"Never thinks about 'em, my dear," was old Cicely's short answer. "Why, Cicely! I thought religious people were always thinking about them?" "Don't know nought about religious people, as you call 'em," said Cicely; "never came across one. All I know is, _I_ never thinks--not any while--about death, and judgment, and such like. You see, I haven't got to die just now,--when I have, it'll be a hard pull, I dare say; but there's dying grace, and there's living grace. He don't give dying grace--at least so I think--till we come to dying. So I leave that alone. He knows when I'm to die, and He'll be sure to see to it that I have grace to die with. And as to the judgment, my dear, I have no more to do with that than the other,--a sight less, it seems to me. For we have all got to die; but if I understand the Book right, them that trust in Him haven't no judgment for to stand. If He has taken all my sins away, what am I to be judged for? Don't you see, Mrs. Celia? Eh, no! 'tis not we need think over the judgment, but the poor souls that have to stand it--who will not take Christ, and have nought of their own." Celia sat silently gazing out of the window on the fair sward and trees of Ashcliffe Park. She had not found any answer when Lucy burst in, with no previous ceremony, and with the exclamation, "What are you doing here, Celia? Didn't you hear the bell for the sermon? Oh, me! I wish it was over!" Perhaps Lucy was not the only person who wished it. The Sunday-evening sermon at Ashcliffe was a rather fearful institution to more mature and sedate persons than she. First, one of the Squire's sons--Harry, when he was at home, Charley, if not--read the Psalms and Lessons for the day, and it was necessary that they should be read very loud. This was disagreeable when they contained a number of Hebrew names, which Charley, at least, had no idea how to pronounce. He was consequently reduced to make hits at them, which passed muster in all but very flagrant cases, as, fortunately for him, his father was little wiser than himself. This ordeal over, the sermon itself was read by the Squire, and commonly lasted about an hour and a half. It was never very entertaining, being most frequently a discourse on the moral virtues, in tone heathenish, and in style dreary beyond measure. After the sermon, the whole family repeated the Lord's Prayer,--any other prayers the Squire, being a layman, would have thought it semi-sacrilege to read. Then, all remaining in their places, Charley and Lucy were called up to repeat their catechism, each answering alternately, and standing in as stiff a position as possible. When this was over, they had to repeat the text of Dr. Braithwaite's sermon, and that one who remembered it best was rewarded with a silver groat. This was the last act of the drama, the young lady and gentleman being then pounced upon by Cicely and ordered off to bed, after saying good-night all round. The