uthful saints at home; and
its white paper cover was adorned by the picture of a shepherd,
comfortably if peculiarly attired in a frock coat and top
hat--presumably to portray that it was Sunday. The latter magazine
devoted itself to histories dealing with youthful saints abroad; and its
cover was decorated with a representation of young black persons
apparently engaged in some religious exercise. In this picture the frock
coats and top hats were conspicuous by their absence.

There were two pictures in the breakfast-room at the Willows which
occupied an important place in Elisabeth's childish imaginings. The
first hung over the mantelpiece, and was called The Centenary Meeting.
It represented a chapel full of men in suffocating cravats, turning
their backs upon the platform and looking at the public instead--a more
effective if less realistic attitude than the ordinary one of sitting
the right way about; because--as Elisabeth reasoned, and reasoned
rightly--if these gentlemen had not happened to be behind before when
their portraits were taken, nobody would ever have known whose portraits
they were. It was a source of great family pride to her that her
grandfather appeared in this galaxy of Methodist worth; but the hero of
the piece, in her eyes, was one gentleman who had managed to swarm up a
pillar and there screw himself "to the sticking-place"; and how he had
done it Elisabeth never could conceive.

The second picture hung over the door, and was a counterfeit presentment
of John Wesley's escape from the burning rectory at Epworth. In those
days Elisabeth was so small and the picture hung so high that she could
not see it very distinctly; but it appeared to her that the boy Wesley
(whom she confused in her own mind with the infant Samuel) was flying
out of an attic window by means of flowing white wings, while a horse
was suspended in mid-air ready to carry him straight to heaven.

Every Sunday she accompanied her cousins to East Lane Chapel, at the
other end of Sedgehill, and here she saw strange visions and dreamed
strange dreams. The distinguishing feature of this sanctuary was a sort
of reredos in oils, in memory of a dead and gone Farringdon, which
depicted a gigantic urn, surrounded by a forest of cypress, through the
shades whereof flitted "young-eyed cherubims" with dirty wings and
bilious complexions, these last mentioned blemishes being, it is but
fair to add, the fault of the atmosphere and not of the a