n uncompromising greatness of assertion. This man claimed to BE the
resurrection, of as Wyclif had it, "the agen risying and lyf."

And then poor Erica read on to the end of the story and was quite thrown
back upon herself by the account of the miracle which followed. It was
a beautiful story, she said to herself, poetically written, graphically
described, but as to believing it to be true, she could as soon have
accepted the "Midsummer Night's Dream" as having actually taken place.

Shivering with cold she put the books back on their shelf, and stole
upstairs once more to bear her comfortless sorrow as best she could.

CHAPTER VIII. "Why Do You Believe It?"

Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to
meet her, With the life within departed that had given them
each a soul; And her sick heart even slighted gentle words
that came to greet her, For grief spread its shadowy pinions
like a blight upon the whole. A. A. Proctor

The winter sunshine which glanced in a side-long, half-and-half way
into Persecution Alley, and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's
little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more cheerful room in
Guilford Square, and illumined a breakfast table, at which was seated
one occupant only, apparently making a late and rather hasty meal. He
was a man of about eight-and-twenty, and though he was not absolutely
good-looking, his face was one which people turned to look at again, not
so much because it was in any way striking as far as features went, but
because of an unusual luminousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which
were dark gray, were peculiarly expressive, and their softness, which
might to some have seemed a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced
by the straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as by a thoroughly
manly bearing and a general impression of unfailing energy which
characterized the whole man. His hair, short beard, and mustache were of
a deep nut-brown. He was of medium height and very muscular looking.

On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you would often meet with, and
it was not to be wondered at that his old grandmother looked up pretty
frequently from her arm chair by the fire, and watched him with that
beautiful loving pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated and
very rarely misplaced.

"You were out very late, were you not, Brian?" she observed, letting
her knitting needles rest for a minute, and scrutinizi