and reproof. The
best of them are but the Scripture parables in modern masquerade. Here
is one--the Prodigal Son of the nineteenth century, going out into the
world, wasting his substance with riotous living, suffering, repenting,
returning, and rejoiced over."

"Our Lord made people think: I am not aware that novels make people
think," said Mr. Jones with cool contempt.

"Apply your mind to the study of either of these books--Mr. Thackeray's
or George Eliot's--and you will not find all its powers too much for
their appreciation," said Miss Hague.

Mr. Jones made a slight grimace: "Pray excuse the comparison, Miss
Hague, but you remind me of a groom of mine whom I sent up to the Great
Exhibition. When he came home again all he had to say was, 'Oh, sir, the
saddlery was beautiful!'"

"Nothing like leather!" laughed Lady Angleby.

"He showed his wit--he spoke of what he understood," said Miss Hague.
"You undertake to despise light literature, of which avowedly you know
nothing. Tell me: of the little books and tracts that you circulate,
which are the most popular?"

"The tales and stories; they are thumbed and blackened when the serious
pages are left unread," Mr. Jones admitted.

"It is the same with the higher-class periodicals that come to us from
D'Oyley's library," said Lady Angleby, pointing to the brown, buff,
orange, green, and purple magazines that furnished her round-table. "The
novels are well read, so are the social essays and the bits of gossiping
biography; but dry chapters of exploration, science, discovery, and
politics are tasted, and no more: the first page or two may be opened,
and the rest as often as not are uncut. And as they come to Brentwood,
so, but for myself, they would go away. The young people prefer the
stories, and with rare exceptions it is the same with their elders. The
fact is worth considering. A puff of secular air, to blow away the vapor
of sanctity in which the clergy envelop themselves, might be salutary at
intervals. All fresh air is a tonic."

Mr. Jones repeated his slight grimace, and said, "Will Miss Hague be so
kind as to tell me what a sermon ought to be? I will sit at her feet
with all humility."

"With arrogant humility!--with the pride that apes humility," cried Miss
Hague with cheerful irreverence. "I don't pretend to teach you
sermon-making: I only tell you that, such as sermons mostly are,
precious little help or comfort can be derived from them."

Mr. Jones