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"Yet for an opinion, something I cannot help because I cannot believe as you do, you are willing to."

"I must," she said, trying to speak calmly.

"This must is of your own making. Think a minute, Maggie. How can I help my doubts? How can I believe, if the faith is not in me? Have I not struggled for it? This faith you have never had a doubt of. Is it my fault that I cannot grasp it? And yet you tell me coldly, because it is denied me, you will deny me also."

"Not coldly," she said, hastily. "Sadly, tremblingly, mournfully-anything but coldly."

"But why tell it me at all? I cannot help my want of faith, and I pledge my word never to tamper with yours. What more can I promise?"

"Nothing more. And yet if I were very sure my own faith would stand firm, it would make no difference in my decision."

"May I ask why?"

"Because the command is very plain, and I dare not disobey it."

"Will you repeat it to me? You know I am not so well read in your faith as I might be," he said, a little scornfully.

"What part hath he that believeth with an infidel?" she repeated.

"And is that your religion, Maggie? I thought the Christian faith was one of love. That to save a soul, even a stringer, you would be willing almost to die. And yet when you think mine is in great jeopardy, you coolly leave me, quoting only a few harsh words."

"Our faith ought to lead us even to death for the safety of a soul," she answered, calmly. "Our dear Lord died for such a work. But as his servants, we are pledged to obedience. In that is our only safety. I dare not be your wife."

"Not if by being so, you save me? Think, Maggie, by your stern belief what will be my fate if I die an unbeliever. Think also what your daily influer ce might do to win me over to your faith. Do you still turn from me?"

"I must," she said; "there is no help for me. A wrong act never yet worked a good result. I would willingly die for you, for there would be no sin in that. But I dare not marry you."

"You are scarcely consistent," he said, bitterly. "You would sacrifice your life, but not a mere principle, to perhaps save my soul."

Maggie was silent. Why argue over what she had urged a dozen times at least? Man's weak reason against God's truth she knew he would use, and never see its impotence, scarcely the pain he gave her.

"Maggie, think what you are giving up when you cast me off. You are so alone in the world. No friends to look to, nor claim protection from. Poverty and loneliness are hard for a mere girl to bear; and I can lift you above both. I have wealth, and far better than wealth, a heart to give you. Do you still turn from me, Maggie?"

"I can bear both poverty and loneliness," she said; "or rather I do not fear them, for I have a stronger arm to lean

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"Stronger than mine, I suppose you mean," Evan said, coldly.

"Yes, than any man's," she answered, quietly.

"And this is the love I was so proud of winning! A love which can turn away from me, because forsooth I cannot think as you do. I might have hid my want of faith-fooled you into thinking I believe as you do. Has not my honesty some power to make you think better things of me, Maggie?"

"I thank you for it. It will always be a source of comfort to me. Yet it makes my path no less plain before me."

"How can it be plain, Maggie? It seems to me you are torturing it into such devious turning, you have wellnigh lost yourself."

"I cannot think with you; and if I do not falter, it is because the way seems to me so narrow and so straight I cannot stumble. That it separates us is a heavy cross to me; and yet," she said, as if to herself, "he that taketh not his

cross and followeth after me, is not worthy of me.'

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Evan turned from her angrily. "Be it so," he said. "No doubt you are right. The world is big enough to keep us separated, and fair enough, and gay enough to kill out all thoughts of the past. You have chosen a different path through life than mine; may it lead you to a pleasant, happy future." He spoke very bitterly, as far from meaning his words as possible.

"God give me strength to bear my lot," Maggie said, meekly. "And, Evan, go where you will, my prayers will follow you.'

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"Until next year, perhaps. After then you will forget me. Good-by, Maggie; if you had loved me as well as I have you, you would never have left me."

Maggie held out her hand for the leave-taking, but she never answered him. If she had spoken from her full heart, would he have turned so suddenly on his heel and left her? They were to part; no cry of hers must detain him.

Maggie went home sadly enough. She was too lonely and unprotected not to be sure of missing a love which had shielded and comforted her for two years past. Nothing but Evan's unbelief could, she was very sure, have separated them-an unbelief she had never suspected until some few months before, and which she had struggled against with all her might, and could not turn for all her pleading. And then came the death of her hopes for this life, in the assurance that they must part.

over her, and keeping her from want.
There were constant little services done
for her, which could scarcely have been
instigated by those who did them, nor
so cheerfully wrought for only a few
words of thanks.
And she was sus-

picious that old Eunice was not half the
manager she pretended to be, and that
she must have found either fairy gold, or
some unknown means of help.

The suspicion oppressed Maggie. She had brought about this severance with much pain and trial to them both; and it was scarcely wise, to say the least, to keep up this mutual bond of dependence on her part, and gratuity on Evan's, if they were to abide by their separation. Had she a right to keep alive, by any act of hers, his love? Better for Evan to forget her, than to come back some day, to plead anew his love for her, asserting it more boldly by this new hold he had upon her.

She had taken one bold step in the rough path of duty, and should she flinch if the next was to help her forward? So one day Maggie left her home in old Eunice's keeping, and lost herself in the crowded city. Lost herself completely to Eunice, and so to Evan, who had kept diligent watch over her welfare by the means of the old woman.

Fierce was Evan's wrath when he read the old servant's tidings. But it was useless. No storming would bring Maggie back to her old home; no imprecations on Eunice's folly in not keeping better watch, could repair her lack of vigilance.

It was impossible for Maggie not to Now and then there came a letter feel the reaction after the separation. from Maggie to the old servant, saying The very monotony of her quiet, simple she was well, and enclosing money, life but added to her loneliness. One which showed at least she was in no step she constantly caught herself listen- need. But evidently there had been ing for a step which would wander care taken that the writer should not be over the whole earth, he said, rather traced through the post office. than come near her. If she could hear something of Evan, know where he was, could hear what he was doing! But he seemed dead to her-blotted quite out of her daily life.

But was he? Maggie began to be conscious that some one was watching

No use

There was no use in watching the nest when the bird had flown. in hovering around Maggie's old home when she had deserted it. Restless and anxious, Evan searched for his lost love. Failing to find her, he left the country.

What his life was abroad, no one

But go where he would, the thought of Maggie haunted him. His very anxiety and fears for her kept her constantly in his thoughts. If he had been sure she was well, and surrounded with the comforts of life, he might have forgotten her, but his anxieties made it impossible.

knew. His aim was to lose himself vegetables and stale meats, the refuse of from the knowledge of all his acquaint- the market, bought for a trifle, to be ances as effectually as Maggie had done; cooked in unsavory, not to say poisonand he succeeded in his endeavors. ous messes for their hungry children. Beggars were there, who had dropped their whine and well-acted part, now that it was no longer necessary to extort fan alms. There was a sprinkling of decent workmen, stopping either from curiosity, or as Maggie had, finding it vain to try to make headway through the crowd. Rude children, drawn from their plays in the gutters, hustled their elders to find out what "was up;" and street loungers, city pests, found something at last to repay them for their long waiting.

So years sped on. Maggie's face was forgotten where it once was so familiar, and no one ever mentioned Evan's name, except now and then to wonder coldly what had been his fate.

It was a bright day in early summer, a day whose brightness was all wasted in the crowded streets of the city. Nothing was there to betoken the glorious beauty with which God had clothed the fields, except here and there the golden disk of a dandelion, which had forced its way between the bricks of the foul gutters.

Something in the sight of the dandelion must have touched the memory of one of the passers-by. She must have been country-bred, to have found any thing to admire in the dust-begrimed weed. Something quite beyond the soiled beauty of its golden sun, which must have recalled green fields, yellow with its flowers, or hedgerows glinting underneath with its gold.

So engrossed was she with looking at the weed, she almost forgot to make the turn which took her away from the busy thoroughfare, and after a walk of a few short squares, brought her to a squalid part of the city. Only the very poor lived in that quarter-the very poor and the very wicked. But Maggie's errand was for good, and she was no stranger in that miserable street.

Walking along quickly, she was suddenly halted by a crowd that had gathered around the market-house. It was difficult to make her way through the dense throng of people, and she waited, hoping they would move on..

It was doubtful if many or any of that host of up-turned, eager faces really knew what they were expecting. One or two men standing in a group, had caused others to join them, until the streets around were deserted, and the throng was pushed together into one living mass near the market-house.

"Is anything the matter?" Maggie asked of a woman who stood near her.

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"How can I tell? If I could only wedge my basket in, I'd know quick enough. May be it's the police, they're eager for a row; or it may be a juggler with his tricks. If so, we'll never catch a sight of them standing here. There he is! He's standing on the stall. Can you see him? There's not much in the sight of him to keep us gaping this hour of the day."

Maggie looked where the woman pointed, only to see the top of a man's head above the crowd. He had his hat off, and those who were looking for some juggler's trick, must have been surprised to hear him give out a text of Scripture.

He was a street preacher, telling the crowd the oft-told tale of God's love to them. Though he spoke in a low monotone, not one word was lost by Maggie, who stood somewhat near the edge of the crowd.

The speaker must have had a wonderful insight into fallen human nature, to Un-hold the attention of that rough, almost brutish mob, as if they were one listener.

Forced to stand there, she was struck with the odd collection of people. tidy women, carrying baskets of wilted

"If any thing can touch them, it must be God's love, even for them," Maggie thought.

Suddenly the preacher's voice changed into a louder, thrilling tone, and he apostrophized the crowd.

"Ah, my brothers, was not the cross heavy enough to weigh him down without their mockings? If you had stood there, thronged close together, even as you stand now, you're sure you'd never have mocked him. You would have been pitiful, and never cried the shameful words, 'Away with him! away with him! You may have sins-you'll not deny that you have them. You may drink, curse, blaspheme, ill-treat your wives, and trick simple folk, but you'd never lend your aid to crucify the Lord! And yet I tell you, in every oath swear, in every blow you give, in cheat you boast of, you strike in the cruel nails, and raise the murderous

cross.

you

every

There are women here-women who were pure and good some little while ago. Women are more tender-hearted, more pitiful than we are. Have they also killed their Lord? Even they have. They have killed him by the little angels God gives them with loving arms to hang around their necks, and which they transform into the devil's imps. By the hearths they should keep pure, and which they defile with filth; by the hearts he gave them, which they have filled with hate and malice; by these, I say, they crucify their Lord afresh, and put him to an open shame."

The woman next Maggie stealthily wiped away a tear, and then turned hastily to leave, never heeding where her basket hit. Fearing to be entangled hopelessly in the crowd when it broke up, Maggie followed in the woman's wake, finding it not difficult, thanks to the basket, though she made but slow progress.

At the first corner she made good her escape into a quiet, almost deserted street. It was a relief to get out of the crowd which had wedged her in so tightly, to be free from such close contact with such ill-looking men and

women.

She was not sorry she had been forced to stop and listen to the preacher. There was something in his voice that seemed familiar to her. Something which belonged to the far-off past. Just as the dandelion did, which she had picked from the gutter, because it reminded her of a certain field where they grew as thick as the stars which studded the sky. Of course it was a fancy, this recognition of a voice, for she could never have met the man.

Just then he passed her, startling Maggie a little, though it was by no means wonderful that he had chosen the same escape as she had from the rude crowd. As he passed her, he raised his hat, not in courtesy, but to catch the breeze which came freshly down the street. If the voice had seemed familiar, that action was more so. The next moment Maggie had laid her hand on the stranger's arm, and asked, softly—

"Have you forgotten me, Evan ?"

"Thank God you are found at last!" he said, and drew her hand through his arm.

For a little while they walked on in silence, until Evan asked"Where have you been all these years, Maggie?"

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'Here," she answered. "I came here and found a place as governess. I have

been in the same home ever since. And

you?"

"I have travelled the world over in search of peace. When I lost you I was beggared for I had no other love. Since then life has been more tolerable."

"Because of a higher love?" she asked, quickly.

"Even so. I was near death's door, Maggie. I had lost you in this world, and I had no hope of you for the future one. I was in a strange land, without friends. A good man found me out, and patiently bore with my doubts, for my unbelief was not more than that when I was laid low with illness. Losing you, and being very sick, softened me. Man's reason seemed very paltry when it could so easily be overthrown. Need I tell you, all worked together for my good; and, in my gratitude, I vowed to

work for God's kingdom, even amongst the vilest and most worthless."

"I have heard you," Maggie said. "I was in that crowd. I wonder I did not know you from the very first."

"You never thought of my giving such a message, dear. Is Saul among the prophets?" you could scarcely expect to ask. God is very good, Maggie. In doing his service I have found you, dear. You are not going to escape me now? But if you will, I'll not strive to hold you as harshly as I did some years ago." "I have no wish to escape," she said, softly. "Only you must let me help you, not hinder you, in your work."

"There is enough for all. The world's so steeped in sin, every one must bear his and her part to cure it. You

began, too, when you held out faltering hands to hold me back from rank unbelief; and you, who never shrank from parting from your lover, rather than disobey a plain command, are worthy of the work."

In the most squalid streets and alleys of one of our largest cities, Evan and Maggie spend most of their lives, working for the poor, the wicked, and depraved. Now and then they come back to the old home, to catch health and strength for more work. There is more than enough to do, and the time seems very short to them. There is nothing to part them now, either for time or for eternity, and Maggie's resolution brought a blessing in the end, because she was faithful to her belief.

LIGHTS OF THE DARK AGES.

BY DAVID MAGILL.

A

VI.-BERNARD, THE MONK.

T Fontaines, near Dijon, in Burgundy, on a small eminence of the Cote d'Or hills, is a chapel restored by Louis Philippe, which was during the revolution a smithy, and in the previous century a meeting place for the Reformed congregation of Feuillants. In the eleventh century this was the castle of Tesselin, the yellow-haired, a brave knight, but yet conspicuous for his love of justice and his charity. In the year 1091, his wife, Aletta, gave birth to her third and favorite son, Bernard.

As Tesselin was devoted to warlike pursuits, which were then the occupation of every gentleman, to the pious Aletta fell the task of educating her children. She was admirably suited to this work, for unlike most women of rank in her day, she led a quiet life at home, only stirring thence to seek out the poor, attend to the sick, and dispense a bountiful charity. From their birth she dedicated her seven children to the cloister, believing that thereby she was dedicating

them to God. The pious training of his mother did not long continue with the boy Bernard, for she died before he had completed his tenth year.

His mother was right in destining him to the monastery, for in these days, amid the clash of arms, the cries of warriors, and the din of battle, the only spot where learning and piety had any resting place was in the convent or monastery, which, away in the thick woods, sheltered from the gaze of men, afforded an asylum to the student and the religieux.

After his mother's death, his friends, and especially his brothers, opposed his desire for a monastic life. They perhaps thought that his fragile frame would not permit him to be a hardy warrior, but they endeavored to foster another ambition in his breast. There was then arising in Europe a war more enticing, more fierce, and even more glorious than any of their steel-clad tournaments. They wished to direct his attention to the

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