the idea of a family dwelling in love and unity; of which, according to ancient practice and examples, the venerable Priest of the parish was the father. A father too he was in the best sense of the word; sympathising in all the sorrows and griefs of his children, sharing their joys, and leading them onwards in the paths of holiness with all a shepherd's tender care.

Eversley belonged to the ancient family of the De Beverleys, whose residence was situated at the foot of one of the neighbouring hills, and was one of the few still remaining to serve as a link hetween the present and the days of old. It was an old castle, with its keep, and moat, and draw-bridge, and its good old porter at the gate, to attend to the requests of needy suppliants, and to give succour to the distressed. There was also its ancient and goodly chapel, which had been preserved with greatest care, and adorned with the richest ornament of art; and in which the lords and domestics were wont daily to gather, in order to offer up their morning and evening sacrifice of prayer and praise. The family of the Beverleys were amongst the most distinguished of the age, for the great and glorious exploits they had performed on the battle field on behalf of their king and country; and many were the honours with which they had been decked in consequence thereof. But, though around the old hall were hung the insignia of honour, they did not pride themselves so much upon these as upon the honest peasantry by whom they were surrounded, to whose happiness and comfort they deemed it their chiefest joy and highest privilege to minister. For more than two centuries had this happy state of things existed. But on the death of the fifth Baron de Beverley, a change took place, as sad as it was unexpected. His successor was one who had grown up utterly careless of the duties of his position, and who, in expectation of succeeding to the vast estates to which he was the heir, rushed headlong into every kind of reckless extravagance and vice.

His wandering mode of life, and the gay and festive scenes of dissipation and vice in which he had taken part, unfitted him for that quiet life, whose joy consists in the performance of ordinary duties, which, however, have their reward. Pomp, luxury, and ostentatious parade, were the all-engrossing objects of his thoughts.

Hence, when he became the possessor of Eversley Hall, he only paid a passing visit to the place, stayed a day or two, and then returned to Paris, where he was at the time of his uncle's death. During his stay he dismissed the servants, who had grown old under the ball of his fathers. The management of the estates was entrusted to a person more wicked than himself, who had accompanied him for some years upon his travels. This steward was proud, haughty, and domineering; and the tenants soon began to experience the bitterness of neglect.

Meanwhile young De Beverley plunged deeper and deeper into

every excess, surrounding himself with all the luxuries that wealth could command. To such a length did he carry this, that the property was encumbered, and obliged to be sold. On the day of the sale, the inhabitants crowded around the ancient place, and watered the ground with their tears: for though the young Baron had made no efforts to win their love and affection, they could not easily forget the hitherto untarnished splendour of that ancient house, or wipe from their faithful memories the many benefits they had received from his ancestors. They loved him for their sakes; and now, in its ruin, their sympathy for that ancient family was perhaps stronger than ever it had been in its best and palmiest days. Deeds of love and mercy are like bread cast upon the water seen many days hence; they resemble seeds sown in the well-tilled ground, taking root downwards, and bringing forth much fruit upwards. With this feeling of veneration for the departed, there might also be added another of a more selfish character. They could not think of another coming with whom they should be so intimately and closely connected, without being apprehensive as to the results that might ensue.

The estates of the Beverleys were too good a property to be sold without a severe contest. After much bidding, they were at length knocked down to Mr. Ashcroft, of M, a large manufacturing town not far distant from Eversley. After the sale, the villagers, young and old, collected themselves into various groups, and though the shades of evening had gathered around them, they seemed as if they could not tear themselves from a place to which they were so devotedly attached. Above all, the old servants craved permission to walk through it once again, and to look, if for the last time, upon every part of that abode, which had been to them the dwellingplace of peace, and which was so dear to their memories.

"Ah!" said one of the group, a man of many years, whose grey locks floated in the breeze, "the glory of this house is departed. Little thought I, when I used to drive young Lord Charles round the park, that things would come to this. I mind me well of days gone by, when we were all as happy as flowers in sunshine, and the old lord used to come round to see that all was well."

"And the good Lady Cecily," said another. "I always used to think she was an angel, sent from heaven to watch over us. You know my poor Lucy, who died a few summers agone? I don't know what I could have done, if it hadn't been for that saint, now at rest. She used to come every day to see my poor dear girl, and bring her what the doctor had ordered. And if she'd been her own sister, instead of a great and wealthy lady, she couldn't have been kinder. But she died soon after Lucy, and as we know in heaven the good are all one, whether rich or poor, so they will meet again. Oh, dear! what shall we do now!

"Ah! then," said a third, "how like a father was the Baron to us poor folk. Did'nt he on all feast days let us leave our work, and, when he had been to Church, have us all up at the hall, and spend the day with us? And what joyous harvest homes we used to have! We didn't know what it was to be cast aside because

we were poor. "True," said the old Clergyman, who stood amongst them," we never may. This is God's doing. Everything on earth is ruled for our good. His eyes go to and fro; and though it may be many a long year before bright days come again, and though we shall many of us be in our graves before then, yet happiness may be in store for them that follow after. I feel for you; for your loss is mine, and your joy my joy; for verily ye are the crown of my rejoicing and my hope. In this dear spot, well-nigh sixty years of my life have passed away. Many of us have grown old together; we have had the same spring, summer, and autumn of life, and now together are we entering upon its winter. Others of you are my children in a more especial manner. These arms received you whilst you were yet infants, and poured upon you the waters of regeneration, and marked you with the sign of the Cross, in token that you should be the servants of CHRIST. From my lips you drew the first knowledge of your duties and privileges. I have watched over you from childhood, presented you for confirmation, and first gave you the Holy Communion of the Body and Blood of CHRIST. You are one and all, young and old, my children, for whom I daily pray; and therefore I trust you will hear my words, and adopt my advice. A sad distress has fallen upon us; none can deny this. What the future may bring us, whether joy or sorrow, none but God knows. If the latter, then let us bear in mind that all these things are for proof of our love to the unseen, and that as the Captain of our salvation was perfected through suffering, so suffering has been in all ages the heritage of the Christian. Our afflictions are short, and will soon end in glory. For, however much we may have to bear of domestic and personal suffering, we shall not be persecuted unto death like the blessed martyrs of old, for the holy faith which we profess. And yet they endured; they were baptized,-as S. Polycarp, and S. Ignatius, and S. Cyprian,-with the baptism of blood, and purchased immortality by giving up their lives. But if it should be God's will to dry up our tears, and to turn our mourning into joy, then let us thank Him in our lips, and our lives; giving ourselves unto Him more unreservedly, and walking before Him all our days. Let us only look from the things that are seen to those that are unseen; from the dark present to the bright future beyond the grave; from the scene of our earthly pilgrimage to our abiding city not made with hands, eternal in the heavens: then, whatever may come, whether weal or woe, all will be well; grief may endure for a night,

We shall never see the like again !"

but joy cometh in the morning. It would be only right and proper for us to do our best, and to take care that our new landlord shall not have to reproach us for neglect, and want of that due respect which should always be paid to those above us. Such is the command of God; such, too, is the teaching of our Church, who enjoins her children to behave lowly and reverently towards all their betters. I cannot bid you dry your tears, for they are sacred to the memory of the blessed dead; but I do hope that when Mr. Ashcroft comes to take up his residence among us, we shall give him such a respectful reception as we are bound."

Thus spake the venerable and beloved Rector to his flock, though not unmoved; for many a time the tears trickling down his cheeks prevented his utterance. The moon had now arisen, and the dampness of the air warned them that it was now high time for them to bend their steps homewards. They kneeled down upon the grass, whilst the Pastor with unfolded hands pronounced a blessing upon them. Then sadly and sorrowing they hastened to their cottages, to sleep away their cares. W. B. F.

ECCLESIASTICAL NEEDLEWORK.

Ar a time when working for the Church has become so general amongst ladies, that books are published to furnish appropriate designs, it may be useful to consider the spirit in which such work should be undertaken, since the very fact of its being thus general is a cause of fear, lest this holy and blessed employment be desecrated into a fashion. Better that ladies should continue to bestow their time and attention upon chairs and ottomans, than that altar-cloths and fald-stools should become mere drawing-room work.

We feel it right that men should behave differently when engaged in building a Church, to what they do when employed upon a secular edifice. The same principle should surely be applied to needlework. It cannot be reverent to be embroidering the Sacred Sign and Monogram while callers are received; the design and shade not improbably to be discussed and admired; or, if unnoticed, the work itself to be continued amidst common-place conversation. I scarcely think it safe in the family circle as a general thing. Some few households there may be where such work will never appear incongruous, but even there I would advise some rule. It is recorded of the painter Angelico, that to him "the art of painting a picture devoted to religious purposes was an act of religion, for which

he prepared himself by fasting and prayer." And it is in this spirit that a churchwoman should undertake ecclesiastical needlework. This needlework is our privilege; it is the one thing essentially feminine that can be devoted to adorning the sanctuary; and it is because I do regard it as a privilege so high and holy, that I speak warningly to those of my younger sisters who may be engaging in it. It is not a work to enter upon lightly. Self-examination, and a humble, earnest prayer for a blessing upon the undertaking, are the first obvious duties. During its progress it should be the constant endeavour never to take it up without mental prayer; (what a holy habit, most difficult to learn, it might thus be the means of leading to!) and to strive to fix the thoughts upon some suitable subject, and to be more serious and silent than usual while engaged in it. To be able to do this, I recommend very earnestly that sacred work should be confined to certain stated times; and as self-denial ought especially to accompany such works, no times can be more proper than those set apart by the Church for fasting and abstinence: Lent, the Fridays, the Vigils, &c., those days which it always seems right and natural to distinguish in some way of the kind, as, ordinarily, by working for the poor. To rise an hour earlier in the morning, and devote that to the work, is at once to unite with it a very strengthening mode of self-denial, and to secure it against much which, by those who wish to perform it as a religious exercise, must, in most families, be felt a hindrance.

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And in this, as in everything else we do, we must strive against our own natural vanity and love of praise. Verily I say unto you, they have their reward." S. Gregory speaks of this as one of the most fearful passages of Holy Scripture; that what he did here receive, were it praise, or preferment, or what other earthly thing, it should be his last receipt, his final reward, his portion for ever. Let us, like him, impress this awful saying upon our souls; in this, as in all things, praying that we may look unto Him in singleness of heart, that so our reward may not be from man.

And when our work is finished and has been presented, let us be very thankful and humble for it. Let it be an incentive to us to walk onward more earnestly; to inquire more diligently in what other way we may be permitted to serve Him. Let us feel that every such offering is a pledge of devotion which must be redeemed by the increasing holiness of our daily life.

A. F. E.