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light the boy awoke and became very frisky after his long repose, cantering and galloping his mule about until he was out of sight.

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Passing through Ramleh, it took two more weary hours to reach the cactus hedges and orange groves outside of Jaffa. I passed through them and stopped at the little stone steps of the English hotel." Fortunately no one was near. I slid slowly and painfully from the horse to the ground, cramped like Caliban, and it was only gradually and with a painful effort that I could stand upright, after being some thirtytwo hours on horseback in two days, with one hour's sleep, and most of the time under a tropical sun. A half hour on a divan,' a bath, a breakfast, a row on the turbulant waves of the rocky little port, and I was safely on the deck of the

steamer.

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"Westward the star of empire takes its way. Westward the stream of civilization flows, and we look our last farewell to its fountain head. The steam monster below us moves to the signal, the wheels turn slowly around, and we piss on through the waste of waters into the void. From a dead civilization we go towards its latest birth, from the oldest of nations towards the newest, and the shrine of the world that we leave behind sinks below the horizon.

Though few persons leave Palestine without a feeling of disappointment, most of us at times long to wander there. People of all Christian countries experience this desire, even if they have merely the sentiment of religion, and that but for an hour on a Sabbath morning.

We desire, naturally enough, to see a locality which has been idealized to us in pulpit oratory and otherwise from our youth up; to climb its sacred hills, where heaven and earth have met together more tangibly thin elsewhere on the broad globe. We feel that we could not visit the tomb of the Holy One, stand where He stood, look up on the hills His divine eye rested on, walk, as it were, in His very footprints, without feeling some sort of new, unusual, and profound interest.

We may not expect much there. We

know that the land is desolate whence c. me our holiest memories. At most, if one may so express it, we have gone to see the corpse of our spiritual mother; we know that the divine light shines no more through her eyes-that it has gone home, or spread itself over the lands and amongst the nations; but we do expect to find it comely in death, to gaze upon it, as it were, with tears in our hearts, with a quickened pulse, and feel more reverent in its presence, as we gaze upon features once illumined with heaven's own light. We do expect t› have "our souls stirred within us" as we stand by the once living form, and with quickened heart-beats feel that we are nearer the divinity which has gone, more aspiring or more hopeful to be like it. And what do we see? Nothing but her skeleton, and badly articulated at that, the frontal sinus hinged to the foot bones, the molars in the vertebrae, and here and there the bone of a dog or a fox. Here a Moslem mosque, there a convent of dervishes. Dragomans lying until their stupid assurance becomes ludicrous, and monks and bishops quarrelling over the "holy places," even while they pay their worship to the "place where the cross stood" and the slab where He lay, falling down before the stocks and stones, until one shrink from it all with disgust, and the poem we had come to feel is turned to sadly plain prose in the experience.

The Jews were not permitted to make artistic monuments, or statues, or pictures, and so they left no physical mementos, and their city has been so often swept over by the besom of destruction that. hardly a vestige or a foundation stone is accessible. The memorials that in Greece and Italy are so illustrative, and all-pervading and full of historic interest, are here wanting. Morally it is still worse. We look at St. Isaac's, St. Sophia, the Alhambra, with a wholly human interest; they are the work of our fellows of today or of the long yesterday; they are of the earth, beautiful, grand, picturesque

what you will-showing that the one man of ten thousand, with more force, insight, and inte'lect than the rest of us,

has been there to excite our special wonder; but the interest is all and wholly human. We gaze at Cotopaxi, Yosemite, Magura; but they are only varieties of the nature we are cradled in-nature's jewels with a continent for setting-and we look at them for their beauty, wander over them for health, or mine them for their treasure.

But the moment we think of Palestine, or look towards Palestine, a divine halo, so to speak, comes over it, and the human interest ceases at once to be the paramount one. Sometimes wisely, sometimes foolishly enough, this place has been idealized to us, from our youth up, with all that sentiment with which illustration, eloquence, poetry and pulpit oratory could adorn it; and behind that is the Bible, with its eloquent simplicity, through which we look as through an acromatic lens, a white light, into the very soul of those who lived there. But when we come face to face with the country, and encounter its babble of bigotry and deception, and find nothing authentic but the hills, and they hardly so in their verdureless nakedness, and realize that it is a country cursed by God and man, and wasted by its governors, one feels a natural disappointment; and when one sees the idolatry before the "holy places," he is only too glad to think or know that they are hidden with old Jerusalem, down, down, away from the light of day.

With a wise and appropriate word from an eloquent writer we will close.

"For two thousand years Jerusalem has been a bone of contention so constant, so ferocious, so inhuman, that its burial underground seems like a decree of the Providence of history, that it should be put forever out of sight. The cause of quarrel between nations and religions was wholly removed, every vestige of the Saviour's temporary home was destroyed, every footprint of his was effaced. There was no Calvary to mourn over, no tomb to quarrel over. It was as if God had said, 'Go away and come here no more; cease your pilgrimages and your vigils, your jealousies and your hates, your frenzies and your hypocrisies. He is not here; He is risen; He has gone before you into another world. Why seek ye the living among the dead? * * In your own streets is the Calvary where he is daily crucified; in your own houses the sepulchre where he is buried. Your own pleasure gardens are the Gethsemanes he weeps in; your own public assemblies the places where he meets the bigot, the infidel, the scoffer. Recover his image at home if you can; make real and vivid his presence among yourselves, and in place of the miserable pile of rubbish in Judea you will have the Heavenly Jerusalem come down from the clouds.'

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"Dear Father," said Laurent, at last, "see how plain you can see Monte Viso this morning. Father Paul says when the snow peaks catch the light in that and gold in the celestial city."

"Ah, Laurent," said the Father, speaking as in a dream, "and equally out of reach."

Laurent looked up surprised.

"I do not mean for you, my son," said:

the monk, gently. "God grant that you may attain that heavenly city; but, as for me-" he paused, and then continued, in a calmer tone-"Which way lies Prali, my son?"

"Over the mountains there, to the north, Reverend Father. The way is by the Col Julien."

The priest looked long and wistfully in the direction pointed out by his companion.

"You would not like to go there, Laurent?" he said, at last.

No, Reverend Father; it is all so changed there now," said Laurent, sadly. "And it would be far too hard a journey for you."

"And you would not care to go away from me?" questioned the other, with singular earnestness.

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No, Reverend Father," replied Laurent; "not so long as I can stay with you.'

"It will be but a little while, my son, but a little while," said the Provincial, laying his white, trembling hand on Laurent's shoulder. "I am like one who, passing through the desert, stops for an hour to drink at a living spring, and then goes on, though he knows he shall die on the barren sands before him."

"But, dear Father, why should not such a one stay where he can keep himself alive and be at peace?" said Laurent, interpreting the parable in a very literal fashion. "You are so much better than you were," he added. "You do not think you are so ill?" he asked, with a sudden pang at the thought that his friend might indeed be taken from him.

"Let us sit down and rest for awhile," said Father Francis, disregarding the question. "See, is there no place, off the road, where we can be quiet for a time?" They were near the mouth of a ravine, down which a torrent, now diminished in force, had torn its way earlier in the season. A little way up the hill-side a group of pine trees, rising over some great blocks of stone, seemed to promise shade and a seat, and were entirely out of sight from the main road.

"If you feel able to walk there, dear Father," said Laurent, "it is a good place

to rest. I will fasten the mule down here, and she will be quite safe."

As Laurent spoke, his heart beat, and within himself he resolved that now he would entreat the Provincial to tell him what had become of his father and of his friends. An undefinable feeling had hitherto withheld him from asking the question for whose answer he still longed.

He had thought that Father Francis might be forbidden to speak by the merciless rule to which he was a slave, and that to be obliged to refuse would only pain one so kind. But, besides this was an indefinite sense of reluctance to approach the subject, at which Father Francis had never so much as hinted, though he must have known his protégé's doubt and anxiety.

Laurent led his companion up the green slope, found him a place sheltered at once from sun and wind, and sat down on the grass at his feet, for Laurent, who had in his time defied Father Gerome and even the Superior, was humble enough before the Provincial.

The priest bowed his head on his hand. and sat silent, apparently overcome with sad thought.

Laurent fancied that his companion was thinking of poor Catharine's story, and almost wished that it had not been told.

"Are you very tired, Reverend Father?" he said, at last. "Have we come too far?"

"No, my son," said Father Francis. "Ah, how sweet and quiet and peaceful every thing seems; but yet man's sin and misery have turned this lovely land into what I might call a hell upon earth;-only that the sufferers were innocent," he added, under his breath.

"Do you think so, Reverend Father?" said Laurent, quite bewildered.

"I don't know what I do think, Laurent," said the Father, with a sort of sad impatience. "What I say, is only the wanderings of a sick man's fancy. I govern myself before others. It is but a poor compliment, is it not my boy, to let my ill temper locse on the only one I can trust ?" "You ill tempered, Reverend Father?"

said Laurent, drawing closer to him. "I wonder when it was? But, dear Father, if I may speak—if you make yourself so miserable for every wrong you hear of in this place, you will never have any comfort of your life; though indeed it was most cruel to send poor David away from his old grandmother, just for saying the confession of sins. But if you had known, it would not have been done.” "You think not?" said Father Francis. "Surely not," said Laurent, earnestly. "And they tried to make me believe that you were a persecutor, and sanctioned all the wickedness," said the by, indignantly; and that was what made me think it strange at first that you should be so good to me, but I know better now,' said Laurent, who little guessed that every word he said was like a sting.

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"And do you think I have been good to you?" asked the priest, letting his hand rest on Laurent's head.

"Have you not, dear Father ?" said Laurent, with emotion. "And I hardly know why, either."

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Why should I not?" said Father Francis, who seemed to find a pleasure in making the boy talk.

"Because, Reverend Father, you are a great man in the world, and the Church -if there was any difference between the two-and then you are a noble gentleman, and I being a Vaudois, am rather less than nobody."

"You need never blush for your race, my son," said the Provincial, with a certain tone of pride, singular enough.

"I do not," said Laurent with brightening eyes; "but I can only be proud of it to myself and to God, for we are despised by all the world."

"So was one other, my son, and yet he was a Prince of the house of David." "But, Father-" said Laurent, amazed; and then he stopped.

"Well, my son?”

"You can't think we were in the right, of course?"

"No," said the poor priest, who was torn by contending feelings, of which his companion knew nothing. "You were of course wrong as schismatics."

"But we were not, Reverend Father,"

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said Laurent, respectfully; "we always have kept the faith. We never did worship images."

"My son, the Church does not worship images; she only uses them for a sign to help the soul upward toward the reality."

"But, Father," said Laurent, "why then do they leave out the command about images? And, besides, it says, 'Thou shalt not bow down to them;' and why is one image held more sacred than another? And why do they talk about this or that one working miracles? And I know they whipped me and shut me up in the dark, because I would not kneel to the image in the chapel, and if they mean it only for a sign, I think it was very unreasonable," said Laurent, rationally enough. "And in the forms for consecrating the image of the Virgin, it says, 'Sanctify, O God, this figure of the blessed Virgin,* that it may bring salutary help to thy faithful ones,' and then goes on to tell what they shall be preserved from; and so in consecrating the wood of the cross."

"Little Huguenot," said the priest, half fondly, half regretfully; "I see you have it all at your fingers' ends. But if the ignorant had no images or pictures, how would they know the story of our Lord? And if there is some abuse in this matter-and I do not deny it-is it not better that they should worship the symbol than nothing at all?"

"If I may speak-Reverend Father?" said Laurent.

"Surely, my son."

"I would say that our Lord preached to the common people, and they heard gladly those words that make our New Testament to-day. He did not use any images. And why should the common people be kept ignorant, Father? Why cannot the Church teach them to read the words that all the common people heard in his time? If she is true, and preaches his doctrine as he preached it, why should they be so afraid of it?"

"Because ignorant people misinterpret it and run into error."

* Santifica, Deus, hanc formulam, etc.

"But are they not more likely, Reverend Father, to run into error without it? and if that were so, why were the tles commanded to preach the gospel to every creature?"

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"What an obstinate little heretic it is!" said the minister, very much in the same tone that one says "O, what a bad baby!" for, curious as it seemed, the saintly and dignified ecclesiastic, so severe toward himself, so determined in the exercise of his rule, seemed to take an entirely human pleasure in spoiling the boy whom he had, as it were, adopted. "You are taught from your cradles."

"Yes, Reverend Father, we need to be," said Laurent, with quiet pride. "My father used to say we must all be ready to render a reason for our faith. O, signor," said Laurent, suddenly coming out with the question he had longed to ask, "Where is my dear father, if he is living? You are so kind, so good, you will tell me, I am sure. The worst I could know would not be so hard to bear."

The minister was silent, and sat looking out over the landscape with eyes that seemed to see nothing.

"O, Father Francis," continued Laurent, kneeling beside him and kissing his hand, "think if it were your own father, if you had been a prisoner for years as I have-if you had seen what I have seen, and heard what I have heard, and all the time no one would tell you whether your best earthly friend was dead or alive and we loved each other so-surely, surely, you will tell me the truth!”

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Laurent," said Father Francis, at last, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, and looking into his face, can you bear what I have to tell

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you ?"

"I can bear any thing better than ignorance," said Laurent, turning pale as his heart sank within him.

"My son," said the priest, very gently, "your father is dead."

It was no more than Laurent had often told himself he must sometime hear, but yet unconsciously he had kept alive some faint ray of hope that his father had perhaps escaped and might yet be living in Switzerland. He tried for a moment to

compose himself, and then burst into an agony of grief.

The monk, scarcely less agitated, drew the boy toward himself, and Laurent hid his face on his friend's shoulder.

"My father! my father!" he sobbed in bitterness of spirit. "O that I had died too!"

"Would to God I could comfort you," said Father Francis, who felt that the struggle he was called on to undergo was almost more than flesh and blood could bear.

"You have, Reverend Father," said Laurent, at last. "But for you and Father Paul, I should have died—which would have been little matter. But you have taught me that in your Church are some who are our Lord's own followers. But for you I should have lost my faith in any good, either in heaven or earthbut there, I wear you out, dear Father, and tire you, for you take every one's grief like your own. Did my father die in prison ?"

"At Lucerna," said the monk, who had indeed borne almost all that he could endure.

Laurent did not notice that Father Francis did not say the pastor had died in prison.

"And he was constant?"

"To the last," said the Franciscan, with strange pride in his tone. 'He died professing, with his last breath, his ancient faith. He did not belie his blood and race. Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him; but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more nor see his native country."

The priest spoke these words with inexpressible sadness.

"Ah, the exiles; they have perhaps the hardest part after all," said Laurent. "Reverend Father, is my Uncle Henri living? My father left me to his care."

"He is living, and in Switzerland, I think," said the monk; "but there is a price upon his head. This much I know, that his wife and children are with him. But, Laurent, as you value your life, never let any one suspect that you are related to him-I think no one in the convent knows. It may be possible that

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