The next Friday we went to morning prayers at St. Anne's—the first time I ever saw the inside of a Protestant church. It was a very old building, and made me think at once of the choir at St. Jean's. But the chancel was half taken up with two great square packing-boxes of family pews, and there were others on each side. The pulpit, a great carved pile, over-topped the reading-desk and communion table, and had a little door at the back for the minister, which reminded me at once of the door in Mrs. Crump's cuckoo clock. This pulpit, I learned afterwards, was a comparatively new erection, and was considered by every one a great improvement. There were very few people in church, not more than a dozen, and they were for the most part poor people who sat on the narrow hard benches in the middle aisle. I observed Mrs. Bunnell in Lady Throckmorton's pew, and a few elderly ladies were scattered up and down the church. Mr. Cheriton read the service. I thought him much changed since I last saw him; he looked somewhat thinner, and a little more haggard, but his face had a calm, resolved, and peaceful expression. His voice was as melodious and well-managed as ever, but had a new ring of earnestness in it. When he read that wonderful confession, he seemed to put new life and meaning into the words. One perceived that he felt himself a miserable sinner—one of those lost sheep whom the Lord came to seek and to save. It was all the difference between the outbreathings of a truly penitent sinner, and the elocution of a fine actor. When the prayers were over, Mr. Cheriton spoke a few words on the Gospel, which was that for St. Matthew's day. He pictured the surprise and disgust of the proud self-righteous Scribes and Pharisees, at the approach of the despised publicans and sinners—their utter amazement as Jesus sat down to meat with them—the rebuke with which the Lord met them and the tenderness with which he turned to the poor people who were hanging on his words as he said, "'I am not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.'" "Is there—" said Mr. Cheriton in conclusion—"is there a heart here, which feels itself bowed down under the load of sin, which it would fain cast off, but cannot? Is there one of you knowing himself to be a lost sinner, and seeing no way of escape? Then the Son of Man is come to seek and save you. Come and cast your burdens on him—come and confess all your sin—the plague, it may be secret or open, of your own heart—come and say like the poor leper, 'If thou wilt, thou canst make me clean!' And be assured, His gracious hand will be stretched out with the words, 'I will! Be thou clean.'" I saw a poor faded creature, who had come in late and shrunk into a corner, burst into tears and bow her head on the bench before her. Others looked at each other as though they could not tell what to make of it; and I saw one or two smiles of contempt mingled with wonder.