her forefinger drawn along the verses she was reading, but her ears on the alert for every sound in the farmyard; while Mr. Raynor took out his account-books, and absorbed himself in those.

Kythe watched him awhile with sorrowful surprise, then wandered away down the meadows to the side of the beck or stream. It was now she missed the dear ones at home, as well as the class of which she had been an energetic if not very useful teacher, and the sympathy with her own thoughts and feelings they were not likely to obtain here; and she was wondering with a sigh how they were spending the quiet Sunday afternoon which she found so insufferably tedious, when she came upon old Anne Beacham sitting on a fallen tree beside the stream.

There were two or three aged couples, she told Kythe, who either could not or would not attend divine service, but they had consented to let her read to them, and she was on her way to the cottage at which they met, intending to proceed as soon as she was sufficiently rested.

"Take me with you," said Kythe, eagerly. "If I am of no other use, I can give you the help of my arm."

66

Nay, for the matter of that, Jock is here," said his grandam; and Jock, who had been lying on a bed of dry ling or heather, raised himself, his ruddy face ruddier still when he caught sight of Kythe. "My boy will not let me go across the wood alone; but if you'll come too, missie, we shall be glad to have you."

Kythe felt half offended by the free and easy manners of the old folks assembled for the reading, so freely did they comment on her bonny face and "braw claes" (clothes); and so unceremoniously question her respecting her mother, "Daunce's Hester," whom an oh shepherd could well remember-but the walk thither had been a delightful one. Though Jock was almost as silent as before, it was not the silence of stupidity. Ever and anon he would pause, and, deftly parting the boughs, enable his companions to see where some beautiful little nest was just finished, and the spotted eggs laid in it; or the startled eyes of a mother bird looked up at them as they peered at her callow offspring. He led Kythe on tiptoe to a tiny glade in which the rabbits were gambolling unawares of being observed, and from beneath a mass of dead leaves plucked the first primroses she had ever seen growing in their native earth. There was a solemn beauty in these woods that she was beginning to feel. Hitherto her thoughts had never gone beyond the surface, and the words of the Psalmist old Anne read aloud in her sweet tremulous voice, had not seemed more than mere words to her till now

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.””

Sitting beside the cottage window, watching the shadows creep up the high crags beyond the Grange, she began to grasp the meaning of the verse; to have a dim conception of the eternal light that lies

beyond, and a restless yearning to know how it was to be attained, and an awe fell upon her awakened spirit the while.

When Anne Beacham closed her Bible, and the old shepherd had offered a few words of simple and devout prayer, there was a pause, and then some one began to sing. The voice was a tenor, exquisitely sweet and mellow, and the intonation was so at variance with the burr of all others she had heard in Yorkshire, that Kythe looked round to see who it was singing.

It was Jock. He was standing by the door, leaning against it, gazing at the landscape, while he sang, "The Lord my pasture shall prepare ; " his features no longer impassive, but glowing and brightening while he sang on-sometimes with a pathos, sometimes with an earnestness that held his hearers spell-bound, and transformed him from the rough awkward boy of an hour ago.

The old shepherd drew the back of his hand across his eyes when the singer paused, and some one else urged him to go on, which he did untiringly, till the deepening twilight warned his grandam that she must be gone, and with brief but hearty good-byes, the little party separated.

No one asked Kythe where she had been when she ran into the kitchen, for Miss Mia was scolding one of her maidens, who had outstayed her time by nearly an hour; and, as the girl was insolent in her manner, and returned saucy answers, the storm lasted till Noel Raynor was moved by Kythe's disgusted looks to interpose his authority, and insist that there should be no more said.

In spite of her assertion that she did not like climbing, the first really sunny morning tempted Kythe to pick her way by the safest path she could find to a spot from whence she could get a tolerably extensive view of the wide treeless moors that stretched along the upper slopes of the hills. But she was not yet imbued with the fascination they exercise over many of us. So weird and desolate a scene depressed instead of pleasing her, and she came back shivering and dissatisfied to listen with an incredulous smile when Miss Mia declared that there was no place like the East Riding for gaining health and strength, whether it was when the broom was in flower, or the bilberries ripening, or the whole country-side purple with heather.

"The keen winds pierce me to my very bones," said Kythe, "and, look which way I will, I see nothing but huge grim rocks, or boulders as I believe you call them. Far away in one direction these stones scem to rise to a great height."

"It is the castle, the ruins of Hartswood Castle," Miss Mia told her.

Kythe's interest suddenly awoke.

frightened away years ago by the strange noises they heard whenever the wind was high. My grannie used to know the whole history of the lairds that lived there, and how they fought with the Scots and Oliver Cromwell, but my head won't carry such tales nowadays."

Then it is a very ancient building? To whom does it belong? Is there a drawbridge, and a portcullis, and slits for the arrows, and a place where the defenders used to pour melted lead down on the besiegers?"

"My word!" exclaimed Miss Mia, peevishly, "am I a bookworm, to be worried with all these questions? If you want to know so much about a tumble-down house that 's not fit for any one to live in, go and see for yourself."

"No," said Mr. Raynor, peremptorily, "I will not have you send her there."

It was the first time he had evinced any interest in Kythe's proceedings since the previous Sunday, and she did not thank him for it now. Why should he interfere to mar her enjoyment? What could be more delightful than to explore such a castle as Frontde-Bœuf had dwelt in, with Rebecca and Ivanhoe for his prisoners? Walter Scott's historical tales had been read but languidly in the heart of London, but now that they could be recalled in the midst of such scenes as the author vividly described, Kythe was all eagerness to see for herself the turret chambers, the battlements, the dungeons, and the great hall, which she could people with his creations.

As soon as she quitted the dinner-table, she climbed once more to the point from which she had caught sight of the ruins. She could discern them more clearly now, for the sun was shining on a tower that stood in sharp relief against the blue sky. The distance was not so very great, after all, and she determined to visit Hartswood Castle at once.

Mr. Raynor's prohibition was not forgotten, but she had heard it with a tacit resolve to set him at defiance. This was the second time that, without sufficient cause, he had laid his commands upon her as if she were bound to obey him. To a polite intimation of his wishes she would have considered herself bound to defer both as his relative and his guest, but he was rude and churlish, sarcastic and arrogant, and, like the wilful child she was, she experienced a secret delight in proving to him that she would not brook such treatment.

It was a lonely walk; not a creature crossed her path. Once she thought she saw figures moving along a distant track, and recollected to have heard Lois say there was a party of gipsies camped near a circle of stones known as the Witches' Ring. This recollection made her uneasy and half-inclined to turn back, but the figures disappeared, and with a little hesitation she resumed her journey.

After all, it was doubtful whether it paid her for her trouble. The grey stone tower-it was nothing more-did not look as inviting, on closer inspection, as it would have done in a picture. The walls were stained with damp, and there was a large heap of rubbish to surmount before she could enter the door. The lower rooms were dark, ill-smelling vaults, and the stone steps leading to the upper storeys so worn and broken as to scarcely afford footing.

Still it was a castle, and Kythe felt bound to be enthusiastic and persevere. Besides, she was tired and much too warm with her long walk for it to be prudent to rest on the moor with a north-easterly wind swooping down upon her, and so she clim&ed on.

With an intelligent companion this visit to a remnant of the feudal times might have been pleasant enough, but Kythe did not know the difference between Roman and Norman architecture, and was too fully occupied in guarding herself from a fall to look about her much till she reached the summit of the building. The wind blew in such fierce gusts that she could not enjoy the landscape, over which a blue haze was settling, and she went back to the small square chamber below, slipping down several steps as she did so, and bruising her arm so much as to make her dread the still longer descent that lay before her.

A dead bird lay on the floor, and Kythe stooped to examine it. As she did so, a fierce gust of wind struck the tower, whirling up the dust and not only making the crumbling fabric totter, but hurling-to the stout oaken door by which she had just entered the room.

A sense of insecurity made her anxious to hasten away, and hurrying to the door, she essayed to open it; but it was fast, and defied her. Again and again she tried to insert her fingers in the crevices, and shake it free, but to no purpose. Kythe was a prisoner in the topmost chamber of Hartswood Castle, and who was to release her?

(To be continued.)

But

crossed the waters of the lake about the fourth watch of the night, and mingled on the following morning with the crowd as they pressed in the direction of the synagogue. Immediately He was assailed on every side with questions. When had He come? How had He got there? By what means had He crossed the lake ?-for the people had noticed that although the disciples set off from the shore in a boat, their Master had not accompanied them, but had remained on the eastern side alone. The questions our Lord declined to answer. They were beside the purpose, and were dictated by mere curiosity. He directed the thoughts of His questioners to the motives which lay underneath their apparent interest in Him and His ministry. They sought Him, he said, not for the sake of receiving instruction in the things pertaining to the Kingdom of Heaven, but because they considered it would be to their worldly advantage to be associated with One who could wield such power over the forces of nature. "Ye seek Me not because ye saw the miracles, but because ye did eat of the loaves and were filled." And then, starting from this point, He proceeded to speak at some length about Himself as the Bread of Life."

The discourse, as you will remember, produced a very profound but a very varied impression upon the people who heard it. Probably it was the first time that the Saviour had entered so fully into the mysterious subject of His relation to His people. But whether this were so or not,

all His hearers were startled by the statements He made, even the disciples themselves; and not a few who had hitherto attached themselves to His person, and reckoned themselves amongst His followers, gave up their allegiance in disgust. "They went back, and walked no more with Him."

I. Now, in considering the subject thus suggested to us, let us begin by inquiring what it was in our Lord's teaching on this particular occasion which gave so much offence.

That there was a great variety of opinion amongst His contemporaries about Jesus of Nazareth, is obvious enough. But I suppose we may venture to assume that the majority of the people regarded Him as at least a prophet sent from God, and that many, even of those who were not numbered amongst His disciples, suspected Him to be the Messiah. Some of the more bitter and bigoted of the ecclesiastical party may, indeed, have honestly believed Him to be in collusion with Satan; they thought, or professed to think, that His miraculous powers were derived from beneath, and did not descend upon Him from above. These people, however, were the exception. Among the multitudes who witnessed the wonder-working power of Jesus-who saw Him cleanse the leper, and heal the lame, and give sight to the blind, and raise the dead-the general feeling was that expressed at a very early stage by Nicodemus the Pharisee-"No man can do these miracles that Thou doest except God be with him." At the same time we are bound to remember that the popular estimate of the Saviour did not rise above the level which we have just indicated. His contemporaries were willing to allow that He was a man of mighty endowments, charged with a mission from Heaven, but that He was more than a man, it had probably never entered into their minds to conceive. He was to them, after all, "Jesus the son of Joseph." They were acquainted with His father and mother; they knew His antecedents; He had been born, as they thought, among them; He had been brought up at the village school; He had been met with year after year-in the synagogue, in the haunts of business, in the chief places of concourse, and, until of late, there had been little or nothing to distinguish Him from the great mass of fellow-beings by whom He was surrounded. So long, then, as He was contented with merely playing the part of a Teacher sent from God, they were fairly well satisfied. He was like what they supposed an ancient prophet

to be; and many of them even listened with delight whilst He pointed out the path of duty, or spoke of the things concerning the Kingdom of God.

Now, however, all of a sudden His tone seems to be changed. He puts Himself forward in a very singular way; He makes Himself the central object of His teaching. He tells them that He is the Bread of Life, which came down from Heaven to give life to the world. What does it all mean? In what sense can Jesus of Nazareth be said to have come down from Heaven? And when He talks about giving His flesh for the life of the world, what possible interpretation can be put upon such extravagant statements? They cannot tell what He saith. We know, then, where the difficulty lay. These Jews were perfectly capable of comprehending figurative language, and had no idea of taking the Saviour's words literally when He spoke of eating His flesh and drinking His blood. They understood Him to mean what He did mean-that a personal union with Himself was the one sole and indispensable condition upon which eternal life could be obtained. But it was just this meaning which offended them. A teacher Jesus might be, a messenger sent from Heaven, a man gifted with miraculous powers. All this they were willingat least very many of them were willing-to concede; but when He advanced beyond this point, and represented Himself as the link which connected them with the invisible God, as the source and origin of eternal life in their souls, then they felt called upon, in the interest both of common sense and of religion, to resist such extraordinary and hitherto unheard-of demands, and to separate themselves altogether from the man who could make them.

IL We proceed, in the second place, to consider some of the leading points of the Saviour's discourse. All spiritual life comes from the invisible God. "I live by the Father," says Christ. But it has been so ordered that Christ should be the medium, the channel of the communication of this life to man. He is the living Bread that came down from Heaven, and just as bread, when taken into the bodily system, sustains and nourishes it, so the Saviour, in His humanity, is the supplier of spiritual, of eternal life, to the human soul. This seems to be the primary thought. Life, which flows, of course, from the great centre and source of life in the invisible God, comes to man through the humanity of Jesus Christ.

But it is not the humanity in itself which is capable of producing this effect of sustaining the soul of man; it is the humanity when separated into two component parts of flesh and blood. In other words, the Saviour, in order to be available as the Bread of Life, must be Himself subjected

to a process of death. "Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink the blood, ye have no life in you."

And now emerges an important question: Here am I, on the one side, needing eternal life. There is Christ on the other, containing in Himself this eternal life of which I stand in need. How are we two to come into contact? How am I to receive the blessing which Christ, on His part, is ready to bestow? The question is answered in the Saviour's discourse. I must 66 come to Christ," I must "believe in Christ," I must "eat His flesh and drink His blood."

Let us try to understand this remarkable language.

--

That there must be a movement of the soul towards the Saviour seems obvious enough. There are persons in the world who stand altogether aloof from Christ, from a feeling of absolute indifference about Him; occupied with other, and, as they consider, more important matterswith business, or pleasure, or the pursuits of ambition - they have no leisure to let their thoughts wander in the direction of religion. The subject may, indeed, be forced upon them by the importunity of an acquaintance, or by an unexpected combination of circumstances, but they soon get rid of it, as of something uncongenial and unwelcome, and resume with all expedition their former attitude of listless unconcern. And there are other people who cannot, indeed, be said to be altogether indifferent about Christ (for He occupies a considerable space in their life), but who regard Him simply as an object of curious contemplation. They have no intention whatever of entering into personal relations with Him. To give their hearts to Him, to submit to His rule, to realise their dependence upon Him, is the very last thing that would find its way into their thoughts. Christ is to them not what He is to us, the great Being who has claims upon our souls and a right to demand our deepest truest allegiance, but a personage whose influence upon human history is too remarkable to be passed over without notice; and they amuse themselves with investigating the origin and spread of the Saviour's religion, the various theories that have been held and maintained about His character and pretensions, the effect of the Christian faith upon our modern civilisation, the probable issue of it in the ages to come, and other questions of the kind, which seem capable of being discussed in a dispassionate and philosophical spirit. And yet again, there are those who stand aloof from Christ, in a position of open undisguised hostility. Like the Pharisees of old, they have taken the measure of Him whom they feel to be their spiritual antagonist. They quite comprehend the nature of His claims, they know that those claims admit of no exception, of no concession, of no compromise, and they are pre