nto the flesh, thinking they are hammering
away at insensate stone."

He reached church early.

"Now, if the weather frightens her (and it is a real December tempest),
or if that Mrs. Pryor objects to her going out, and I should miss her
after all, it will vex me; but, tempest or tornado, hail or ice, she
_ought_ to come, and if she has a mind worthy of her eyes and features
she _will_ come. She will be here for the chance of seeing me, as I am
here for the chance of seeing her. She will want to get a word
respecting her confounded sweetheart, as I want to get another flavour
of what I think the essence of life--a taste of existence, with the
spirit preserved in it, and not evaporated. Adventure is to stagnation
what champagne is to flat porter."

He looked round. The church was cold, silent, empty, but for one old
woman. As the chimes subsided and the single bell tolled slowly, another
and another elderly parishioner came dropping in, and took a humble
station in the free sittings. It is always the frailest, the oldest, and
the poorest that brave the worst weather, to prove and maintain their
constancy to dear old mother church. This wild morning not one affluent
family attended, not one carriage party appeared--all the lined and
cushioned pews were empty; only on the bare oaken seats sat ranged the
gray-haired elders and feeble paupers.

"I'll scorn her if she doesn't come," muttered Martin, shortly and
savagely, to himself. The rector's shovel-hat had passed the porch. Mr.
Helstone and his clerk were in the vestry.

The bells ceased--the reading-desk was filled--the doors were
closed--the service commenced. Void stood the rectory pew--she was not
there. Martin scorned her.

"Worthless thing! vapid thing! commonplace humbug! Like all other
girls--weakly, selfish, shallow!"

Such was Martin's liturgy.

"She is not like our picture. Her eyes are not large and expressive; her
nose is not straight, delicate, Hellenic; her mouth has not that charm I
thought it had, which I imagined could beguile me of sullenness in my
worst moods. What is she? A thread-paper, a doll, a toy, a _girl_, in
short."

So absorbed was the young cynic he forgot to rise from his knees at the
proper place, and was still in an exemplary attitude of devotion when,
the litany over, the first hymn was given out. To be so caught did not
contribute to soothe him. He started up red (for he was as sensitive to
ridicule as any girl). To make the