el in all its
truth and simplicity and love. We do not want to run down this or that
creed, however reprehensible we may think it. Let us be judged by our
deeds, and acts, and words. Let us show forth _our_ way of salvation,
as we have learnt it: another authority, greater than us, will tell the
world in his own good time which is _the_ faith!"

A short pause ensued, after the vicar had thus spoken; none of us cared,
for the moment, to pass on to the empty nothings of every-day talk.

Seraphine Dasher was the first to break the silence.

Seeing that Miss Spight had turned to address Monsieur Parole d'Honneur,
who sat by her side, the good-natured Frenchman having accompanied us,
to "assist at the fete" of his friend, "the good vicaire," as he said,
the wicked little seraph created a diversion.

"Gracious, Miss Spight," she exclaimed, "how you are flirting!"

The indignation of the austere virgin, and the warmth with which she
repelled this accusation, caused us all so much amusement, that in
another moment or two we were in the full swing again of our ordinary
chatter.

As we passed under Barnes railway bridge, where the tide was rushing
through the arches with all the pent-up waters of the reach beyond, Min,
who had been hitherto apparently distrait, like myself, not having
spoken, observed, that, the sight of a river flowing along always made
her feel reflective and sad.

"It recalls to my mind," said she, "those lines of Longfellow's, from
the _Coplas de Manrique_.

"`Our lives are rivers, gliding free,
To that unfathom'd boundless sea,
The silent grave!
Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.'"

"I prefer," said I, "Tennyson's _Brook_. Our laureate's description of
a moving river is not so sombre as that of the American poet; and,
besides, has more life and action about it."

"How many different poets have sung the praises of the Thames," said
Miss Pimpernell. "I suppose more poetry,--good, bad, and indifferent--
has been written about it, than for all the other rivers of the world
combined."

"You are right, my dear," said the vicar; "more, by a good deal! The
Jordan has been distinguished in Holy Writ especially; Horner has
celebrated the Xanthus and Simois, and Horace the tawny Tiber; the
rivers of Spain have been painted by Calderon, Lope de Vega and Aldana;
the Rhine and its legends sang of by Uhland and Goethe and Schiller--not
t