its fires
Some cooling tears."
Thereat the pale monk crossed
His brow, and muttering, "Madman! thou art lost!"
Took up his pyx and fled; and, left alone,
The sick man closed his eyes with a great groan
That sank into a prayer, "Thy will be done!"

Then was he made aware, by soul or ear,
Of somewhat pure and holy bending o'er him,
And of a voice like that of her who bore him,
Tender and most compassionate: "Be of cheer!
For heaven is love, as God himself is love;
Thy work below shall be thy work above."
And when he looked, lo! in the stern monk's place
He saw the shining of an angel's face!

AMBASSADORS IN BONDS.

Mr. Deane walked into church on Easter Sunday, followed by a trophy.
This trophy had once been a chattel, but was now, as Mr. Deane assured
him, a man. Scarcely a shade darker than Mr. Deane himself as to
complexion, in figure quite as prepossessing, in bearing not less erect,
he passed up the north aisle of St. Peter's to the square pew of the
most influential of the wardens, who was also the first man of the
Church Musical Committee.

The old church was beautiful with its floral decorations on this
festival. The altar shone with sacramental silver, and rare was the
music that quickened the hearts of the great congregation to harmonious
tunefulness. The boys in their choral, Miss Ives in her solos, above
all, the organist, in voluntary, prelude, and accompaniment, how
glorious! If a soul in the church escaped thankfulness in presence of
those flowers, in hearing of that music, I know not by what force it
could have been conducted that bright morning to the feet of Love. It
was "a day of days."

To the trophy of Deane this scene must have been strangely new. No
doubt, he had before now sat in a church, a decorated church, a church
where music had much to do with the service. But never under such
circumstances had he stood, sat, knelt, taking part in the worship, a
man among men. Of this Mr. Deane was thinking; and his brain, not very
imaginative, was taxed to conceive the conception of freedom a man must
obtain under precisely these circumstances.

But the man in question was thinking thoughts as widely diverse from
these attributed to him as one could easily imagine. Of himself, and his
position, scarcely at all. And when he thought, he smiled; but the
gravity, the abstraction into which he repeatedly lapsed, seemed