London's Heart. B. L. Farjeon

revile God through His minister. It is such as you who set men's minds afire, and drive them into the pit."

      But the old man interrupted him with,

      "Nay, sir, do not let us argue; I at least have no time. A dead woman is waiting for me. I must go and seek a minister who will say prayers over the poor clay. Come, my children."

      "To seek a minister!" echoed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "What minister?"

      "A Methodist minister, as that is your will."

      "Presumptuous!" exclaimed the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in wrath so pious that a colour came to his usually pale face. "No Methodist minister can be allowed to pray in my churchyard!"--with a protecting look and motion of his fingers towards the ground where the dead lay--a look which said, "Fear not! My lips have blessed you; my prayers have sanctified you. Ye shall not be defiled!"

      "How, then, is my daughter to be buried?" asked the old man, with his hand to his heart.

      "The woman must be buried in silence," replied the minister.

      As if in sympathy with the words, a dark cloud passed across the face of the sun, and the sunbeam, with its myriad wonders, vanished on the instant, while the truant flashes of light that were playing in the corners of the room darted gladly away to places where light was.

      The old man bowed his head, and the words came slowly from his trembling lips.

      "Cruel! Unjust! Wicked!" he said. "Bitterly, bitterly wicked! Do we not all worship the same God? What has this innocent clay done, that holy words may not fall upon the earth that covers her? What have we done, that the last consolation of prayer shall be denied to us?" Then looking the minister steadily in the face, he said in a firm voice, "According to your deserts may you be judged! According to your deserts may you, who set your law above God's, and call yourself His priest, be dealt with when your time comes!"

      Turning, he was about to go, when the voice of the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell stopped him.

      "Now that you have done your reviling, attend to me for a few moments. You lived in this parish once?"

      "Twenty years ago," replied the old man. "All my life up to that time--I and my poor daughter. There will be some here who will remember me."

      "I remember you myself. You had a son?"

      "No; I had but one child, she who lies yonder."

      "Psha! it is the same--you had a son-in-law—"

      The old man looked up with apprehensive eagerness, and Alfred, who had hitherto been perfectly passive--having indeed for most of the time been engrossed in torturing himself about Christopher Sly and the Northumberland Plate--made a sudden movement forward. The old man laid his hand upon his grandson's arm, cautioning him to silence.

      "The father of these young persons," continued the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell. "Where is he?"

      "Alfred," exclaimed the old man, "take Lily away. It is too close for her here. I will join you presently outside."

      Indeed, Lily was almost fainting. The long weary ride, the abstention from food for so many hours, and the sufferings she had experienced during the dialogue between her grandfather and the minister, had been too much for her strength. Seeing her weak state, Felix stepped forward to assist Alfred, and presently they were in the porch.

      "Stay one moment, I pray," exclaimed Felix hurriedly; "only a moment."

      He darted into the house, and brought out a chair.

      "There!" he said. "Let her sit here for a minute or two. It will do her good. The sun is the other side of us."

      It is a fact that Felix, with quick instinct, had selected this place as being likely to revive the girl. They were out of the glare of the sun.

      "Now, if you will oblige me and not let her move," he said in the same hurried eager tone, "you will lay me under an obligation that I shall never be able to pay."

      The words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was upstairs, in his own room, tearing open his valise; he scattered the things wildly about, and came flying down again, with a fine white handkerchief and a bottle of Cologne water in his hand. He poured the liquid upon the handkerchief, and, with a delicate consideration, handed it to Alfred.

      "Bathe her forehead with it; place it on her forehead, so. Now blow gently--gently. Let me!"

      He blew upon the handkerchief, and the deliciously cool breeze revived the fainting girl. She looked gratefully into his face, which turned crimson beneath her gaze. But his task was not yet completed, it seemed. He took from his pocket a flask, which he had also found in his valise. There was a little silver cup attached to the flask, and he poured a golden liquid into it.

      "Taste this; it will do you good. Nay, put your lips to it; there's no harm in it. Your brother will drink first to show you how reviving it is."

      His voice was like a fountain; there was something so hearty, and frank, and good in it, that it refreshed her. Alfred emptied the silver cup, and her eyes brightened.

      "Take a little, Lily," he said; "it will do you good."

      She drank a little, and felt stronger at once.

      "Where's grandfather?" she asked then.

      "He will be with you presently," replied Felix. "I am going into him. I will tell him to come to you. But before I go," and here his voice faltered, and became more earnest, "I want you to say that you forgive me for any pain that you may have felt in--in there," pointing in the direction of the room they had left.

      "Forgive you!" said Lily, in surprise. "Why, you have been kind to us It was not you who said those dreadful words to grandfather. There is nothing to forgive in you."

      "There is much to forgive," said Felix impetuously; "much, very much, if it be true that the sins of the father shall be visited on the children. I am in that state of remorse that I feel as if I had been the cause of your suffering and your pain."

      "Nay, you must not think that," she said, in a very gentle voice; "I am not well, and we have come a long, long way."

      "Well, but humour my whim," he persisted; "it will please me. Say, 'I forgive you.'"

      "I forgive you," she said, with a sad sweet smile.

      "Thank you," he said gravely, and touched her hand: and as he walked into the house again, and into the study where his father and old Wheels were, Lily's sad smile lingered with him, and made him, it may be presumed, more unreasonably remorseful.

      While this scene was being enacted outside the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell's house, the conversation between the minister and old Wheels was proceeding. When Lily was out of the room, the old man said,

      "Will you please detain me here as short a time as possible, sir, as we have much to do and far to go?"

      "I will not detain you long," said the Reverend Emanuel Creamwell, in the tone of a man who is about to smite his enemy on the hip; "possibly you would not have remained, had you not been curious to know what I have to say respecting your son-in-law."

      "Possibly not, sir; you may guess the reason why I wished the tender girl who was here just now not to be present while you spoke."

      "Because I might say something unpleasant. Well, it is not a creditable story. Searching among the papers of a deceased man, having warranty to do so, his effects being the property of my son, I came upon this paper. It recites a singular story of an embezzlement, which took place--let me see; ah, yes--which took place nearly eighteen years ago. You know the story, probably?"

      "There are so many stories of embezzlement. Is my name mentioned?"

      "Otherwise I should not have spoken of the matter to you. After reciting the manner of the embezzlement and the name of the criminal, it speaks of intercession by you on his behalf, and how, somewhat out of compassion and somewhat out of policy, criminal proceedings