therefore, that at a later time the family of our Lord became disturbed by what they must have regarded as His dangerous enthusiasm, for we are told by St. John that His brethren did not believe in Him, and that the people said He was mad. We are told by St. Mark that His kinsmen tried to get possession of Him, for they said, He is beside Himself; and that when they approached Him for this purpose, His mother and His brethren were together. It was on this occasion, and one other, that the Lord seemed to dissociate Himself from the mere ties of kindred, at least seemed to treat them as subordinate to those of spiritual relationship. When told that His mother and His brethren were seeking Him, He said, "Who is My mother and who are My brethren? And He looked round about on them which sat around Him, and said, Behold My mother and My brethren! For whosoever shall do the will of God, the same is My brother, and sister, and mother." And yet, again, "A certain woman of the company lifted up her voice, and said unto Him, Blessed is the womb that bare Thee and the paps which Thou hast sucked. But He said, Yea, rather blessed are they that hear the word of God and keep it." And He ever taught that for conscience' sake father and mother and all must, if necessary, be forsaken. Now it is quite certain that when the Lord said that he who did the will of God was brother and sister and mother to Him, and that it was more blessed to do God's will than to have been His earthly parent, He did not mean to disown His mother. His last thoughts, when dying, were upon her, His last earthly solicitude was for her. The duties of children to parents can never be relaxed; no change can lessen them, no corban relieve from them. But our Lord did seem to say that no earthly relationship could be allowed to interfere with a call of God, or with duty to Him. He did seem to say that nearer than blood relationship is mental and spiritual kinship. He did seem to imply, that at that time, into this innermost partnership of His spirit in the election of God, His mother and His brethren had not fully entered, for He says, "Rather are they blessed who do the will of God even than she is who bore Me." At times, many sensitive spirits have suffered distress, because they have not been always able to feel to brothers or sisters or other relations as warm, as tender, as confiding and admiring a regard as they have given spontaneously to some one not kindred in flesh but kindred in spirit. But why should they be so distressed? The duties of blood are that parents should provide for children in body and mind and soul, and the everlasting duty of children is honour and care and service of duty to parents. It is likely, and it is natural and probable, that those born of the same parents, reared in the same home, with memories and traditions which are the same, should be more than usually attached to each other. But it need not be so. There is no sin if it should not be so. We cannot love that which is unlovely; and no one maintains that everybody's relations are all delightful and lovable. It is possible to have dull relations-even stupid relations. There may be the same oppositions in character and temper between relations which make friendship close and tender impossible between those who are not akin. If we cannot be drawn to a certain temper and make of character, when that temper is the temper of one who is not a relation, we shall be no more drawn to it when it is that of a relation. The truest relationship is mental and spiritual relationship. Once again is the Virgin seen, and now at the Cross of Jesus. That is a scene too sacred, too profound either for description or analysis. It has been painted in colour a thousand times. But who that has looked upon the deluge of anguish drowning the mother, and the tortured frame sunk down in death upon the cross, has not felt it was something which ought not to be painted, and which the mightiest art could not but degrade? If we must have pictures of the Virgin at all, let them be the motherhood in the beautiful forms of Madonna and Child; let them be spotless womanhood held up to worship in the Assumptions of the Virgin. Some great fathers allege, St. Basil and St. Chrysostom, to wit, that the sword which Simeon said should pierce her soul, was doubt in the divine calling of her Son in the hour when even that Son Himself seemed overwhelmed, the hour when He cried, “My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken Me ?” It is not for us to tell. One more glimpse of the Virgin mother is granted us, and then the veil falls and hides her from our sight for ever. It is one, however, which may draw to it alike pure matron and maid; nay, may draw to it those whose garments have caught a stain. There they may kneel down in the hour of sorrow, of guilt, or of patient waiting for a better day, kneel by the side of the Mother of Christ, the last glimpse of whom is that of a Mother praying. HER TWO MILLIONS. BY WILLIAM WESTALL, AUTHOR OF "RED RYVINGTON," "THE PHANTOM CITY," "Two PINCHES OF SNUFF," ETC. CHAPTER XLV.—GABRIELLE'S CONFESSION. A LFRED was too much excited to sleep very soundly, and, rising betimes, he wrote to Artful and Higginbottom, as well as to Cora and to Warton, telling them of all that had come to pass. He asked the lawyers for instructions, as Vera, being the ward of her grandfather's trustees, would have to be guided by their instructions, and their instructions were necessary, for at present, as it seemed to him, the girl had no home. She was simply M. Senarclens' guest, and it was out of the question for her to return to La Boissière. This done, he and Martino went to Mon Repos, whither they had been invited to breakfast. Madame Senarclens, her daughters and Vera were in the garden. The historian was in his study, and it was the habit of the house not to disturb him until the ringing of the bell for second breakfast. Vera received the two visitors with evident pleasure, kissed Martino, and offered Balmaine her hand. "Do you still think it a misfortune to be a great heiress, Miss Hardy?" asked Alfred, after the ice had been broken by some remarks about the fineness of the weather and the grandeur of the scenery. "How strange it sounds to be called 'Mees Hardy!'" she said laughingly. "Hardy' I like; it was the name of my father: but 'Mees' is very droll, and not very nice. You must admit that 'Mademoiselle' has a much better effect." "Especially 'Mademoiselle Leonino.' It is a name which, though you may cease to bear it, I shall never forget. Would you like me to address you as Mademoiselle ?"" you would deprive yourself of the means of doing an immensity of good." "You mean that I might help the poor, better the lot of the disinherited ?” "Exactly." It is "That is what I should like to do. a noble aim. Here in Canton Vaud there are not many poor. There is not a family in our commune that has not at least a bit of land and a cow, or some goats. But in the great towns, which I have not seen, they say the poverty is something frightful-that people even perish of hunger. And it does seem wrong, does it not, that while so many have more than enough, the lives of thousands of our fellow-creatures should be cut short by hardship and want?" "It does. But you must admit, at the same time, that it is much easier to point out the wrong than to suggest a remedy. Among the indigent, for instance, are many whose misfortunes arise solely from their own idleness and intemperance. Would it be right, do you think, to tax the thrifty and industrious for the support of these ne'er-do-weels? Few, moreover, work for the love of work, and if you could-if it were possible to do away with the fear of want-the world's work would not be done; we should relapse into barbarism." "Still, M. Balmaine, I think it must be possible to distinguish the criminal from the unfortunate, and see that the latter do not want. I know it is difficult, for I was reading in a book the other day that, even with the best intentions, rich people may do more harm than good. I pointed this out to M. Senarclens. He said it was quite true, and gave it as an additional reason why there should be no rich people. If the rich who would do good cannot, he said, what harm must be done by the rich who think of "Not at all. I am an English girl, you know, and must accustom myself to English ways. You ask if I still think it a misfor-nothing but their own enjoyment?" tune to be a great heiress. I am afraid it is. M. Senarclens thinks so, and he is the wisest and best man I know." "With all due deference to M. Senarclens, it seems to me that he pushes his theories a little too far. There can be no question that great wealth is a great danger. But rightly used it is a great power for good, and you might easily, by throwing your fortune away, do more harm than by keeping it, while, by refusing to accept it-if that were possible XXVIII-41 "Let me answer you by saying what I read in a book the other day-that every good work, everything worth doing, is difficult, and that difficult does not mean impossible." "You really think, then, that if I accept this fortune I may do good with it? " "I am quite sure you may, Miss Hardy." "And would you give me your advice, M. Balmaine-would you help me to turn to good this great trust ?" A strange request; but, as Balmaine could see, it was made in perfect innocence and good faith. "With all my heart," he said. "I am not sure that I could help you much, though, and you will find far wiser counsellors than I." "But I know you, and as you discovered me" (smiling), "as Martino said last night, and have therefore found me the fortune, it is only right that you should share the responsibility of its disposal. However" (gaily), "that is three years off. I wish it were thirteen. I can easily live during that time on the sale of my sketches-Georgette is quite sure they would find customers in London or Paris-and the interest Père Courbet will pay me." "That will not be necessary," said Alfred, not a little amused at the idea of the heiress getting her living by selling sketches. "Though you cannot come into possession of your property until you are of age, your grandfather's trustees will certainly make you an allowance suitable to your position." "Oh, I thought I should get nothing at all for three years. How much do you think they will give me?" say." Anything you like in reason, I should "Then I could buy poor Madame Wartmann another cow. The only one she had died a few days ago. It was not insured, and she is in great trouble. I know where I could get a good milker with a calf at foot, for about 470 francs-perhaps 450-do you think I might?" 'I have no doubt the trustees will be delighted to place that sum, and a great deal more, at your disposal, Miss Hardy." Oh, I am very happy! Madame Wartmann shall have a cow better than the one she lost. You do not think I shall be doing more harm than good?" said Vera demurely, but with a mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes. "Certainly not. You are beginning to find out what a fine thing it is to be rich. I could not buy Madame Wartmann a cow." "You have no fortune then?" "Yes, I have. My head, my hands, some energy, and a great deal of hope." "Add cleverness, for if you were not clever you could not be editor of a news paper. Were I a man I should ask for nothing more than you possess. And if you want money, when I receive my inheritance, you have only to say how much and it is yours, for without you it would never have been mine." "You are really too good, Miss Hardy," said Balmaine, smiling at her naiveté, "but I trust you will not think me ungracious if I am unable to take advantage of your toogenerous offer." "You mean you cannot take money from me?" Alfred made a gesture of assent. "You are not consistent. You advised me just now not to refuse this fortune, and yet you refuse a part of it. Why?" "The circumstances are very different. Your fortune comes by bequest from your grandfather." "You puzzle me, M. Balmaine. Why should it be right to receive money as the gift of a dead man, and wrong to receive money as the gift of a living person?" It was "It is a matter of feeling and difficult to explain, as matters of feeling always are. When you are three years older you will perhaps be better able to understand my motives. And you are mistaken in giving me all the credit of finding you out. Warton, the lawyer's clerk at Calder, who first suggested that you had strayed or been stolen, and induced me to look for you. But for him I should never have had the slightest inkling of your existence, and as he went into the matter professionally, and is a poor man with a wife and family, I think he well deserves, and would willingly accept, some payment for the service he has rendered." "He shall have it, M. Balmaine, and you yourself shall fix the amount. We will talk of this another time. We must go in now, the bell rang a few minutes ago; and M. Senarclens, as he often tells us, is too busy a man not to be punctual. Allons." Alfred thought that Philip Hardy's daughter was the most singular girl he had ever met. Her manner was entirely sanS gêne; she showed as much aplomb and selfpossession as a woman of the world, yet neither overstepped the limits of modesty nor betrayed the faintest symptom of selfconsciousness. It did not seem to occur to her that there was anything unusual in the conversation they had just held, or in any of the remarks she had made. She evidently saw no impropriety in treating Balmaine with the frankness of an old friend, any more than a child sees in letting itself be fondled by anybody whose face wins its confidence. Alfred's face had won her confidence, just as Corfe's had roused her distrust. She knew next to nothing either of the conventionali |