old landmarks. It happened more than once
that it had in the nighttime arisen and
revenged itself, and that in a few hours the
labour of months had been swept away. But
the next day saw men calmly setting to work
to repair the damage with double care, and
replace the wall with fourfold strength. More
than a score of broad acres were already
redeemed from the salt waters. Here and
there might be observed thoughtful-looking
men standing, watching keenly and with
contracted brows the progress of things.

Standing rather apart, with folded arms
and a profoundly discouraged air, a young
gentleman was likewise gazing round him.
He was broad-shouldered, rather under-sized,
but not ill-made, and muscular. He had full
blue eyes, a quantity of hair of a tawny red,
a large mouth garnished with a set of capital
teeth. Naturally his smile was constant,
bright, and jovial; but now it was
considerably overcast. He walked up to one of
the contractors with the air of a man who
has made up his mind to a last effort.

"Then you do not see any prospect of
employment for me, Mr. Langford?"

"No, I do not indeed, Sellon. You see,
Renny manages it all, and he has the cash.
That place would have just suited you, and
you would have done the work far better
than Benny's nephew. It's not the right
man in the right place, Stephen. But the
man is in the place; and right will not turn
him out, while might keeps him in. I'm
very sorry for it, Stephen; but it cannot be
helped."

"Well; good-bye, then, Langford. I shall
be at Wendon on Sunday." They shook
hands, and parted.

                           II.

IT was Sunday in the old town of Wendon;
and the cracked bell of a large church was
clanging forth its invitation to people to
enter its opened doors. It was an old church
—you might tell that, by its strange, high,
lumbering pews, which no devout young
Oxford curate had yet swept away. The
windows were cobwebbed and dusty, with
here and there a pane of stained glass in
quaint pattern; these were distributed with
perfect irregularity. These windows looked
on to the backs of gloomy houses, and on
to worn gravestones, where the forefathers
of those who now stood there, slept. Long,
tangled, sickly grass twined about the
gravestones; one or two were ornamented vith
marigolds and oyster-shells. Some trees of
smoke-dried green slowly grew and slowly
decayed by the side of the old church. The
bell-ropes hung into the body of the building,
and a stove reared its unsightly pipe
in the centre, supported by iron bars, which
radiated from it in every direction. The
churchwardens were already seated —or
rather, enthroned —in canopied pews, and
looked down with the contempt natural to
officials on the rest of the scanty congregation.
They were substantial shopkeepers,
and had every right to do so. The pews
at the side were of an extra height. Their
seclusion sometimes promoted intense
devotion— sometimes, great levity. A few school-girls sheltered their whisperings in these
depths, and some aged and not very
reputable or handsome looking old men in coifs
and caps were thinly sprinkled higher up.
A glance at the pile of loaves ranged behind
the churchwardens might possibly account
for their attendance. In the linings of these
pews every shade and hue in green must
have been exhausted. Some were of a rich
brown and tawny aspect; others were
violently green, and very woolly in substance;
sundry of them were worn and moth-eaten,
the rotten wood had fallen away from, them;
and holes were present in the flooring, of
which one could only guess the probable
extent. Against two of the pillars were
slips of wood, and thereon were inscribed
arms, and other heraldic devices; also, names
purporting to be of those men who had in
that parish served the honourable office of
mayor. The dates were respectively affixed;
some were as old as seventeen hundred and
twenty. Their honoured remains now
mouldered within the dreary precincts of this
venerable edifice, and their dignity was of
strangely little moment to them. The clergyman
looked like a gentleman; an observer
would guess that he was also a bon-vivant.
He read the service in a speedy, yet orthodox
manner. The congregation was not large,
and the clerk's responses were alone audible.

Just before the confession, a pretty
dark-eyed girl glided down the aisle, with a rather
conscience-stricken air, opened with some
difficulty one of the doors, and hid herself
immediately in the very highest pew—there
she knelt down to say her short prayer.
Within just as much time as suggested the
idea that he had lingered outside in order not
to appear together, Stephen Sellon entered,
and seated himself in the adjacent pew. The
two behaved very well during the service,
taking only stealthy, innocent glances at each
other, and even these at long intervals: but
when the sermon was read, and the benediction
said, the girl remained a little longer
than usual on her knees, and Stephen was
waiting for her when she rose. They walked
silently together out of church, and turned
on to a broad walk, shaded by trees, which
bordered the river on which the town stood.
As they got further and further away from the
departing congregation, Stephen, being an
enterprising youth in all he undertook, possessed
himself of her hand, and put his face under
her bonnet in such fashion that she could not
choose but look at him. And he looked long,
but not apparently making himself the
happier for so doing, for at the conclusion he
gave a great sigh.

"Margaret, my darling, I've no good news
for you. I've been up to the dock-works;