sugar-production to the moral progress of the black race which freedom alone could ensure. Our pleasant meal being over, we strolled out on the lawn and sat down under one of the fine old trees, where we continued our talk about slavery. Mr. Kingsley said he could quite believe any story he might hear of cruelty practiced upon slaves. He knew too well his own nature, and felt that under the influence of sudden anger he would be capable of deeds as violent as any of which we read. This, of course, was putting out of view the restraints which religion would impose; but it was safe for no man to have the absolute control of others. He left us to go into the house, and Mrs. Kingsley then spoke of his parochial labors. She wished I could spend a Sunday with them--"I should so like you to see the congregation he has. The common farm-laborers come morning and afternoon: the reason is, he preaches so that they can understand him. I wish you could have been with us last Sunday, we had such an interesting person here--Max Müller, the great linguist and Orientalist. But we can't have pleasant _meets_ here: we have only one spare room." "How old is Max Müller?" I asked. "Twenty-eight, and he scarcely looks to be twenty-two." "How long has Mr. Kingsley been here?" I asked. "Fifteen years--two years as curate, and then the living becoming vacant, it was given to him." She told me a funeral was to take place directly--that of a poor woman who had been a great sufferer. "Ah, here it comes," she said.