spectators and the persons who came to hear the
band: but the cathedral gathered all ages, sexes,
and conditions. It was best, therefore, and only
respectful, to be as effective as possible. Their
father put it better and more forcibly still, when
he said: "We put on our fine clothes for you
and me—for the lord-lieutenant of the county, or
for the general of the district—and shall we not
put them on for the Maker of all?" And with
his stick Mr. Tilney pointed towards the ceiling,
in the direction of an upper room.

They went to the cathedral along a little cross
path in a sort of procession, two and two, each
lady with a gentleman. Mr. Tillotson was to
have walked with Mrs. Tilney, but by some
accident that lady was a little late, and he found
himself beside the golden-haired girl of the
house. As she walked, the sunlight that tipped
the hands of the clock high up on the cathedral,
revelled in the golden foliage of her hair. This
was pale and yet rich gold. It was a feast for
the eye.

The shrill speeches of the other girls, whom
the continual humour of Mr. Spring and Mr.
Still were causing to "die" every moment, were
borne back to them.

"They seem to enjoy life so much," said Mr.
Tillotson; "they are alway laughing."

The girl answered him very softly. "They
like life," she said, "and they like laughing."

"You do not laugh quite so much," he said.
"Forgive my saying so."

"And yet I don't see why I should not. They
all tell me I should be very grateful and happy."

"It is easy to tell our friends that," said he,
reflectively. "I have plenty of kind well-meaning
people who keep reminding me that I ought
to be happy."

"But ought you not?" she said. "Papa says
that you are rich!"

"Rich, of course!" he said, a little bitterly;
"that is the Elixir that is to cure us of everything.
I think I should better bear what I have
to bear, if I were poor."

She was growing curious—perhaps interested.
"You speak," she said, "as if some great trial
had visited you. I hope not heavier than the
common sort. Forgive me for speaking of it,
but even last night I thought I saw——"

"Why not?" said he. "Though I know you
but for a short time, I can see that you ask from
no idle curiosity."

"No, indeed!"

Mr. Tilney walked all this time on the grass,
attached to no one specially, but as the general
parent and guardian of all—under the favour of a
beneficent Creator. He passed Mr. Tillotson.
"Ah, Tillotson! Cathedral—you see!"

It was scarcely possible to avoid seeing this
great monument, as it stood right in front. To
him Mr. Tillotson smiled an answer; to Miss
Millwood he said:

"My mother and my father were alive about
eight or ten years ago. They were the 'best of
parents:' not according to the hackneyed form
by which every parent is the best of his kind,
but they would have died for me, as I believe I
would have died for them. But I was young and
foolish—wicked, rather; and one day I found
they had left me—for ever." He stopped and
put his hand to his eyes. "Now you may see,"
he said, in a moment, "in what way I must look
on life."

In a gentler voice, trembling with sympathy:
"Oh, I am so sorry—I did not mean, indeed—I
feel for you—I," she said, sadly, "have had my
miseries too. Ah, you cannot guess. The only
thing left to me, is, to look back to a childhood
that seems like a dream. One morning
I awoke, and it was all over. Ever since, it
seems like a succession of dark winter days.
Father and mother gone! But I have no right
to repine."

Full of sympathy, which was-growing in him
more and more every moment, Mr. Tillotson
listened eagerly for more. He did not listen
eagerly to much during his life. "Go on," he
said. "Ah, do go on, Miss Millwood. Tell me
more, and if—"

Mr. Tilney was beside them. "That Ross, of
course, not here. I suppose hard at work with
a short pipe in his mouth at this very moment.
Well, Tillotson, I respect a man that keeps up
all the established decencies of life. I do indeed.
No matter: here we are."

He removed his hat and strode on in front of
the rest, what with his height and stick, looking
like a social drum-major. As they came under
the porch, the organ, touched by Edward Bliss,
Mus. Doc., Oxon., was rolling and eddying in
great billows up and down the huge hall; the air
was trembling and quivering; the great pedals
were booming and buzzing up in the clouds.
The ladies stole away towards what seemed
the back huge wardrobes and cupboards where
giants kept their linen, but which was the
unavoidable effect of that enclosure which gives
the true effect to a cathedral by reducing it to a
convenient size. While the ladies took their
gentlemen to the choir, Mr. Tilney whispered his
friend softly to "come round." They had five
minutes yet.

Mr. Tilney stopped a moment and drew back
his friend. "Look up," he said, "and take it all
in; thrones, dominations, and the rest of them,
what are they to this? This endures; they pass
away, and where are you! By the way," said Mr.
Tilney, suddenly changing the subject, "there
are the Tophams. Look, Tillotson; that London-
built carriage. Most remarkable people. His
brother is the Right Honourable Henry Topham
—one of the secretaries. And there, you see, they
come here to service, like any of us. And I
declare to Heaven, Tillotson, I have seen him, that
overworked minister, kneeling in one of the stalls
with a Prayer-book in his hand, and listening to
one of the common canons here, preaching in his
turn. There they come. If you like, I'll introduce
you?"

The Tophams had alighted from their carriage,