“Would that be no time for yourself spent in leading a noble, Christian life; in verifying the words of our Lord by doing them; in building your house on the rock of action instead of the sands of theory; in widening your own being by entering into the nature, thoughts, feelings, even fancies of those around you?  In such intercourse you would find health radiating into your own bosom; healing sympathies springing up in the most barren acquaintance; channels opened for the in-rush of truth into your own mind; and opportunities afforded for the exercise of that self-discipline, the lack of which led to the failures which you now bemoan.  Soon then would you have cause to wonder how much some of your speculations had fallen into the background, simply because the truth, showing itself grandly true, had so filled and occupied your mind that it left no room for anxiety about such questions as, while secured in the interest all reality gives, were yet dwarfed by the side of it.  Nothing, I repeat, so much as humble ministration to your neighbours, will help you to that perfect love of God which casteth out fear; nothing but the love of God—­that God revealed in Christ—­will make you able to love your neighbour aright; and the Spirit of God, which alone gives might for any good, will by these loves, which are life, strengthen you at last to believe in the light even in the midst of darkness; to hold the resolution formed in health when sickness has altered the appearance of everything around you; and to feel tenderly towards your fellow, even when you yourself are plunged in dejection or racked with pain.—­But,” I said, “I fear I have transgressed the bounds of all propriety by enlarging upon this matter as I have done.  I can only say I have spoken in proportion to my feeling of its weight and truth.”

“I thank you, heartily,” returned Mr Stoddart, rising.  “And I promise you at least to think over what you have been saying—­I hope to be in my old place in the organ-loft next Sunday.”

So he was.  And Miss Oldcastle was in the pew with her mother.  Nor did she go any more to Addicehead to church.

CHAPTER XXI.

The devil in Thomas Weir.

As the winter went on, it was sad to look on the evident though slow decline of Catherine Weir.  It seemed as if the dead season was dragging her to its bosom, to lay her among the leaves of past summers.  She was still to be found in the shop, or appeared in it as often as the bell suspended over the door rang to announce the entrance of a customer; but she was terribly worn, and her step indicated much weakness.  Nor had the signs of restless trouble diminished as these tide-marks indicated ebbing strength.  There was the same dry fierce fire in her eyes; the same forceful compression of her lips; the same evidences of brooding over some one absorbing thought or feeling.  She seemed to me, and to Dr Duncan as well, to be