quite easy, ma'am," she answered. "I do so wish you would sell me just a dozen of your eggs!" continued Mrs. Cunliffe. "I'm paying tenpence a dozen for eggs just now, an enormous price for a country place like this, and for poor people like us. Nobody knows what it is to be a poor vicar's wife, with such a family as ours. But I shouldn't mind paying as much as a penny a-piece for your eggs, Mrs. Fosse."

A penny each was a small price for Mrs. Fosse's brood eggs, which were eagerly sought for by all the farmer's wives in the neighbourhood; but she smiled placidly.

"I'll bring you up a dozen, ma'am," she replied.

"Yes, do please," said Mrs. Cunliffe; “I shall be so delighted to have a fine brood of chickens. But, dear me! if Martha Dart cannot rear them, how can I, who never attempted such a thing in my life? Besides, now I come to think about it, there is not a hen inclined to sit. Have you any hens inclined to sit, Mrs. Fosse?" "There's Snowdrop, my little white hen, is about to sit, ma'am," she said.

"Well now, dear Mrs. Fosse! could you be so very good as to let her hatch my eggs, only just hatch them, you know? I could manage them after they were hatched, oh ! quite well, I know. So don't bring the eggs up to the vicarage; but put them under Snowdrop for me. You are very good, Mrs. Fosse; very good indeed. But I'm always saying what a favourite your good old husband is with the vicar. Ah, Mrs. Fosse, it isn't poor people that know what poverty really is."

"Thank God, my husband and me aren't poor, ma'am," she replied with a quiet twinkle in her eyes.

"Ah! that's exactly what I feel,” observed Mrs. Cunliffe sighing; "here you are so easy and comfortable in your cottage, with your flitch of bacon in the rack, and your fine breed of poultry, and your potato patch, and your garden, with all your possessions around you. No, these are not the poor people, I