Medoline Selwyn's Work

along with the housekeeper, some extensive pickling and preserving operations. I h

hter's funeral to-day, and I should so m

mpany, your liking shall

tired, and it is

the carriage. Thomas will be glad to go; at least he always wants to attend funerals

y, a red-haired, keen-faced youth standing by, gave a quizzical look, which I interpreted as meaning that Thomas wished to conceal the fact that he was very glad indeed to go to Mrs. Daniel Blake's funeral. At the appointed hour I

. I am not inclined for carriage exercise-a walk

g a carriage at brief intervals during the ho

no doubt, I thought as you now do. I believe God intended tha

ad the impression that some time in her life she had encountered storms, but the mastery had been gained; and now she had drifted into a peaceful harbor. Looking back now over longer stretches of years and experi

nce, Thomas turned to inquire

rees on one side and the water's edge border

ed, although her remarks were addressed to me. Evidently he was ver

aniel's cottage. The house seemed full,

l of respect," Mrs. Flaxman whispered to m

mn they sang was long, and the air very plaintive, bringing tears to my eyes, and causing the strange, oppressed feeling of the preceding day to return. When the singing ceased I n

eity awed me. He talked with the invisible Jehovah as if they two were long tried friends, between whom there was such perfect trust; whatever the man asked the God would bestow. First there was intercession, pleading for forgiveness for past offences, and for restraining grace for future needs. Afterward he spoke of Death, the comm

ic. It reminds me of a Te Deum or oratoria," I said to Mrs. Flaxman, when the benediction was pronoun

r so impetuous a

y question by

u not l

clergyman seemed to be talkin

t-talking, pleading wi

one whom I instinctively felt to be the clergyman-a thick-set man with hair turning white, and a most noble, benignant face. As the procession formed he took his place at t

my favorite teacher as a specimen of my new surroundings. And then fancy got painting her own pictures as to what my work in this new life with its greatly altered meaning should be, and before we had reached the grave's edge I had mapped out my ongoings for a long stretch of the future, and that in such eager, worldly fashion that I almost forgot that at the end of all this bright-hued future there lay for me, as well as for Daniel Blake's wife, an open grave. My busy thoughts were recalled by hearing the penetrating voice of the preacher saying "dust to dust, a