pastor of the church.

There was a kind of quick gasp from everybody as he ended. Now that they were face to face with it, the thing seemed more formidable than before. Somebody finally made a motion to accept the resignation and somebody seconded it, and then Deacon Bradley called for discussion of the motion, "if there is any need for any discussion," he added, with a sarcastic smile. There was a little silence, and then everybody was startled to see Theodora Evans rise to her feet. She was quite calm and collected, and her voice rang out clear and true. She forgot that she had ever told Jonadab Mifflin that it would scare her to death to speak in meeting. She forgot everything except what she was saying, and people looked at her as at one inspired.

"I don't believe you know what you are doing," she said, "or "you'd never do this terrible thing. What difference does it make whether your minister believes that the world was made in seven days or in seventy? It doesn't make him any less a Christian. It's what he does, rather than what he believes, and as long as he believes in the Lord Jesus Christ and tries to live like him, and does live like him,- for you know he does,- I think he's as good a Christian as anyone here. He's been a good minister to you, he's done more for you than any other minister you ever had, and in ways you'd not expect a minister to help you. Who was it nursed Johnny Carr through the scarlet fever last spring? Who was it paid the money to keep old Mrs. Trimble from going to the poorhouse? Who was it paid the money to send Jack Allen to a school in the city, and furnished food and money for Jack's mother while Jack was away? I didn't know who did these things at the time, but I've found out since that it was your minister. He's always done whatever you asked him. Why, it was at the request of one of your members that he preached that very sermon for which you blame him. And it's little enough you've done for him. I'm speaking for myself, too, for I've never appreciated his goodness, and I've never done a single thing for him. I didn't even learn that text he asked us to, the other Sunday, but I say it's little enough we've done for him, and if you send him away you'll regret it all your lives. I-" She paused suddenly, and became conscious that everyone in the room was listening in deathly silence. "I didn't mean to say so much," she said, "but I couldn't bear to think of your doing this awful thing

while he is lying there so ill and helpless. I believe if you accept his resignation, that it will kill him. I tell you if you vote to send that man away, you'll be murderers, every one of you!" She sat down, with very red cheeks, startled at her own temerity. For a second there was silence, then Judge Lamson leaped to his feet.

Brother Moderator," he cried, "I withdraw my motion.

But he was interrupted, for the whole congregation, suddenly finding their tongues, shouted and clapped furiously, even if it was in the church.

Just before the meeting broke up, Theodora rose once more to her feet, very self-conscious and frightened now.

"I'm so glad you've done this," she faltered," I can't tell you how glad. But if any one of you tells the minister about about my speaking out in meeting so, I'll never speak to a single one of you again!"

She sped home before the rest of the people came streaming up the road, but just after the committee sent to report to the minister had reached the house. She met Mrs. Foster in the kitchen, and that lady seized her in her arms and clasped her violently.

"He's better!" she cried, "and it's just because they wouldn't take his resignation. Oh, he's better, he's better! Thank God!"

46

Theodora, without a word, stole out of the door.

"Ain't you got a message for him?" pleaded Mrs. Foster. Most all the girls have left messages for him, and jellies and flowers. Ain't you going to leave him a message?"

"No," said Theodora, with such timidity that it seemed impossible that this was the girl whose voice had rung out in meeting not so very long before. "No, I don't think I'll leave any message."

She went over to her house, then pausing an instant at the door, she turned, and ran back again. Mrs. Foster was still in the kitchen.

"You can tell him, if you want to," said Theodora, "that I am-that I am trying to learn the text."

RUTH POTTER MAXSON.

GIOVINEZZA PERDUTA

Certain men meeting me
Said, entreating me :-

[It was down on the low still road
Where the river goes by:

There was shade broad and good,

But I saw sun-shapes fly.

And I and I

Being vagrant, forsooth,

And in first flush of youth

Laughed, they entreating me :

Soberly meeting me.]

"Good sir, we pray:

Has one passed you to-day?”—
I, having seen three

Cross the footway of me,
Laughed out with "One?
Then is there but one!
Should I know where run
All earth's rivers to one?"

66

But no, surely no."

They were sober and slow,
And old: somewhat gray:
And their caps had no tilt
And their voices no lilt.

So I answered them straight.
"Was it she, who of late
Drove by in state?

The harness-trappings jingle
As she gallops down the dingle?
Up the hill and out of sight:-
Crack of whip, leap of light;

I heard the footman swear aloud,

But her old face was still and proud?
Is it she whom you seek?

Good sirs, speak!"

And I leaned against the rail

At the bridge there in the dale
With the quick brown river listening
Lithe and like an Indian; glistening-
"Was it she? Good sirs, speak!"
"No," they shook their two bald polls:

I noticed how a river rolls

Unruddered twigs of flowery things And how a red-winged blackbird sings:"No-who else went by to-day?"

I, sharp with delay

"Was it he who loitered, lame
As a ninety-wintered dame :
Yet whistled out a bird-built note
From a clear, keen, joyful throat?
He leaned upon a staff, indeed,
But to that I gave no heed,
For his face was of the sun.
Surely, now, he was the one."
And I raised my feet to go,
But they held my arm. "Ah, no!
Tell us,-who else went this way?"
I, very keen to use my day,
Pulled my ragged sleeve away.
Yet their eyes besought me so!
"Surely now, you'll answer no!
It was but a little maid
Who ran by me in the shade,
Yet the sun was on her hair :-

I called and told her she was fair,

And she turned, and laughed, and ran;
And left me-more or less-a man!

It's not she that you would find."

66

'No, not she.-Oh, you were blind
Else you had seen him ride this way!
He came here every sun-shot day,
When we dwelt here,-long ago?
Verily, not long ago!

Yet, now that we have come again
From that far pilgrimage we made
His blank-eyed windows give us pain :—

And where he is, no soul has said.

You must have known him, had you seen The dust behind him fleck the green!

Fast he rode: the hoof-sounds went

Like flashes of a firmament.

And he was tall enough, and young

And a song was on his tongue.
Besides, a token that he bears

Is the gay green cloak he wears

With silver threads that crawl and creep.

Ah, you must have lain asleep?

Their eyes had almost made me weep Had I not been so young and hard

"Your pardon, sir,-we too have heard The song of many a pretty bird,

But he he was a friend indeed

And shall be now. You gave no heed."
And their eyes besought me so.
But once more I answered, "No,
I've not marked a man like this.
Good morrow, sirs. Go not amiss,
Perchance you'll find him at the mill
That bits the river down the hill,—
Fair weather, sirs!" And forth I ran,—
Hard-hearted mockery of a man!
And left them leaning on the rail
Of the bridge that binds the dale.

Forth I ran. The daisies caught

Errant steps of feet and thought.

The crushed wild strawberries sent their sweet

Of taste-like fragrance from my feet;

And I saw where mountains met

Far as sea's horizon's set

The perfect curve of earth. Just then
There came behind me, noon-entranced,

A limping sound of hoofs. Again

I stopped, and down the roadway glanced.
Then turned aside, and hid my face
Behind a birch tree for a space.

And when I looked, the thing was gone,

Save a dull dust-puff wandering on

And up the steep road, and away.

I was not pleased so with my day.
Down in the daisied grass I lay;

Above, the high white clouds stirred by.
Yet I yet I-

Did not smile. I knew him then

Who was sought of those gray men.

"This it was: -A man as old As a tale that has been told:

Shoulder-bent: vague nodding head:

Eyes as of a soul long dead

That looks forth and does not see,