Another peep into the Magic Mirror.--A pretty picture.--At Epworth.--Mr. Wesley is very unkindly treated.--All for the best.--The curate is "done."--A happy ending to a bad beginning.--"Good-bye, Epworth." SHALL we have another peep into the Magic Mirror? See that pretty country church, with the square tower. There are some big trees near, looking as if they were tall giants keeping guard; they have no leaves on them yet, and their bare arms stretch out a long way as if they were trying to reach the church. If you look carefully you will see buds coming out on the trees, baby buds they are, waiting for the sun's kisses. Then they will burst out and grow into great leaves that will cover up the naked old trees. Ivy climbs up the church wall. I see its dark glossy leaves, for the ivy is evergreen. There are many graves in the churchyard, but you can hardly see them because people are sitting on them; such a number of people, hundreds more than could ever have got into the church. They are all looking one way, and seem to be listening very attentively. What are they looking at? They are looking at a gentleman who is standing all alone on a big flat tombstone near the church wall. He wears a gown and white bands like a clergyman, and he has long hair brushed very smoothly, and a beautiful, happy face. Dear me! did I hear a crash then? And did I hear a hundred young voices shouting: "I know who it is, it's Mr. John Wesley"? Why, you must have broken the mirror with your shouts. You are right, dears, but you shouted rather too soon. I wanted to read what it said on the tombstone on which Mr. Wesley was standing. But, never mind, I think I saw some of the words: "SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF SAMUEL WESLEY, FOR THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS RECTOR OF EPWORTH." Yes, it was his father's grave on which John Wesley was standing. On his way back from one of his visits to Newcastle he thought he would like to see his dear old home once more. It was a long, long time since he had been there, and he was not quite sure whether the people would have anything to do with him now, for, as leader of the Methodists, he had many enemies. It was Saturday evening in early spring, when he got to the little inn, in the long straggling street that was called Epworth village. He had not been there very long before three or four poor women found him out, one of them an old servant of his mother's. Next morning, which was Sunday, he went to the curate of the church and politely offered to help him with the service. The curate, I am sorry to say, was very rude, and refused to let Mr. Wesley take any part in the service or to preach in the church at all.