Nobly on.

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

BY E. J. AXTON.

TOM HALFORD was not in his usual bright and careless mood this Christmas eve. Even the prospect of seeing Lily Atherton seemed to have no power to rouse him from his gloom. Indeed, to tell the truth, he was not looking for this meeting with his usual eagerness, for something had occurred the results of which, in one direction, he greatly feared. He had not been thus brooding by the rough old stile long before his sweetheart came bounding through the lane, her clear happy song telling him at once that, as yet, at any rate, all was well.

After a lingering kiss, Lily said, with eyes full of laughter, but voice of assumed serenity, "What is the matter; you are positively frowning?" 'Oh, its nothing, Lily," answered Tom, carelessly.

"But it isn't nothing, I know. It's something. But-why-what is this?"

These last words were called forth by her seeing a long red mark on his cheek. "Have you had an accident?" The girl was quite serious now.

"Well, to tell the truth, Lily," replied Tom, while he dreaded what would follow his confession, "Mr. Carsby and I had a few words last night. He was setting his dog to kill a cat, when I stopped him. For that he insulted me, and struck me across the face with his cane."

"But of course you thrashed him for it ?" returned Lily, indignantly. "Just as I expected," Tom muttered, while his heart gave a great bound. Then he said aloud, looking earnestly into her eyes, "Lily, dear, you remember,

'To err is human; to forgive, divine;'

and also what your father preached last Sunday? He said the noblest men would act like the Saviour, would forgive a personal insult, and be brave as a lion in real danger."

"What do you mean, Tom,” demanded the girl hotly, “that you did not thrash him ?"

"I mean, Lily, that I forgave him."

The girl flushed crimson. Though the daughter of one who taught the principle of a kiss for a blow, she had herself little respect for that principle, or for those who held it. The truth is, she had been spoiled. Her mother had died long ago, and her father, never very strongminded, had committed the too frequent blunder of sparing the rod, etc. Lily had everything her own way. She had had only to ask to receive whatever she wanted, good or bad, save the moon, or anything equally impossible to give. In this frame of mind she had read novels, which, had she been properly ruled, could have had no evil effect on her, but which, as it was, helped her to form undesirable notions concerning many things. One of these notions was that a man was no man unless, like the gentlemen of old, he fired up at the least undeserved

slight put upon him. It was a knowledge of this spirit in Lily which was the cause of Tom's dread now.

"Do you mean, Tom, that you let him beat you with his cane and yet did not resent it ?" Lily asked, standing erect and scornful.

"My dear, come here and listen to me," Tom said gently. But Lily's expression only grew the more contemptuous.

"I did not think you were a coward!" she returned, her ing with wrath, and looking full into his, "I hate cowardice."

eyes flash

It was Tom's turn to flash now. He had been an easy lover, far too easy, allowing her to do as she pleased, whether right or wrong, and only checking her at times in his mild, and, with her, useless, worse than useless style. But this was a little too much. He could not calmly hear her, whose good opinion he coveted more than any other's, deliberately call him a "coward." What man could?

Lily," he said, sternly, speaking so to her for the first time in his life, "you are too hasty. I am not a coward."

"You are, or you would not have acted so."

Stung to the quick, the farmer went pale with rising passion. Taking a step forward, he caught the girl's hand.

"Recall those words!" he demanded, fiercely.

"I shall not. Let me go, sir."

"Recall them, or I let you go for good."

"You are a coward !" repeated Lily, a fiend looking through the beautiful blazing eyes turned upon him.

"Then go. You may think otherwise some day. Good by !" And with a swift, resolute step, Tom left her.

"Faugh!" thought Lily, as she sped in the opposite direction towards the Rectory, a mile and a half away, "he had the courage to speak harshly to me, yet he must be mild as a lamb before a man. I wouldn't give a button for a husband like a sheep. I'll never speak to him again unless he thrashes his insulter."

Whenever we have a leaning towards an evil purpose, something mostly occurs to favour us. It was so in Lily's case. She felt revengeful towards Tom; and, as if to encourage the feeling, Mr. Carsby appeared in the lane a little ahead of her.

This Mr. Carsby had ample good-looks; and, as heir to the surrounding acres, he had the reputation of being very wealthy. These facts had not prevented Lily's previous treatment of his advances with quietly disengaging courtesy, despite that she was not wholly innocent of ambition. But now the case was altered. Lily deemed herself injured. She saw, vaguely, a way of getting satisfaction. She grasped it. And so, almost before she knew it, things with her had utterly changed. When he smiled on this evening, she smiled in return with decided encouragement. The meeting ended with a promise of repetition. It was fulfilled. Another promise-the rest may be guessed. The matter ended with regular assignations, until Lily and he were looked upon as engaged.

That Christmas-day was a horrible one for Tom. But it passed away,-weeks, months, passed away, and the sharpness of his wound

had gone with them. But that sharpness had not left peace. Far from it. The dull, lifeless feeling, which now sat constantly on his heart, was at times unbearable; made doubly so by the knowledge that three parts of the village looked upon him as deserving his punishment for his cowardice.

So the time fled, until autumn once more had come, when, one evening, as he was returning from Byfield, a portion of the village lying on the other side of the Rectory to his own home, Tom stopped a moment to gaze at the place where his lost love was. It was very late at night, so that he was sure of being unseen.

"Ah, Lily!" he murmured, yielding somewhat to the dreamy fit upon him, "if you knew all you would not let me suffer like this. Would I could make myself worthy of you! But it is too late now, I fear."

Stifling the gulp that rose in his throat, he turned to go, when a dull, lurid light, shone in one of the windows. Uncertain as to what the meaning of this might be, he was slowly retracing his steps when there was a sound of smashing glass, and then long, forky tongues of flame were wildly pouring from the window he had been watching. Instantly throwing aside the bag he had with him, his heart bounding with sudden excitement, he sped like the wind towards the burning house. "God give me strength to do something!" he cried.

Two minutes brought him to the door, against which he flung himself again and again, shouting in order to arouse the inmates. But the door resisted. At last, looking round in despair, he seized a log which was lying in the garden. With this he ran with all his remaining strength against the door, which fell at length with a crash, but only. to give place to even more obstinate ard deadly foes, the flames and smoke. But Tom's will was set to a purpose. He remembered Lily only. So, shielding himself with his top-coat, he dashed in amongst the fire. From room to room he grouped, shouting, "Lily! Lily!" Through flaming passages he crawled, still shouting, nearly choked, scorched, half-suffocated with the blinding hot smoke, but still no answer. At last that fatal langour was creeping over him, when a voice sounded near which, there and then, was the very word of life to him. "Tom-Tom! Help me. I-I—”

How he found the room where she was; how he bore her from it down the blazing stairs, through the veritable fiery furnace which the passages had now become, and out into the cool safe garden, beyond all danger, and little the worse for her terrible adventure, he never knew. He accomplished his purpose, and then all became a dead blank to him.

Three weeks passed away-three weeks during which the villagers never mentioned the name of Tom Halford without tears starting to their eyes, anxiety clouding their faces, and their lips giving utterance to some such words as these, "Poor, brave Tom! I wonder if he will ever see again-if, indeed, he will ever recover. Heaven grant both!"

Never was prayer more fervently uttered, still less more needed. For Tom, the "coward," had, since the fire, lain hovering between life

and death.

And what of Lily?

Let the reader come with me to the room in Holly Farm, where,

eyes, face, necks, hands, and arms all bandaged, Tom lies. There is a solitary watcher by his side, a young, blue-eyed girl, whose long-drawn face bespeaks her utter dejection. Few would recognize in her the Lily Atherton of nine months ago. Yet she it is.

"Tom," she says, softly, beseechingly, "Tom." But she gets from him only the same wandering answer which he has given, with little variation, during these three supremely miserable weeks, "I am no coward-God knows I am not. I will prove it some day, if He give me chance; then she will know."

"Oh, Tom, Tom !" Lily cries, heart broken, "I know you are brave -the bravest! My God! My God! Will he never recover that I may tell him?”

Bending over him she takes one of his poor burnt hands in hers, while her burning passionate tears stream down upon it.

Presently the sufferer grows restless. Then, striving to take the bandage from his eyes, he says, faintly, "What is it? Where am I?"

Tom-dear Tom," Lily says, wild with the hope that he is at last returning to his senses, "It is I, Lily. Speak, Tom."

There is a little interval. Tom's senses are dull as yet. But thoughts grow clearer and clearer, until the memories rush into his mind like a loosened flood of waters.

"Do you remember?" asks Lily, fearful lest Hope is still deceiving her.

"Not quite, Lily," he replies, faintly, but gently.

Then, forgetful of his state, in her eagerness, she tells him all that has happened. When she has done, he asks, his noble heart still thinking of himself last, "Were you hurt much, Lily?"

The girl seems shaking. She cannot reply for a moment. At length she says, her passionate sorrow breaking down her slight self-control, "Oh, Tom, my poor, brave Tom! Tell me you forgive me. I will be worthy of your love. Tell me you-you-" But she can say no more, falling upon him as if her heart was broken.

"Dearest, I am only too glad you see at last, too glad for words," said Tom; and the two break into tears, both voiceless in their new, nameless joy.

I have only to say on the following Christmas-day a marriage did, after all, take place, though not according to expectation; for Tom, little the worse from his brave deed, save for a few scars, was the one whom Lily took "for better for worse," and not Richard Carsby, who had proved himself the real coward by sneaking away, as he was seen to do, when he might have rendered valuable assistance at the Rectory fire.

HOW HAPPY?

IF I have been good
Through the livelong year,

I am glad when

Its last, last days are here.

For my joy must grow
As my goodness grows,

And He who gives,
All my record knows.
So Christmas must be
To children and men,
Just as good as their life
For the year has been.

The Duty of our Churches in Belation to the

College.

THE importance of my subject has led me to wish that it had been entrusted to a more experienced and efficient hand. If however, hearty sympathy with a subject is an important qualification for writing upon it, I can honestly lay claim to its possession, and also to a sincere and earnest desire to serve the institution in the interests of which this paper has been prepared.

The need for the existence of such institutions is admitted on all hands. To try to justify their existence would appear superfluous, except to here and there a few (not of our own body) who lay claim to the direct teaching of the Spirit, without making it at all manifest that they get it, and in their case the task would be hopeless.

Episcopalians set such high value upon education in connection with their ministry, that they would fain monopolize it; and they did, to their shame, monopolize, as long as they could, the educational institutions which of right belong to the nation at large. The Independents, Baptists of the other section, all the different sections of the Methodists, Unitarians, Roman Catholics, all admit the necessity for an educated ministry, and have established colleges to meet the need which was never greater than now, and is daily becoming greater and more apparent. With the increased educational advantages which are springing up around us, the Christian ministry will need to be more thoroughly furnished" than ever.

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The faith of the church is, we trust, becoming stronger and stronger in the "foolishness of preaching;" but be this as it may, it is surely getting weaker and weaker in the preaching of foolishness. The man who should dare at this time of day to disparage in any way an educated ministry, and try to justify his own ignorance and impudence, by boasting that he was not a man-made, but a God-made preacher, would certainly do his Maker no credit in the estimate of thoughtful men. But our business now is not to discuss the desirability or otherwise of having a College. We already possess one. We have a handsome and commodious building, with charming surroundings; a Library both extensive and valuable; two Scholarships, by means of which the students may have the advantages of one of our national seats of learning for two years; a President and Tutor well qualified for their work, whose hearts are in it, who command the highest respect of the young men and the confidence of the denomination at large.

In all these respects we compare not unfavourably with the institutions of other bodies, which, by those who know no better, are supposed to be of vastly greater importance.

What, then, are the duties which the churches owe to our College, as it now exists? First, I should say, to keep up the supply of the right kind of men.