were, and how utterly unworthy. Dissent was convinced that Episcopacy was wrong; Methodism sprang from a sense of personal guilt. Dissent discussed schemes of church government, as if the salvation of the world depended upon certain forms; Methodism had one object, to save souls and inculcate personal holiness. Dissent boldly separated herself from the Church; Methodism clung with loving affection to her mother. Her separation was gradual, and accompanied with fond regrets.”
“I like that reasoning, Miss Fontaine.”
“Do not give me credit for it; it comes from those who have authority to speak upon such matters. But ought not a young lady to know as much about the origin and constitution of her Church as of her country?”
“I suppose she ought. What do you say, Miss Hallam?”
“That I will begin and study the history of my Church. I am ashamed to say I know nothing about it.”
“And I say that I will look into Methodism a little. John Wesley, as a man, has always possessed a great attraction to me. It was a pity he left the Church.”
“But he never did leave it. Just as St. Peter and St. Paul and St. John went up to the temple at Jerusalem to pray, so Wesley, until the very last, frequented the Church ordinances. I think he was really a very High-Churchman. He was even prejudiced against Presbyterians; and a very careless reader of his works must see that he was deeply impressed with the importance of Episcopacy, and that he regarded it as an apostolic institution. If he were to return to this world again, he would undoubtedly give in his membership to the American Methodist Episcopal Church.”
“But remember how he countenanced field-preaching and religious services without forms.”
“Do you think it a sin to save souls out of church? Don’t you think the Sermon on the Mount a very fair precedent in favor of field-preaching?”
“Miss Fontaine, you argue like a woman. That question is not in logical sequence. Here come Mr. Fontaine and the squire. I hope some other time you will allow me to resume this conversation.”
The squire’s face brightened when he saw the rector. “A ‘good-evening,’ parson. Thou thought I’d be in a bit o’ trouble to-night, didn’t ta?”
“I knew your kind heart, squire, and that it would be sad for Martha and Ben Craven to-night.”
“Ay, to be sure.” He had clasped Phyllis’s hand in one of his own, and turned round with the party; as he did so, drawing the rector’s attention by a significant glance to Elizabeth, who had fallen behind with Richard.
“I am very glad if that is the case, squire.”
“Ay, it pleases me, too. But about poor Martha, hev you seen her?”
“She wishes to be alone.”
“And no wonder. I’m sure I don’t know whativer must be done.”
“Perhaps the queen will have mercy.”
“Mercy! He’ll get a life sentence, if that is mercy. Hanging isn’t any better than its called, I’ll be bound; but if I was Ben, I’d a-deal rather be hung, and done wi’ it. That I would!”
“I think Ben Craven will yet be proved innocent. His mother is sure of it, uncle.”
“That’s t’ way wi’ a mother. You can’t make ’em understand—they will hang on.”
“Yes,” said the rector. “Mother-love almost sees miracles.”
“Mother-love does see miracles,” answered Phyllis. “The mother of Moses would ‘hang on,’ as uncle defines it, and she saw a miracle of salvation. So did the Shunammite mother, and the Syro-phoenician mother, and millions of mothers before and since. Just as long as Martha hopes, I shall hope; and just as long as Martha prays, she will hope.”
“Does ta think Martha can pray against t’ English Constitution?”
“I heard the rector praying against the atmospheric laws last Sunday, and you said every word after him, uncle. When you prayed for fine weather to get the hay in, did you expect it in spite of all the conditions against it—falling barometer, gathering clouds? If you did, you were expecting a miracle.”
“Ay, I told t’ beadle, mysen, that there wasn’t a bit o’ good praying for fine weather as long as t’ wind kept i’ such a contrary quarter; and it’s like enough to rain to-night again, and heigh, for sure! its begun mizzling. We’ll hev to step clever, or we’ll be wet before we reach t’ hall.”
The rector smiled at the squire’s unconscious statement of his own position; but the rain was not to be disregarded, and, indeed, before they reached shelter the ladies’ dresses were wet through, and there was so many evidences of a storm that the rector determined to stay all night with his friends. When Elizabeth and Phyllis came down in dry clothing, they found a wood fire crackling upon the hearth, and a servant laying the table for supper.
“Elizabeth, let’s hev that round o’ spiced beef, and some cold chicken, and a bit o’ raspberry tart, and some clouted cream, if there’s owt o’ t’ sort in t’ buttery. There’s nothing like a bit o’ good eating, if there’s owt wrong wi’ you.”
The rector and the squire were in their slippers, on each side of the ample hearth, and they had each, also, a long, clean, clay pipe in their mouth. The serenity of their faces, and their air of thorough comfort was a delightful picture to Phyllis. She placed herself close to her uncle, with her head resting on his shoulder. The two men were talking in easy, far-apart sentences of “tithes,” and, as the subject did not interest her, she let her eyes wander about the old room, noting its oaken walls, richly carved and almost black with age, and its heavy oaken furniture, the whole brightened up with many-colored rugs, and the gleaming silver and crystal on the high sideboard, and the gay geraniums and roses in the deep bay windows. The table, covered with snowy damask, seemed a kind of domestic altar, and Phyllis thought she had never seen Elizabeth look so grandly fair and home-like as she did that hour, moving about in the light of the fire and candles. She did not wonder that Richard heard nothing of the conversation, and that his whole attention was given to his promised wife.
The squire got the delicacies he wanted, and really it appeared as if his advice was very good medicine. Happiness, hope, and a sense of gratitude was in each heart. The old room grew wonderfully cozy and bright; the faces that gathered round the table and the fire were full of love, and sweet, reasonable contentment. When supper was over Richard and Elizabeth went quietly into the great entrance hall, where there was always a little fire burning. They had their own hopes and joys, in which no heart, however near and dear, could intermeddle, and this was fully recognized. Phyllis only gave them a bright smile as they withdrew. The squire ignored their absence; Antony was at Eltham; for an hour the two little groups were as happy as mortals may be.
The rector had another pipe after supper, and still talked fitfully about “tithes.” It seemed to be a subject which fitted in comfortably to the pauses in a long pipe. But when he had finished his “thimbleful” of tobacco, and shaken out its ashes carefully, he looked at Phyllis with a face full of renewed interest, and said,
“Squire, do you know that your niece thinks John Wesley was a High-Churchman?”
“What I meant, sir, was this: Wesley had very decided views in favor of the Episcopacy. He would suffer none to lay unconsecrated hands upon the sacraments; and in personal temperament, I think he was as ascetic as any monk.”
“Do you think, then, that if he had lived before the Reformation he might have founded an order of extreme rigor, say, like La Trappe?”
“No, indeed, sir! He might have founded an order, and it would, doubtless, have been a rigorous one; but it would not have been one shut up behind walls. It would have been a preaching order, severely disciplined, perhaps, but burning with all the zeal of the Redemptionist Fathers on a mission.”
The squire patted the little hand, which