y and soul--a day when, free from the labours of this toilsome world,
the body should rest, and the soul have quiet and leisure for meditation in
private, and for prayer and praise in the services appointed by the Church.

Sports and merry-making were quite as much out of harmony with Mary
Gifford's feelings as they were with her stepmother's, but, in the due
observance of Sunday, as in many other things, the extreme Puritan failed
to influence those around them by their harsh insistence on the letter
which killeth, and the utter absence of that spirit of love which giveth
life.

The villagers assembled in the churchyard on this Sunday morning were not
so numerous as sometimes, and the pew occupied by the Sidneys, when the
family was in residence at the Park, was empty.

Mary Gifford and her boy, as they knelt together by a bench near the
chancel steps, attracted the attention of the old Rector. He had seen them
before, and had many times exchanged a kindly greeting with Mary and
complimented Lucy on her 'lilies and roses,' and asked in a jocose way for
that good and amiable lady, their stepmother! But there was something in
Mary's attitude and rapt devotion as the light of the east window fell on
her, that struck the good old man as unusual.

When the service was over, he stepped up to her as she was crossing the
churchyard, and asked her to come into the Rectory garden to rest.

'For,' he added, 'you look a-weary, Mistress Gifford, and need refreshment
ere you climb the hill again.'

The Rectory garden was an Eden of delight to little Ambrose. His mother let
him wander away in the winding paths, intersecting the close-cut yew
hedges, with no fear of lurking danger, while, at the Rector's invitation,
she sat with him in a bower, over which a tangle of early roses and
honeysuckle hung, and filled the air with fragrance. A rosy-cheeked maiden
with bare arms, in a blue kirtle scarcely reaching below the knees, which
displayed a pair of sturdy legs cased in leather boots, brought a wooden
trencher of bread and cheese, with a large mug of spiced ale, and set them
down on the table, fixed to the floor of the summer bower, with a broad
smile.

As Ambrose ran past, chasing a pair of white butterflies, the Rector
said,--

'That is a fine boy, Mistress Gifford. I doubt not, doubly precious, as the
only son of his mother, who is a widow. I hear Master Philip Sidney looks
at him with favour; and, no doubt, he will see that