was whispering before which the thunderings of the creed
of a sect were hushed. He, poor man, knew full well that it was a
voice which had long striven to make itself heard--a still, small
voice that would neither strive nor cry--a haunting voice, a voice
constant in its companionship during his later years. How often he
would fain have listened to it! But he dared not, for was it not a
contradictory voice? Did it not traverse the letter which he had
sworn to uphold and declare? What if the voice were the voice of
God? No! It could not be. God spoke in His Book. It was plain.
Wayfaring men might read, and fools had no need to err. But was
God's voice for ever hushed? Had He had no message since the seal
was fixed to the Canon of Scripture? What if that which he heard
was one of those messages concerning which Christ said, 'I have
many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.' Had the
_now_ in his life passed? Had the _then_ come when a fuller
revelation was about to be vouchsafed? Nay! even the Apostle--the
man inspired--only knew in part. Why should he, then, try to pry
into the clouds and darkness that were round about the awful
throne? And yet in Him who sat on that throne was no darkness at
all. Supposing the feelings struggling in his heart now were rays
of light from Him--rays seeking to pierce the clouds, and bring
more truth--truth which, in his highest moments, he had dreamed
of, but never dared to follow. Was not Dr. Hale right after all?
Was it not better to trust what we knew to be best in us, and
follow the larger rather than the lesser hope?

And so, in the silence, the two voices reasoned in the soul of Mr.
Morell.

In a little while Mr. Morell, roused from his reverie, turned to
the young pastor, and said:

'Your poet is right, Mr. Penrose. The loving worm within its clod
is diviner than a loveless god amid his worlds. Let us go as far
as the chapel.'

As they walked along the narrow, winding roadways, broken by
projecting gables, and fenced by irregular rows of palisades, the
old pastor began to re-live the long-departed days. Objects, once
familiar, on which his eye again rested, restored faded and
forgotten colours, and opened page after page in the books of the
past. Many cottages mutely welcomed him, their time-stained walls
memorials of generations with whom he held sacred associations.
There was the Old Fold Farm, with its famous fruit-trees, on
which, in spring evenings, he use