great John Wesley. He had been captain of
a Caernarvon slate-vessel; he had traded in
the Mediterranean, and had seen strange
sights. In those early days (to use his own
expression) he had lived without God in the
world; but he went to mock John Wesley,
and was converted by the white-haired
patriarch, and remained to pray. Afterwards
he became one of the earnest, self-
denying, much-abused band of itinerant
preachers, who went forth under Wesley's
direction to spread abroad a more earnest and
practical spirit of religion. His rambles and
travels were of use to him. They extended
his knowledge of the circumstances in which
men are sometimes placed, and enlarged his
sympathy with the tried and tempted. His
sympathy, combined with the thoughtful
experience of fourscore years, made him
cognisant of many of the strange secrets of
humanity; and when younger preachers
upbraided the hard hearts they met with,
and despaired of the sinners, he "suffered
long, and was kind."

When Eleanor Gwynn lay low on her
death-bed, David Hughes came to Pen-Morfa.
He knew her history, and sought her out.
To him she imparted the feelings I have
described.

"I have lost my faith, David. The tempter
has come, and I have yielded. I doubt if my
prayers have been heard. Day and night
have I prayed that I might comfort my child
in her great sorrow; but God has not heard
me. She has turned away from me, and
refused my poor love. I wish to die now;
but I have lost my faith, and have no more
pleasure in the thought of going to God.
What must I do, David?"

She hung upon his answer; and it was
long in coming.

"I am weary of earth," said she,
mournfully, "and can I find rest in death even,
leaving my child desolate and broken-hearted?"

"Eleanor," said David, "where you go, all
things will be made clear; and you will learn
to thank God for the end of what now seems
grievous and heavy to be borne. Do you
think your agony has been greater than
the awful agony in the Garden or your
prayers more earnest than that which He
prayed in that hour when the great drops of
blood ran down his face like sweat? We
know that God heard Him, although no
answer came to Him through the dread
silence of that night. God's times are not
our times. I have lived eighty and one years,
and never yet have I known an earnest prayer
fall to the ground unheeded. In an unknown
way, and when no one looked for it, may be,
the answer came; a fuller, more satisfying
answer than heart could conceive of, although
it might be different to what was expected.
Sister, you are going where in His light you
will see light; you will learn there that in
very faithfulness he has afflicted you!"

"Go on—you strengthen me," said she.

After David Hughes left that day, Eleanor
was calm as one already dead, and past mortal
strife. Nest was awed by the change. No
more passionate weeping—no more sorrow in
the voice; though it was low and weak, it
sounded with a sweet composure. Her last
look was a smile; her last word a blessing.

Nest, tearless, streeked the poor worn
body. She laid a plate with salt upon it on
the breast, and lighted candles for the head
and feet. It was an old Welsh custom; but
when David Hughes came in, the sight
carried him back to the time when he had
seen the chapels in some old Catholic cathedral.
Nest sat gazing on the dead with dry,
hot eyes.

"She is dead," said David, solemnly, "she
died in Christ. Let us bless God, my child.
He giveth and He taketh away!"

"She is dead," said Nest, "my mother is
dead. No one loves me now."

She spoke as if she were thinking aloud,
for she did not look at David, or ask him to
be seated.

"No one loves you now? No human
creature, you mean. You are not yet fit to
be spoken to concerning God's infinite love.
I, like you, will speak of love for human
creatures. I tell you, if no one loves you, it
is time for you to begin to love." He spoke
almost severely (if David Hughes ever did);
for, to tell the truth, he was repelled by her
hard rejection of her mother's tenderness,
about which the neighbours had told him.

"Begin to love! " said she, her eyes flashing.
"Have I not loved? Old man, you are
dim and worn-out. You do not remember
what love is." She spoke with a scornful
kind of pitying endurance. "I will tell you
how I have loved, by telling you the change
it has wrought in me. I was once the beautiful
Nest Gwynn; I am now a cripple, a
poor, wan-faced cripple, old before my time.
That is a change  at least people think so."
She paused, and then spoke lower. "I tell
you, David Hughes, that outward change is
as nothing compared to the change in my
nature caused by the love I have felt—and
have had rejected. I was gentle once, and if
you spoke a tender word, my heart came
towards you as natural as a little child goes
to its mammy. I never spoke roughly, even
to the dumb creatures, for I had a kind
feeling for all. Of late (since I loved, old
man), I have been cruel in my thoughts to
every one. I have turned away from tenderness
with bitter indifference. Listen!" she
spoke in a hoarse whisper. "I will own it.
I have spoken hardly to her," pointing
towards the corpse. "Her who was ever
patient, and full of love for me. She did not
know," she muttered, "she is gone to the
grave without knowing, how I loved her—
I had such strange, mad, stubborn pride
in me."

"Come back, mother! Come back," said
she, crying wildly to the still, solemn corpse;