know, Clement, I always say that your story is
better worth hearing than any sermon; and you
have not the dislike to speak of it that many
might have in your place."

The man drew himself up, and laying down
the leather with which he had been polishing,
surveyed me thoughtfully, as though measuring
my mind with his own, to see whether we
could in any way fit in, so to speak. Then,
turning to Mr. Bertram, he answered:

"I've no dislike now, sir. I had once, when
opinion was more to me than it will ever be
again. You see, I've lived down all that—lived
it down long."

He spoke with a certain grave decision; like
one who has reflected upon, and is satisfied
with, his own conclusions. I began to feel an
interest in him, and a conviction that his story
would be worth hearing.

I will not repeat the conversation that followed,
but proceed to give that story as nearly
as possible in his own words.

"My father was a small working carpenter,
and I may say a thoroughly honest man. He
and mother prided themselves on the character
they bore, and on having always kept clear of
the parish—no easy matter in those days. We
lived in a crowded and unhealthy part of B—,
and our windows, like many in the court, looked
on to a burying-ground, which was so choked
up with graves, that skulls and bones were
constantly being turned up when they went to make
a fresh one. The neighbourhood was seldom
free from one kind of fever or another, and
children died off there sadly. Mother always said
it was the bad air from the graveyard that
killed her three children, coming between me
and little baby Betsy, and that kept her so weak
and ailing herself. But though she often talked
with father of moving to a healthier quarter,
they never did so, for the very bad name of our
place made the rent cheaper, and we had no
money to spare for moving. It was not till the
year of the dreadful fever which raged in B—,
and struck down more than a third of the folks in
our court, that the authorities turned their
attention to the fearful state of those crowded
dwellings, and the unwholesome atmosphere
that surrounded them; and caused the cemetery
to be finally closed. Alas! for too many that
precaution came too late!

"I was just fifteen at that time; and for two
years had regularly attended the Reverend
Ernest Penrhyn's Sunday school, as well as
certain evening lectures organised by him in
our district. He was only a curate, and a very
poor one; but so remarkable a man, that
perhaps before I speak of what he did, I had better
say something of what he was.

"There are some human beings, whom the
Almighty has gifted with a strange power of
leading their fellow-men, not by words alone, nor
even example, but by some innate faculty they
possess, of which they themselves are often
scarcely conscious. Mr. Penrhyn was one of
these. Simple, truthful, indescribably earnest, he
never seemed to bestow a thought upon himself.

His whole heart was in his work; and he gloried
in that, with a great pride—a most entire
devotion. Early and late he was about it, scarcely
seeming to feel fatigue. Wherever there was
suffering or need, there you found him, helping,
advising, encouraging. He was the most cheery
of human beings. I have seen other excellent
clergymen, doing their work in a faithful spirit,
but I never saw one who laboured with such
real love for his duty as he did. It was that
love which kept him. up, often under a degree
of pressure that would have crushed many a
stronger man. He had a young wife, who was
indeed his helpmeet. The bishop was once heard
to say that Mrs. Penrhyn was as good as two
ordinary curates; and he spoke the truth. She
was sweet to look upon; with dark hair and
eyes, and fresh blooming cheeks that reminded
you of opening roses. He, on the contrary, was
fair, somewhat pale, with kind blue eyes, golden
hair, and a general delicacy of look that struck
you painfully. He was about thirty-five at the
time of which I speak; she some six years
younger. Sir, I wish I could bring that pair
before you, as I used to see them—as I see
them now. They were indeed lovely and pleasant
in their outward appearance, and still more so
in their lives."

The man paused. His gaze was upon me,
but he did not even see me. He was looking
far back through the vista of years into the
past. And I can hardly describe how, as he
proceeded in his narrative, he drew me along with
him, especially when he spoke of the Penrhyns,
causing me to picture them as he beheld them,
and to sympathise with every feeling of his that
they called forth. He spoke with extreme
quietness, as well as self-possession; seldom
making even a grammatical error—never using
a vulgar expression; but sometimes, when his
feelings were more than usually affected, his
voice would rise, his eyes kindle with a glowing
light, and he would become at once both graphic
and eloquent. The longer I listened, the more
I felt that this was indeed no ordinary man.

"I can hardly tell you, sir, how we boys
loved Mr. Penrhyn—the master, as we called
him. When first he came to that district there
had been some unruly spirits who had tried to
ridicule his efforts and his teaching; but he soon
got the better of those, partly by firmness, partly
by love. (He could be firm enough, and angry
enough too, on occasion.) But now he had it
all his own way in the schools; for, you see, we
were so entirely convinced of his excellence,
and that whatever he did was done out of a
loving interest for our good, that we followed
him blindly, as the young will follow a leader
they both reverence and regard. And it was
not only in school-hours that we saw him. At
his lectures, his evening meetings, his visits at
our homes, we were accustomed to speak to him
freely and without fear. He liked it. He used
to say that his boys should consult him in everything
their pleasures as well as their duties,
and in time the two might become identical.
And we did so. He would take the same pains