We joined them, and the conversation soon turned on the sermon we had

just heard, the subject of which was 'selfishness.'
"What a change has come over our pulpits," Arthur remarked, "since the

time when Paley gave that utterly selfishdefinition of virtue,
'the doing good to mankind, in obedience to the will of God, and for

the sake of everlasting happiness'!"
Lady Muriel looked at him enquiringly, but she seemed to have learned

by intuition, what years of experience had taught me, that the way to
elicit Arthur's deepest thoughts was neither to assent nor dissent,

but simply to listen.
"At that time," he went on, "a great tidal wave of selfishness was

sweeping over human thought. Right and Wrong had somehow been
transformed into Gain and Loss, and Religion had become a sort of

commercial transaction. We may be thankful that our preachers are
beginning to take a nobler view of life."

"But is it not taught again and again in the Bible?" I ventured to ask.
"Not in the Bible as a whole," said Arthur. "In the Old Testament,

no doubt, rewards and punishments are constantlyappealed to as motives
for action. That teaching is best for children, and the Israelites

seem to have been, mentally, utter children. We guide our children
thus, at first: but we appeal, as soon as possible, to their innate

sense of Right and Wrong: and, when that stage is safely past,
we appeal to the highest motive of all, the desire for likeness to,

and union with, the Supreme Good. I think you will find that to be the
teaching of the Bible, as a whole, beginning with 'that thy days may be

long in the land,' and ending with 'be ye perfect, even as your Father
which is in heaven is perfect.'"

We were silent for awhile, and then Arthur went off on another tack.
"Look at the literature of Hymns, now. How cankered it is, through and

through, with selfishness! There are few human compositions more
utterly degraded than some modern Hymns!"

I quoted the stanza
"Whatever, Lord, we tend to Thee,

Repaid a thousandfold shall be,
Then gladly will we give to Thee,

Giver of all!'
"Yes," he said grimly: "that is the typicalstanza. And the very last

charity-sermon I heard was infected with it. After giving many good
reasons for charity, the preacher wound up with 'and, for all you give,

you will be repaid a thousandfold!' Oh the utter meanness of such a
motive, to be put before men who do know what self-sacrifice is,

who can appreciategenerosity and heroism! Talk of Original Sin!"
he went on with increasing bitterness. "Can you have a stronger proof

of the Original Goodness there must be in this nation, than the fact
that Religion has been preached to us, as a commercial speculation,

for a century, and that we still believe in a God?"
"It couldn't have gone on so long," Lady Muriel musingly remarked,

"if the Opposition hadn't been practically silenced--put under what the
French call la cloture. Surely in any lecture-hall, or in private

society, such teaching would soon have been hooted down?"
"I trust so," said Arthur: "and, though I don't want to see 'brawling

in church' legalised, I must say that our preachers enjoy an enormous
privilege--which they ill deserve, and which they misuse terribly.

We put our man into a pulpit, and we virtually tell him 'Now, you may
stand there and talk to us for half-an-hour. We won't interrupt you by

so much as a word! You shall have it all your own way!' And what does
he give us in return? Shallow twaddle, that, if it were addressed to

you over a dinner-table, you would think 'Does the man take me for a
fool?'"

The return of Eric from his walk checked the tide of Arthur's eloquence,
and, after a few minutes' talk on more conventional topics, we took our

leave. Lady Muriel walked with us to the gate. "You have given me much
to think about," she said earnestly, as she gave Arthur her hand.

"I'm so glad you came in!" And her words brought a real glow of pleasure
into that pale worn face of his.

On the Tuesday, as Arthur did not seem equal to more walking, I took a
long stroll by myself, having stipulated that he was not to give the

whole day to his books, but was to meet me at the Hall at about
tea-time. On my way back, I passed the Station just as the

afternoon-train came in sight, and sauntered down the stairs to see it
come in. But there was little to gratify my idle curiosity: and, when

the train was empty, and the platform clear, I found it was about time
to be moving on, if I meant to reach the Hall by five.

As I approached the end of the platform, from which a steep irregular
wooden staircase conducted to the upper world, I noticed two passengers,

who had evidently arrived by the train, but who, oddly enough, had
entirely escaped my notice, though the arrivals had been so few.

They were a young woman and a little girl: the former, so far as one
could judge by appearances, was a nursemaid, or possibly a

nursery-governess, in attendance on the child, whose refined face,
even more than her dress, distinguished her as of a higher class than

her companion.
The child's face was refined, but it was also a worn and sad one, and

told a tale (or so I seemed to read it) of much illness and suffering,
sweetly and patiently borne. She had a little crutch to help herself

along with: and she was now standing, looking wistfully up the long
staircase, and apparentlywaiting till she could muster courage to

begin the toilsome ascent.
There are some things one says in life--as well as things one

does--which come automatically, by reflex action, as the physiologists
say (meaning, no doubt, action without reflection, just as lucus is

said to be derived 'a non lucendo'). Closing one's eyelids, when
something seems to be flying into the eye, is one of those actions,

and saying "May I carry the little girl up the stairs?" was another.
It wasn't that any thought of offering help occurred to me, and that

then I spoke: the first intimation I had, of being likely to make that
offer, was the sound of my own voice, and the discovery that the offer

had been made. The servant paused, doubtfully glancing from her charge
to me, and then back again to the child. "Would you like it, dear?"

she asked her. But no such doubt appeared to cross the child's mind:
she lifted her arms eagerly to be taken up. "Please!" was all she

said, while a faint smile flickered on the weary little face. I took
her up with scrupulous care, and her little arm was at once clasped

trustfully round my neck.
[Image...The lame child]

She was a very light weight--so light, in fact, that the ridiculous
idea crossed my mind that it was rather easier going up, with her in

my arms, than it would have been without her: and, when we reached the
road above, with its cart-ruts and loose stones--all formidable obstacles

for a lame child--I found that I had said "I'd better carry her over
this rough place," before I had formed any mentalconnection between

its roughness and my gentle little burden. "Indeed it's troubling you
too much, Sir!" the maid exclaimed. "She can walk very well on the flat."

But the arm, that was twined about my neck, clung just an atom more
closely at the suggestion, and decided me to say "She's no weight,

really. I'll carry her a little further. I'm going your way."
The nurse raised no further objection: and the next speaker was a

ragged little boy, with bare feet, and a broom over his shoulder, who
ran across the road, and pretended to sweep the perfectly dry road in

front of us. "Give us a 'ap'ny!" the little urchin pleaded, with a
broad grin on his dirty face.

"Don't give him a 'ap'ny!" said the little lady in my arms. The words
sounded harsh: but the tone was gentleness itself. "He's an idle

little boy!" And she laughed a laugh of such silverysweetness as I had
never yet heard from any lips but Sylvie's. To my astonishment, the

boy actually joined in the laugh, as if there were some subtle sympathy
between them, as he ran away down the road and vanished through a gap

in the hedge.
But he was back in a few moments, having discarded his broom and

provided himself, from some mysterious source, with an exquisite
bouquet of flowers. "Buy a posy, buy a posy! Only a 'ap'ny!" he

chanted, with the melancholy drawl of a professional beggar.