So be it. Pelagia and Philammon, like the rest, went to their own place;
to the only place where such in such days could find rest; to the desert
and the hermit's cell.

Let him that is without sin among you cast the first stone, whether at
Hypatia or Pelagia, Cyril or Philammon.

* * * * *

Two Years Ago

Kingsley's "Two Years Ago" has been said by his son to be the
only novel, pure and simple, that ever came from the pen of
the famous writer, Published in 1857, it was begun two years
earlier while staying at Bideford. At this time Kingsley was
deeply interested in the Crimean War, and many thousands of
copies of his pamphlet, "Brave Words to Brave Soldiers," were
distributed to the army. His military tastes no doubt go a
long way towards explaining his doctrine in "Two Years Ago"
that the war was to exercise a great regenerating influence in
English life. Although the story is in many respects weaker
than its predecessors, it nevertheless abounds in brilliant
and vivid word-paintings, the descriptions of North Devon
scenery being probably unsurpassed in English prose.

_I.--Tom Thurnall's Wanderings_

To tell my story I must go back sixteen years to the days when the
pleasant old town of Whitbury boasted of forty coaches a day, instead of
one railway, and set forth how there stood two pleasant houses side by
side in its southern suburb.

In one of these two houses lived Mark Armsworth, banker, solicitor, land
agent, and justice of the peace. In the other lived Edward Thurnall,
esquire, doctor of medicine, and consulting physician of all the
countryside. These two men were as brothers, both were honest and
kind-hearted men.

Dr. Thurnall was sitting in his study, settled to his microscope, one
beautiful October morning, and his son Tom stood gazing out of the bay
window.

Tom, who had been brought up in his father's profession, was of that
bull-terrier type so common in England; sturdy, middle-sized,
deep-chested, broad-shouldered, his face full of shrewdness and good
nature, and of humour withal. It was his last day at home; tomorrow he
was leaving for Paris.

Presently Mark Armsworth came in, and Tom was seen cantering about the
garden with a weakly child of eight in his arms.

"Mark, the boy's heart cannot be in the wrong place while he is so fond
of little children."

"If she grows up, docto