in common
did not manage matters on this improved principle. They would find
themselves richer, more care-free men. Moidel declared her inability
to form an opinion. Old Franz, however, had much to say. He thought
it would be foolish. Why need the Hofbauer mix himself up with others,
when he only wanted to make meagre cheese for family use, while if
there were any over it always brought its worth in kreuzers at the
market? And then the pounds and pounds of butter were all wanted for
Schmalz. It might be sweeter, it is true, if they could melt it down
at the hut, but then there was the fear of setting the place on fire,
and the home-melted Schmalz went fast enough, as Moidel knew. And as
for the artificial Schmalz which was being sold in the towns now,
it was made of palm-oil, fresh suet and butter, and colored with
the yellow dye called Orleans; and people praised this machine-made
Schmalz and talked of progress! But he hoped, so long as he handled a
frying-pan, to stick to good old Schmalz and good old ways.

MARGARET HOWITT.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

ON THE CHURCH STEPS.

CHAPTER I.

What a picture she was as she sat there, my own Bessie! and what a
strange place it was to rest on, those church steps! Behind us lay the
Woolsey woods, with their wooing fragrance of pine and soft rushes of
scented air; and the lakes were in the distance, lying very calm
in the cloud-shadows and seeming to wait for us to come. But to-day
Bessie would nothing of lakes or ledges: she would sit on the church
steps.

In front of us, straight to the gate, ran a stiff little walk of white
pebbles, hard and harsh as some bygone creed.

"Think of little bare feet coming up here, Bessie!" I said with a
shiver. "It is too hard. And every carriage that comes up the hill
sees us."

"And why shouldn't they see us?" said my lady, turning full upon me.
"I am not ashamed to be here."

"Churches should always have soft walks of turf; and lovers," I would
fain have added, "should have naught but whispering leaves about
them."

But Bessie cut me short in her imperious way: "But we are not lovers
this morning: at least," with a half-relenting look at my rueful face,
"we are very good friends, and I choose to sit here to show people
that we are."

"What do you care for _people_--the Bartons or the Meyricks?" as I
noticed a familiar family carriage toiling up the hill, followed by
a lighter phaeton. I recognized already in the latter vehic