Certainly she had been a little jealous of Beatrice Huntley once upon a time, and had confessed that peccadillo, half penitently, half laughingly, to Gilbert long ago. In those days she had not been sure of his love --she was sure of it now, and it would have required something a great deal more serious than his visits to the Manor House to make her distrust him. As reasonably might he have distrusted her for making much of Mitchell, who at this time was far more constantly with her than Gilbert was with Miss Huntley. For Mitchell's goods and chattels were being packed up. Somewhat suddenly he had announced his appointment to another coastguard station in the north of England, and Kitty, who divined that the transfer had not been unsolicited, felt that the least she could do was to make his last days at Kingscliff as pleasant for him as might be. On the eve of his departure a few friends were invited to a farewell dinner in his honour at Morden Court; and then it was that Miss Huntley and he had a little talk together for the first time since her return; for although they had met before, neither of them had displayed much anxiety to compare notes with the other. Now, however, she beckoned him aside to say:

"So you are retiring from the field of battle."

"That is the usual thing to do after one has been beaten, is it not?" he returned. "One should not allow oneself to be so easily beaten."

"Well, I don't know about that; under certain circumstances defeat is inevitable, I suppose."

"And a bungling ally is not quite the right person to make criticisms, perhaps?"

'Oh, you mustn't put words into my mouth that I never used, Miss Huntley. I know you did your best for me and very

kind it was of you, I'm sure."

"Nevertheless, I miscalculated my strength; and you didn't think much of my tactics, did you?"

Mitchell hesitated.

"You never told me what your tactics were," he replied at length; "but as far as I could understand them, they weren't exactly-well, I don't think I should have employed them myself. The fact is, I believe honesty to be the best policy."

Miss Huntley did not appear to relish the condemnation which she had invited; for she frowned and shut up her fan with a snap. "That sounds a very rude thing to say, Mitchell went on apologetically; "but what I

mean is that in these cases it is really all plain sailing. She didn't care for me, and she did care for Segrave. That seems to me to be final. I couldn't make her care for me."

"Oh, excuse me; that doesn't follow at all. And how do you know that she cares for Mr. Segrave? How do you know that the person with whom she is in love isn't an imaginary being whom she will never find inside Mr. Segrave's skin?"

But this was too subtle for the straightforward Mitchell, who shook his head and answered:

"It would be no kindness to encourage me, Miss Huntley, even if you could. But you can't. I must grin and bear it. The only thing is that I find I can't bear to stay here, and that is why I'm off to Berwick-onTweed."

'Leaving the enemy in possession."

"Oh, I don't want to call him the enemy. He and I have never hit it off together particularly well; but most people like him, and after all, he is the man whom she has chosen to be her husband."

"And suppose the man whom she has chosen to be her husband should break her heart some fine day?"

"In that case, I shouldn't think twice about breaking his head."

"A very useful and practical measure, though hardly to be described as either prevention or cure. Perhaps you wouldn't carry it out, though; perhaps by that time you may have found consolation on one side or other of the Border."

Mitchell reddened.

"Look here, Miss Huntley," said he a little roughly; "I have known Kitty Greenwood since she was a child in the schoolroom, and I have never in all my life loved another woman. I don't know that it matters very much what you may think of me; but if you think that I shall find consolation,' as you call it, at this time of day, you make a mistake."

"Don't be angry," she returned, laughing; "I give you full credit for constancy, though I can't say as much for your perseverance. Apparently, your notion of fighting a battle isn't the same as mine. If I were in your place, I should say to myself that all was not lost so long as the girl whom I loved remained unmarried, that engagements have been broken off before now, and that when a woman looks at a rejected lover with tears in her eyes, it is because she is beginning to find out what he is worth."

"She didn't look at me with tears in her

"Did she not? I suppose I must have been deceived, then, when I caught a glimpse of her across the dinner-table. Perhaps she had swallowed an over-dose of mustard, or she may have been dazzled by the brilliancy of her prospects. To be sure she might have wept all the tears of Niobe before you would have seen them; for your own eyes don't seem to be as sharp as a sailor's ought to be. Since you won't use them at Kingscliff, perhaps you may as well be at Berwick-onTweed as here. It wouldn't be a bad plan to take a return-ticket though."

"What do you mean?" asked Mitchell, for the second time.

course. What else should I mean? and what part could suit you better? You have chosen to surrender to him without striking a blow; it is only fit that you should walk in his triumph."

Mitchell drove home that night with a young man who was loud in his commendation of Miss Huntley, her beauty, her talents, and her amiability. The elder man listened for a long time with that silence which is said to imply assent; but at length he responded:

"Miss Huntley may be all that you say, and I should think she is; but between you and me, I doubt whether she is quite right in the upper story."

It was this impression of her, and no other, that he took away with him to Ber

THE

FIRST SUNDAY.

Read John iv. 1-15.

HE traveller from Judæa to Galilee, who, as of old, goes through Samaria, resting at Jacob's well, and passing on to Nablous, on the site of the ancient Sychar, finds the distance between the city and the well greater than the casual reader of St. John's narrative would suppose. As he traverses that distance, which is at least two miles, the question is forced upon him, What was this woman's motive in going so far to draw water? There is a perennial fountain at the city gate from which she could have obtained the supply needed for her household. If it be true that, being of worse than doubtful reputation, she was not permitted to associate with the women who frequented the well at the gate, there were other and nearer fountains in the Vale of Shechem from which she could have drawn. There is no valley in Palestine where the traveller is so cheered by the tinkle of brooks and by those sounds of the green-leaved earth which betoken the presence of abundant water. Why then did this woman habitually leave the city gate and, passing the many fountains in the valley, find her weary way to Jacob's well that she might fill her water-pot from its depths? It hardly admits of doubt that she was im

pelled by a superstitious motive. She made the pilgrimage to the distant well because she esteemed its water sacred. It was the gift of the holy patriarch who had drunk thereof himself, and his children, and his cattle. It must be endowed with saving virtue. The woman sought peace to her troubled conscience in a toilsome act of religious devotion.

When we recognise that this was her motive, light is shed on the whole narrative. We understand better than before her amazement that a Jew should ask drink of a woman of Samaria. She heard the request not merely as that of a wayworn thirsty traveller for a cup of cold water, for such a request might have been made without impropriety to one of the alien race. But she greatly wondered that a Jew with his proud exclusiveness should ask leave to participate with her in what she reckoned a religious rite.

Then, too, we see new point and meaning in the Saviour's reply, "If thou knewest the gift of God and who it is who saith to thee, give Me to drink, thou wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water.' These words touch the error which lay at the root of her religion. She thought the favour of God could be purchased by outward observances. She was going about to establish a righteousness of her own, seek

ing peace and life by habitual pilgrimages to a sacred spot, and by drinking the water of a holy well. The Lord would have her learn that eternal life is the gift of God, bestowed without money and without price on those who humbly ask it.

Nor did the woman so grievously misunderstand Him as she seemed when she answered, "Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with and the well is deep; from whence then hast thou that living water? Art thou greater than our father Jacob which gave us the well?" She was not thinking of the material, while He was speaking of the spiritual. What she asked was whether this Jew, who had not even the means of bringing water from the depths of her holy well, laid claim to greater sanctity than the father of his race, and could give her such water as would avail her more than that which was sacred through the patriarch's memory.

When the Saviour said in reply, "Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst: but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life," He contrasted the temporary and evanescent peace which is obtained by outward rites, such as the drinking of the water of a holy well, with the enduring and boundless blessedness which flows from the indwelling of His grace in the heart. Outward rites can give no lasting relief. They are like the anodyne, that stills for a season the gnawing of the deadly pain, but can do nothing to eradicate the disease. The gift of God's grace reaches the root of the malady. It takes our guilt away, and thus it gives deliverance from the fears which guilt begets. It is in the heart a fountain of life, sending streams into every region of our nature and making it beautiful and fruitful to God's praise.

The woman understood Him well. Her experience attested the truth of what He said about thirsting again. The unrest of her weary heart could be soothed only for a season by her pilgrimages to Jacob's well. She had ever to be coming again to draw. There was something inexpressibly attractive to her in the thought of any fountain of enduring peace, of any water that would be in her as a well springing up into everlasting life. It was in no jest, but in deepest earnest that she cried, "Sir, give me this water that I thirst not, neither come hither to draw." Her words were a sincere and earnest prayer.

SECOND SUNDAY.

Read John iv. 16-26.

He to whom all hearts are open and all desires known recognised the woman's words, "Sir, give me this water," as an earnest prayer for spiritual blessing, and proceeded at once to answer that prayer. He would not withhold the request of her lips. She had asked life of Him, and He would give it. That she might realise the blessing she sought, two things were essential. She must be convinced of her sin, and her mind must be enlightened in the knowledge of the Saviour. These two essential parts of her effectual calling to life and peace were both secured when Jesus said, "Go, call thy husband and come hither." His words brought a twofold revelation to her heart-a revelation of the evil of her life, and a revelation of the glory of Him whom she perceived to be a prophet, because He was telling her all that ever she did.

They revealed the evil of her life, bringing her face to face with the reality of her sin. She had had five husbands, and he whom she now had was not her husband. Such conviction of sin is the first step towards regeneration. When, in the deceitfulness of our hearts, we are glossing over our sin, we may be able for a time to still our unrest by formal acts of religious devotion: by setting the number of our sacrifices over against our disobedience. But when the sharp two-edged sword of God's word pierces even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit and lays our sin bare, we feel how vain are our oblations. They cannot wipe out the stain of our guilt. If we are to be pardoned it must be through the free gift of God's love; if we are to be regenerated it must be by a power mightier than our own taking hold of our hearts and renewing our lives.

The same word of Christ which brought conviction of sin to the woman's heart revealed to her One whose power to help her was attested by the fact that He was searching out the secrets of her life. Here was a Physician who, by one skilful touch, had probed her heart and revealed the root of her unrest. To whom but to Him could she go for healing? She said, "Sir, I perceive that Thou art a Prophet;" and propounded for His solution the vexed question between Jews and Samaritans as to whether Mount Gerizim or Mount Zion was the scene of acceptable worship. She was not seeking to escape from an inconvenient personal question by taking refuge in a commonplace of ecclesiastical controversy. She earnestly de

sired to learn through what channel salvation was to flow to her. It was not wonderful that the zealous pilgrim to Jacob's Well should think only of a channel of formal observance; and she was willing to accept the guidance of the Prophet she had found as to which channel was the true. She asked, in effect, Are the well-springs on Zion sources of more enduring peace than I can find on this mountain? In even hinting at such a question she was already showing a willing and obedient heart. All her sacred associa tions clustered round the hill where her fathers worshipped. But what things were gain to her she was willing to count loss for the life she craved. She was ready to forget her own people and her father's house-nay, even to cast in her lot with the hated Jewsif that sacrifice would avail.

There is a stage in spiritual history in which questions similar to this seem of paramount importance. The soul is perplexed with inquiries as to what form of doctrine is most accordant with truth and most likely to give rest to the troubled heart; as to what Church is the true sanctuary of refuge. Such perplexities are very real, and are by no means to be despised; they are an evidence of spiritual quickening. But in view of them the Saviour's reply to the woman of Samaria is for ever memorable: "Woman, believe me, the hour cometh when ye shall neither in this mountain nor yet in Jerusalem worship the Father." There are deeper questions than of creeds and forms of worship. It is the spirit of our worship that is all-important. If men worship the Fatherif there underlies their worship the child-like spirit of faith and obedience, it is a secondary matter whether that worship is rendered on Gerizim or Zion. The language of true worship is one, though the dialects in which it is uttered are many.

But forms of doctrine or of worship are not therefore indifferent. The difference between Mount Gerizim and Jerusalem is secondary, yet there is a difference. "Ye worship," the Saviour adds, "ye know not what we know what we worship: for salvation is of the Jews." The Jewish worship was founded on a clearer apprehension of the nature and relations of Him who was its object than was the worship of Samaria. The Samaritans had begun to worship through blind fear of the God of the land into which they had been brought as aliens, and because the wild beasts of the depopulated country were destroying them. They never learned to know God fully. They accepted only the

Books of Moses; they shut out the everbroadening light of divine revelation that came to Israel by the later prophets. They had not the same clearness of hope as had Israel, to whom the sure word of prophecy was as a light shining in a dark place till the day dawned, and the day-star arose in men's hearts. There is a difference between truth and error, between more enlightened and less enlightened forms. The worship of those who refuse to recognise the presence of the ever-living God, revealing Himself continually and in many ways, be they Samaritan or Jew, Catholic or Protestant, can neither be as acceptable nor as profitable as the homage rendered by the men whose ears are open to the words of prophecy that are spoken as the ages roll on.

But no worship of the one Father, sincerely rendered in the spirit of devotion by filial hearts, is rejected. "The hour cometh and now is when the true worshipper shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth, for the Father seeketh such to worship Him." He inhabiteth the praises of Israel, by whatever name Israel is called. Christ always recognised that they are not all Israel who are of Israel. Samaritans are sometimes nearer the kingdom than Jews. It was a Samaritan who showed the neighbourly spirit of true religion when priest and Levite passed by on the other side. It was a Samaritan who, alone of ten that were healed, returned to give God thanks. The Samaritans were in error, but God is no respecter of persons; and in every nation and under every creed they that fear God and work righteousness are accepted of Him. The Father seeketh such to worship Him.

This was involved in that fundamental truth acknowledged by Jew and Samaritan alike, that God is a spirit. His nature is spiritual, and it is therefore in the spiritual region alone that there can be true fellowship with Him. They forget this truth who think that outward forms, bodily exercises, can be in themselves acceptable to God. If we once realise the spirituality of God we shall feel that He must be worshipped in spirit and in truth. He desireth truth in the inward parts, and they only can have fellowship with Him in whom His own spirit dwells.

We know not whether something in the Saviour's bearing or words suggested to the woman that this was no common Jewish Rabbi, but perchance the promised Messiah, or whether the lofty regions of thought into which He led her made her feel her need of some one to guide her on the giddy

heights. Be this as it may, in leading her to the declaration, "I know that Messias cometh which is called Christ, when He is come He will tell us all things," He prepared her for the revelation of Himself, which was the second necessary part of her effectual calling to life and peace: "I that speak unto thee am He." Now, indeed, she had found the living water, for which as with fevered thirst she had been longing. She was face to face with One who could deliver her from the guilt which burdened her conscience and from the confusions of her wasted life. She could rest from her weary search after peace at His most blessed feet. She could with implicit confidence accept His guidance who could tell her all things.

THIRD SUNDAY.

Read John iv. 27-30.

At the point to which we have come in our readings, when Jesus-having led the woman to confess her expectation of the advent of the Christ-revealed Himself as the fulfiller of that expectation, the conversation was interrupted by the return of the disciples who had gone into the city to buy meat. They were amazed that their Master should be holding converse with one who belonged to the alien race, with one more over whose appearance indicated that she was of evil life. They had not yet reached the wider views of the kingdom of God into which they were by-and-by to be led. They had not yet learned that the Son of Man had come to seek that which was lost. The parables of the Lost Sheep, the Lost Silver, and the Prodigal Son, had not yet been spoken. The disciples had not heard the words He had just uttered which disallowed any claim to peculiar sacredness, put forth in behalf of this or the other mountain. They would probably not have understood them if they had. They were true and loyal disciples, but they were disciples and had still much to learn. It is a necessary condition of discipleship, that we should be ever and again perplexed by glimpses into new regions of truth. The conduct of the wondering disciples is an example of the spirit we should manifest under such perplexity. They marvelled, but they did not presume to question. No one said to the woman, What seekest thou? or to the Master, Why talkest thou with her? They could trust their Master even while they wondered; they could quietly wait for further light. It is foolish to cry out when ever in our pursuit of truth we discover

something which does not square with the system we have adopted. Calvin well says, "that we, when something in the works of God and of Christ does not please us, should not indulge in complaint and opposition, but should rather be modestly silent until what is hidden from us be revealed from heaven."

If the conversation had not been interrupted by the arrival of the disciples, the woman might probably, in reply to our Lord's avowal of His Messiahship, have confessed her faith. As it was she did so in another way. She showed her faith by her works. She gave the best possible evidence of the presence of the new life which had begun to stir within her. She left her water-pot-the symbol of her servile toil. It was no longer needed. Jesus had answered her prayer, and had given her the living water, that she might thirst no more, neither come thither to draw. Already there was springing up within her a well of life, overflowing in compassion for her kinsfolk and her neighbours, whom she would make partakers of the gift of God she had received. As long as she trusted in her acts of painful devotion, she was self-seeking in her religious zeal. She went solitarily the weary way to Jacob's well. Why should she ask others to join her pilgrimage? She had no gospel to tell them, no joy to share with them. She was gloomily intent on the solution of the problem, how to obtain the favour of God and find peace to her own troubled conscience. But now everything is changed. The joy of God's salvation has enlarged her heart. She has drunk at a fountain of boundless grace, which must be free to all. This is the secret of the missionary spirit, characteristic of those who trust for salvation to God's free grace. They who believe the good tidings cannot hold their peace, but must make them known. this new convert goes "her way into the city, and saith to the men, Come, see a man which told me all that ever I did; is not this the Christ?"

So

She is not hindered by the remembrance of her degradation. She was of unclean lips; but if there is no other to tell that the Christ has come she will not be silent. Her iniquity is taken away, her sin is purged, and the first fruits of her cleansed lips shall be words of good tidings to those who have known her shame. It has been remarked that she spoke to the men. Perhaps the women would not have hearkened to her; but where there was hope of audience she could not choose but speak. Her words are distinguished by be