them, striving earnestly to
get the truth alive into their hearts. Then he would pray aloud to the
living God, as One so living that they could not see Him, so One with
them that they could not behold Him. When they rose from their knees man
after man dropped into his boat, and the fleet scattered wide over the
waters to search them for their treasure.

Then the little ones were put to bed, and Malcolm and Clementina would
sit on the deck, reading and talking, till the night fell, when they too
went below and slept in peace. But if ever a boat wanted help or the
slightest danger arose, the first thing was to call the marquis, and he
was on deck in a moment.

In the morning, when a few of the boats had gathered, they would make
for the harbor again, but now with full blast of praising trumpets and
horns, the waves seeming to dance to the well-ordered noise divine. Or
if the wind was contrary or no wind blew, the lightest-laden of the
boats would take the Clemency in tow, and with frequent change of rowers
draw her softly back to the harbor.

For such Monday mornings the marquis wrote a little song, and his
Clemency made an air to it and harmonized it for the band. Here is the
last stanza of it:

Like the fish that brought the coin,
We in ministry will join--
Bring what pleases Thee the best--
Help from each to all the rest.

OUR BLACKBIRDS.

I have in mind the delta of a river whose shores are so level that it is
a constant struggle whether land or water shall prevail. The river finds
its way to the broad harbor through a dozen or more channels, between
which are low islands overgrown with great trees burdened and festooned
with grapevines and moss, and tangled with thickets and rank fernbrakes,
or growths of wild rice and luxuriant water-weeds so dense and tall as
to be impenetrable to even a canoe. Here blooms the magnificent lotus
(_Nelumbium luteum_), with its corolla as large as your hat and its leaf
half a boat-length broad--great banks of it, which give out a sweet,
faint, intoxicating odor.

Curious sounds reach you as you thread the mazes of the swamp. The water
boils up from the oozy bottom, and the bubbles break at the surface with
a faint lisping sound: the reeds softly rattle against one another like
the rustle of heavy silks, and you can hear the lily-pads and
deeply-anchored stems of the water-weeds rubbing against one another.
More articulate noises strike your ear--t