with contempt from the far-off table-lands of the Broad church, or the dizzy pinnacles of snow-clad Puseyism, upon the humble efforts of one who followed in the footsteps of the first fishers of men--for such I tried, in my self-protection, to consider myself. "One day, I happened to meet her in a retired lane near the village. She was carrying a jug in her hand. "'How do you do, Miss Lizzie? A labour of love?' I said, ass that I was! "'Yes,' she answered; 'I've been over to Farmer Dale's, to fetch some cream for mamma's tea.' "She knew well enough I had meant a ministration to the poor. "'Oh! I beg your pardon,' I rejoined; 'I thought you had been round your district.' "This was wicked; for I knew quite well that she had no district. "'No,' she answered, 'I leave that to my sister. Mamma is my district. And do you know, her headaches are as painful as any washerwoman's.' "This shut me up rather; but I plucked up courage presently. "'You don't seem to like going to church, Miss Lizzie.' "Her face flushed. "'Who dares to say so? I am very regular in my attendance.' "'Not a doubt of it. But you don't enjoy being there.' "'I do.' "'Confess, now.--You don't like my sermons.' "'Do you like them yourself, Mr. Armstrong?' "Here was a floorer! Did I like them myself?--I really couldn't honestly say I did. I was not greatly interested in them, further than as they were my own, and my best attempts to say something about something I knew nothing about. I was silent. She stood looking at me out of clear grey eyes. "'Now you have begun this conversation, Mr. Armstrong, I will go on with it,' she said, at length. 'It was not of my seeking.--I do not think you believe what you say in the pulpit.' "Not believe what I said! Did I believe what I said? Or did I only believe that it was to be believed? The tables were turned with a vengeance. Here was the lay lamb, attacked and about to be worried by the wolf clerical, turning and driving the said wolf to bay. I stood and felt like a convicted criminal before the grey eyes of my judge. And somehow or other I did not hate those clear pools of light. They were very beautiful. But not one word could I find to say for myself. I stood and looked at her, and I fear I began to twitch at my neck cloth, with a vague instinct that I had better go and hang myself. I stared and stared, and no doubt got as red as a turkey-cock--till it began to be very embarrassing indeed. What refuge could there be from one who spoke the truth so plainly? And how do you think I got out of it?" asked Mr. Armstrong of me, John Smith, who, as he told the story, felt almost in as great confusion and misery as the narrator must have been in at that time, although now he looked amazingly jolly, and breathed away at his cigar with the slow exhalations of an epicure. "Mortal cannot tell," I answered. "One mortal can," rejoined he, with a laugh.--"I fell on my knees, and made speechless love to her."