“No, children; you wait here,” he cried, moved by some sudden, cautious instinct.  He went into the dusky passage, and, after a few steps, discovered that a trap-door leading to a deep cellar had been left open.  Had the children run along here their destruction would have been almost certain.

Again, a tale of the late Bishop Wilberforce.  So many tales of him have been current, but I do not believe that this has ever before gone abroad.

In early days he had a close friend, a school chum, a college companion; but about the time young Wilberforce took orders these two had a bitter and hopeless falling out.  They never got over the disunion, and fell utterly apart.  The chum became an extensive landowner, and was master of a charming house in the South of England.

Time passed on, and he grew elderly.  He thought of making his will.  Being a great man, not only his solicitor but the solicitor’s son arrived on the scene for the event.  All three gentlemen were assembled in the library, a long room, with many windows running down almost to the ground.  Suddenly the young man present saw a gentleman go by the first of these windows.  The elder lawyer raised his head as the figure went by the second opening.  Last of all the master of the house looked up.

“Why, that is Wilberforce,” he exclaimed.  “How many years it is since we fell out, and I dared him ever again to seek me out.”

So saying, he ran to the hall-door to welcome his guest, towards whom no bitter feeling now remained in his mind.  Strange to say, the Bishop was not at the door, nor could he be found within the grounds.  At the moment of his appearance he had fallen from his horse in this neighbourhood and had been instantly killed.

ENLIGHTENMENT.

    It was not in the lovely morning time
      When dew lies bright on silent meadow-ways;
    It was not in the splendid noon’s high prime,
      When all the lawns with sunlight are ablaze;
    But in the tender twilight—­ere the light
    Of the broad moon made beautiful the night.

    It was not in the freshness of my youth,
      Nor when my manhood laughed in perfect power,
    That first I tasted of immortal truth
      And plucked the buds of the immortal flower. 
    But when my life had passed its noon, I found
    The path that leads to the enchanted ground.

    It was not love nor passion that made dear
      That hour now memorable to us two;
    Nothing was said the whole world might not hear,
      Only—­our souls touched, and for me and you,
    Trees, flowers and sunshine, and the hearts of men,
    Are better to be understood since then.

E. NESBIT.

THE SILENT CHIMES.

PLAYING AGAIN.