the political views of a man who was my opponent, and I expect to be as much influenced in the one case as in the other."

The doctor paused, and Grace looked very thoughtful, but was silent.

"Do you think me a wolf in sheep's clothing, Miss Grace, after such a confession?" the doctor asked, and there was a shade of anxiety in his tone.

"No! I think you too honest to be that," said Grace sadly, with the far off look in her eyes, “but O! doctor I am so sorry!"

"Why?" said the doctor, briefly.

"Because-because," and Grace's voice was deep and thrilling in its earnestness, "you lose so much! Life must be so empty, so shadowy, so sadly hopeless to you. You have all its sorrows and none of its joys, its true joys I mean: you have all the hard work of puzzling out its hidden mysteries, of sin and suffering, and misfortune, and none of the rest which so helps this labour, the sleep which God gives to His beloved in the daily, hourly communion with Himself. O! doctor, if you only knew what you were giving up!" and Grace turned upon him a face, so sweet in its pleading, so touching in its sorrowful expression, that the doctor never forgot it.

She left him with that look, for they had reached the cottage where she was going. He would have given worlds to follow, to take his seat amongst those poor men and women, and listen to the teaching of that

pure-minded woman, to catch, it might be, a little of the inspiration of her thought and 'gladness, and out of a sure belief in her goodness to find himself up-lifted to that higher faith-but he had to content himself in finishing his rounds, and going quietly home, to smoke his pipe and muse.

CHAPTER V.

MRS MORRISON.

"I never met a manner more entirely without frill."—Sydney Smith.

MRS MORRISON was of medium stature, somewhat square in build, high cheek-boned, and peculiar looking. The outside world would call her eccentric, the few who had had the good fortune to know her personally and intimately thought her an "original," decidedly clever, and refreshingly honest and concise in both thought and expression.

Mr St George, physically worn and mentally weary after his Sunday services, and morning and afternoon at the school, would on the Monday seek rest and recreation by taking a long walk in the country, when weather permitted, holding silent communion with Nature, his thoughts the while rising from "Nature up to Nature's God," his whole being drinking in new inspiration and power, as he thus laid his heart open to the dew of heaven-wrought feeling. But should Monday prove wet, and a walk in the country undesirable, there was

always an alternative which was scarcely less powerful in restoring Mr St George's equilibrium, and this was a visit to Mrs Morrison.

Strange what power some people have of soothing and allaying tumultuous feelings, which, like an everflowing tide, beat in steady repetition upon the rocks and stony beaches of our hearts, while others have a natural aptitude for stirring up into wild and angry motion the under-current of our being.

Now Mrs Morrison, quaint and original, with a master intellect and unlimited power of thought, was one to soothe and refresh rather than stir up and fret a nature such as Mr St George's. So, on the Monday succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter, he went (the morning proving wet) to see the old lady. He found her, as usual, sitting in an old-fashioned arm-chair, her feet upon a roughly-carved wooden stool, her lap piled up with manuscripts; and books, old and well-worn, lay in a heap on the table at her side. The canary sang loudly, as if doing his best to frustrate all idea of silent thought or meditation.

"Ah! Mr St George, I am glad to see you," was the hearty salutation from Mrs Morrison as her visitor entered, after announcing his arrival with a double knock, and, without waiting to be shown in, opening the door and coming down the narrow passage to the little room at the back-called usually the keeping-room-where Mrs Morrison was sitting.

"Well, and how are you to-day, kind friend?" said

Mr St George, seating himself in a comfortable wicket-chair by the fireplace and commencing to stir the fire he was a privileged person, and there were many such who visited Mrs Morrison,-for, if she had a weakness, it was for keeping bad fires. Once seated with her books or papers, all else was forgotten, and but for the kindly hands which took up the poker from time to time, whether of Betsy the maid of all work, Mrs Simpson the next door neighbour, or Matthew Grant, the owner of the little grocer's shop round the corner, who always stepped in once or twice a day "to see if the Missus wanted anything," but for these kindly hands, there would often have been a dark mass of half-burnt coal in Mrs Morrison's grate instead of the bright little fire usually found there. So Mr St George stirred the fire and repeated his question, "How are you to-day?"

"Better than yesterday, but not as well as I hope to be to-morrow," was the reply, spoken in a brisk musical voice.

"That means the sciatica is troubling you again," said Mr St George, putting the poker down, and leaning back in his chair, and crossing his legs as if he meant to take things easy.

"Neither more nor less," and Mrs Morrison nodded her head by way of emphasis. "It is a most tantalizing and provoking pain. If it were a human being instead of an incipient untangible something, I