'You find us in a garden without flowers,' said Lady St. Jerome; 'but the sun, I think, alway loves these golden yews.'

These are for you, dear uncle,' said Clare Arundel, as she gave him a rich cluster of violets. 'Just now the woods are more fragrant than the gardens, and these are the produce of our morning walk. I could have brought you some primroses, but I do not like to mix violets with anything.'

'They say primroses make a capital salad,' said Lord St. Jerome.

'Barbarian!' exclaimed Lady St. Jerome. 'I see you want luncheon; it must be ready;' and she took Lothair's arm. 'I will show you a portrait of one of your ancestors,' she said; he married an Arundel.'

CHAPTER XIV.

'Now, you know,' said Lady St. Jerome to Lothair in a hushed voice, as they sate together in the evening, 'you are to be quite free here; to do exactly what you like, and we shall follow our ways. If you like to have a clergyman of your own Church visit you while you are with us, pray say so without the slightest scruple. We have an excellent gentleman in this parish; he often dines here; and I am sure he would be most happy to attend you. I know that Holy Week is not wholly disregarded by some of the Anglicans.'

'It is the anniversary of the greatest event of time,' said Lothair; ' and I should be sorry if any of my Church did not entirely regard it, though they may show that regard in a way different from your

own.'

'Yes, yes,' murmured Lady St. Jerome; 'there should be no difference between our Churches, if things were only properly understood. I would accept all who really bow to the name of Christ; they will come to the Church at last; they must. It is the Atheists alone, I fear, who are now carrying everything before them, and against whom there is no comfort, except the rock of St. Peter.'

Miss Arundel crossed the room, whispered something to her aunt, and touched her forehead with her lips, and then left the apartment.

'We must soon separate, I fear,' said Lady St. Jerome; 'we have an office tonight of great moment; the Tenebræ commence to-night. You have, I think, nothing like it; but you have services throughout this week.'

'I am sorry to say I have not attended them,' said Lothair. I did at Oxford; but I don't know how it is, but in London there seems no religion. And yet, as you some

times say, religion is the great business of life; I sometimes begin to think the only business.'

'Yes, yes,' said Lady St. Jerome, with much interest, 'if you believe that you are safe. I wish you had a clergyman near you while you are here. See Mr. Claughton if you like; I would; and if you do not, there is Father Coleman. I cannot convey you how satisfactory conversation is with him on religious matters. He is the holiest of men, and yet he is a man of the world; he will not invite you into any controversies. He will speak with you only on points on which we agree. You know there are

to

many points on which we agree?'

'Happily,' said Lothair. And now about the office to-night: tell me about these Tenebræ. Is there anything in the Tenebræ why I ought not to be present?'

'No reason whatever; not a dogma which you do not believe; not a ceremony of which you cannot approve. There are psalms, at the end of each of which a light

on the altar is extinguished. There is the Song of Moses, the Canticle of Zachary, the Miserere-which is the 50th Psalm you read and chant regularly in your church— the Lord's Prayer in silence; and then all is darkness and distress-what the Church was when our Lord suffered, what the whole world is now except His Church.'

'If you will permit me,' said Lothair, 'I will accompany you to the Tenebræ.'

Although the chapel at Vauxe was, of course, a private chapel, it was open to the surrounding public, who eagerly availed themselves of a permission alike politic and gracious.

Nor was that remarkable. Manifold art had combined to create this exquisite temple, and to guide all its ministrations. But tonight it was not the radiant altar and the splendour of stately priests, the processions and the incense, the divine choir and the celestial harmonies resounding and lingering in arched roofs, that attracted many a neighbour. The altar was desolate, the