he welfare of the rector's son. There
never was a softer, truer heart, than that which now almost audibly beat
within the bosom of Clara Moseley; and she had given it to the young
divine with all its purity and truth.

The entrance of a congregation into the sanctuary will at all times
furnish, to an attentive observer, food for much useful speculation, if it
be chastened with a proper charity for the weaknesses of others; and most
people are ignorant of the insight they are giving into their characters
and dispositions, by such an apparently trivial circumstance as their
weekly approach to the tabernacles of the Lord. Christianity, while it
chastens and amends the heart, leaves the natural powers unaltered; and it
cannot be doubted that its operation is, or ought to be, proportionate to
the abilities and opportunities of the subject of its holy
impression--"Unto whomsoever much is given, much will be required." While
we acknowledge, that the thoughts might be better employed in preparing
for those humiliations, of the spirit and thanksgiving of the heart which
are required of all, and are so necessary to all, we must be indulged in a
hasty view of some of the personages of our history, as they entered the
church of B----.

On the countenance of the baronet, was the dignity and composure of a mind
at peace with itself and mankind. His step was rather more deliberate than
common; his eye rested on the pavement, and on turning into his pew, as he
prepared to kneel, in the first humble petition of our beautiful service,
he raised it towards the altar with an expression of benevolence and
reverence, that spoke contentment, not unmixed with faith.

In the demeanor of Lady Moseley, all was graceful and decent, while
nothing could be properly said to be studied. She followed her husband
with a step of equal deliberation, though it was slightly varied by a
manner which, while it appeared natural to herself, might have been
artificial in another: a cambric handkerchief concealed her face as she
sank composedly by the side of Sir Edward, in a style which showed, that
while she remembered her Maker, she had not entirely forgotten herself.

The walk of Mrs. Wilson was quicker than that of her sister. Her eye,
directed before her, was fixed, as if in settled gaze, on that eternity
which she was approaching. The lines of her contemplative face were
unaltered, unless there might be traced a deeper shade of humility than
was ordinar