nd chaff--that the only baptism
of any avail is the washing of the fresh birth, and the making new by
that breath of God, which, breathed into man's nostrils, first made of
him a living soul. When a man _knows_ this, potentially he knows all
things. But, _just therefore_, he did not stand high with his sect any
more than with his customers, though--a fact which Marston himself
never suspected--the influence of his position had made them choose him
for a deacon. One evening George had had leave to go home early,
because of a party at _the villa_, as the Turnbulls always called their
house; and, the boy having also for some cause got leave of absence,
Mr. Marston was left to shut the shop himself, Mary, who was in some
respects the stronger of the two, assisting him. When he had put up the
last shutter, he dropped his arms with a weary sigh. Mary, who had been
fastening the bolts inside, met him in the doorway.

"You look worn out, father," she said. "Come and lie down, and I will
read to you."

"I will, my dear," he answered. "I don't feel quite myself to-night.
The seasons tell upon me now. I suppose the stuff of my tabernacle is
wearing thin."

Mary cast an anxious look at him, for, though never a strong man, he
seldom complained. But she said nothing, and, hoping a good cup of tea
would restore him, led the way through the dark shop to the door
communicating with the house. Often as she had passed through it thus,
the picture of it as she saw it that night was the only one almost that
returned to her afterward: a few vague streaks of light, from the
cracks of the shutters, fed the rich, warm gloom of the place; one of
them fell upon a piece of orange-colored cotton stuff, which blazed in
the dark.

Arrived at their little sitting-room at the top of the stair, she
hastened to shake up the pillows and make the sofa comfortable for him.
He lay down, and she covered him with a rug; then ran to her room for a
book, and read to him while Beenie was getting the tea. She chose a
poem with which Mr. Wardour had made her acquainted almost the last
tune she was at Thornwick--that was several weeks ago now, for plainly
Letty was not so glad to see her as she used to be--it was Milton's
little ode "On Time," written for inscription on a clock--one of the
grandest of small poems. Her father knew next to nothing of literature;
having pondered his New Testament, however, for thirty years, he was
capable of understanding Milton's