that covered a multitude of sins. Meanwhile John, poor fellow, went out after they had all gone up-stairs, and had a long walk by himself in the night, to tone himself down a little from the exaltation of the moment in which he had told her that he and she had almost died together. There was the strangest subtle sweetness to himself in the thought. To have actually died with her, and for her, seemed to him, in his foolishness, as if it would have been so sweet. And then he felt that he had opened his heart to her, and that she knew all his thoughts. He had told them to her in all their inconsistency, in all their confusion, and she had understood. So he thought. He went out in the fervour of his youth through the darkling paths, and brushed along the hedges, all crisp with dew, and said to himself that henceforth one creature at least in the world knew what he meant. His feelings were such as have not been rare in England for half a century back. He had been trained, as it were, in the bosom of the Church, and natural filial reverence, and use and wont, had blinded him to the very commonplace character of its labours as fulfilled by his father. His father was--his father; a privileged being, whose actions had not yet come within the range of things to be discussed. And the young man’s mind was full of the vague enthusiasm and exaltation which belong to his age. Ideally, was not the work of a Christian priest the only work in the world? A life devoted to the help and salvation of one’s fellow-creatures for here and for hereafter--no enterprise could be so noble, none so important. And must he relinquish that, because he felt it difficult to pronounce with authority, “without doubt he shall perish everlastingly”? Must he give up the only purely disinterested labour which man can perform for man--the art of winning souls, of ameliorating the earth, of cleansing its hidden corners, and brightening its melancholy face? No, he could not give it up; and yet, on the other hand, how could he utter certain words, how make certain confessions, how take up that for his faith which was not his faith? John’s heart had been wrung in many a melancholy hour of musing with this struggle, which was so very different from Kate’s conception of his difficulties. But now there stole into the conflict a certain sweetness--it was, that he was understood. Some one stood by him now, silently backing him, silently following him up,--perhaps with a shy hand on his arm; perhaps--who could tell?--with a shy hand in his, ere long. It did not give him any help in resolving his grand problem, but it was astonishing how it sweetened it. He walked on and on, not knowing how far he went, with a strange sense that life was changed--that he was another man. It seemed as if new light must come to him after this sudden enhancement of life and vigour. Was it true that there were two now to struggle instead of one? John was not far