elderly gentleman, or whether they bring a
crust of dry bread in their pocket. Nobody
knows how this may be, neither is it evident
to any man whether his neighbour pays or
does not pay. There is no apparent difference
between the moneyed guest and the poor one;
each has his own room and his own lock and
key. It is the only place of public
entertainment, I think, I ever saw where poverty
is allowed to be quiet and decent in its
own way.

It was on the serene afternoon of a grey day,
late in the autumn, when I first visited this
place. I had sent away my horses, for the
wind blew chilly, and, lighting a cigar, had
walked musingly among the mysterious
streets of the little town of Castro, until
chance led my steps to the traveller's home.
Finding myself before a house of such
size, I inquired what it was, and, having
received an answer, I passed unquestioned
through the open gate. The wind sighed
heavily along the narrow street, and I
remember that an involuntary awe came over
me as I seemed to be led by some other power
than curiosity up the spotless stairs of freshly
planed wood, and along the silent corridor, until
I stopped before a door, where there sat a
woman wailing. There is something so august
in sorrow that I should have passed on
respectfully; but that her outstretched hand
detained me.

"Oh, Frankish Lord! " cried the woman,
in accents of despair, "save him, for he
is dying! " She pressed my hand to her
quivering lips as she spoke, after the fashion
of the East, and I knew that her simple heart
was full of the popular belief that the Franks
or Europeans all have a knowledge of the
healing art.

"Alas! Mother," I answered in the simple
idiom of the country, " I have no power to
save him."

But she detained me in the strong spasm of
her grasp, and the next minute I stood within
the chamber of death, and was abashed
be fore the nameless majesty of death.

I knelt beside the bed very gently and
humbly, and took the hand of the sick lad.
I dared not meet the mother's imploring
look, for there was no mistaking the prophecy
ot the languid fluttering pulse, or the foam
gathering on the lips, and the glassy eyes.
But even as 1 knelt, a strange light seemed
to pass over the boy's face changing its
expression wholly. When it was gone, his head
gently fell back, and I knew that all was
over; for that light was the ray which
comes through the gates of heaven when they
open to receive a soul. A low continued
moan only broke the stillness as I rose. Oh
deal with her gently, this bereaved mother!
for her last child is lying cold beside her; and
though her darling is gone to the fields where
the night comes not, neither is there shadow
of darkness, yet she cannot follow him! Oh
deal with her gently, for the hand of the
Chastener is heavy upon her! As I turned
to go from the last home of the boy-traveller,
a something which had before lain heavy on
my heart was rebuked, and I felt how the
little ills of life sink into nothing beside such
a grief as this!

A SAINT'S BROTHER.

HE was the brother of a saint, and his
friends were rich; so they dressed him in his
best, and they put his turban on his head
(for he was of the old school), and they bore
him to the tomb upon a bier, and coffinless,
after the custom of the East. I joined the
procession as it swept chanting along the
narrow street; and we all entered the
illuminated church together.

The Archbishop strode solemnly up the
aisle, with the priests swinging censers before
him; and with the odour of sanctity exhaling
from his splendid robes. On went the
procession, making its way through a stand-up
fight, which was taking place in the church,
on through weeping relatives, and sobered
friends, till at last the Archbishop was seated
on his throne, and the dead man lay before
him stiff and stark. Then the same unctuous
individual whom I fancy I have observed
taking a part in religious ceremonies all over
the world, being yet neither priest nor deacon,
bustles up, and he places some savoury herbs
on the breast of the corpse, chanting lustily
as he does so to save time.

Then the Archbishop takes two waxen
tapers in each hand; they are crossed and
set in a splendid hand-candlestick. He
extends it towards the crowd, and seems to
bless it mutely, for he does not speak. There
is silence, only disturbed by a short sob which
has broken from the over-burdened heart of
the dead man's son. Hush! it is the
Archbishop giving out a psalm, and now it begins
lowly, solemnly, mournfully: at first, the lusty
lungs of the burly priests seem to be chanting
a dirge; all at once they are joined by the
glad voices of children—oh! so clear and so
pure, sounding sweet and far-off, rejoicing for
the bliss of the departed soul.

They cease, and there comes a priest dressed
in black robes; he prostrates himself before
the throne of the Archbishop, and carries the
dust of the prelate's feet to his forehead.
Then he kisses the Archbishop's hand, and
mounts the pulpit to deliver a funeral oration.
I am sorry for this; he is evidently a
beginner, and twice he breaks down, and gasps
hopelessly at the congregation; but the
Archbishop prompts him and gets him out of this
difficulty. A rascally young Greek at my
elbow nudges me to laugh, but I pay no
attention to him.

Then the priests begin to swing their
censers again, and their deep voices mingle
chanting with the fresh song of the children,
and again the Archbishop blesses the crowd.
So now the relatives of the dead man
approach him one by one, crossing themselves