tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER XXVII. A Thunder-Bolt
CHAPTER XXVIII. Conscience Stricken
CHAPTER XXIX. Reconciliation
CHAPTER XXX. An Easter Morning
CHAPTER XXXI. An Unexpected Proposal
CHAPTER XXXII. A Narrow Escape
CHAPTER XXXIII. In Arcady
CHAPTER XXXIV. Looking Forward

Recent Canadian Literature

ROLAND GRAEME, KNIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

ROLAND'S THREE VISITS.

The Reverend Cecil Chillingworth sat in his quiet study, absorbed in the preparation of his next Sunday evening's discourse. It was to be one of those powerful pulpit "efforts"—so comprehensive in its grasp, so catholic in its spirit, so suggestive in its teachings—for which Mr. Chillingworth, to quote the Minton Minerva, "was deservedly famous." In fact, this "fame" of his sat already like "black care" on his shoulders; or, as the Minton Minerva might have said, had it only known the secret, like a jockey determined on all occasions to whip and spur him up to his own record. The strongest forces are often those of which the subject of them is least conscious, and, though Mr. Chillingworth would not have admitted it to himself, he stood in mortal dread of "falling off" in his reputation as a preacher. Should that happen, he would feel—or so he would have put it to himself—that his "usefulness was gone," a reason that would have justified to him every possible effort to avert the calamity.

He was now hard at work, with the critical presence of the reporter of the Minerva painfully before his mind, as he racked his brain for new and original thoughts, fresh illustrations, apt and terse expressions, with an eager anxiety that often threatened to put too great a strain on even his fine and well-balanced physique. There were indeed already, in his inward experience, some unwelcome tokens of overstrain in a growing nervous irritability, and a miserable day, now and then, in which all the brightness of life, and faith, and hope seemed to disappear before the deadly touch of nervous prostration.

It was not wonderful, then, if on the days which he set apart more especially for preparation for the pulpit, Mr. Chillingworth was peculiarly impatient of interruption. It was not consistent with his principles absolutely to deny himself, on these days, to all who sought him; but he always yielded under protest, with the impatient sense of injury which is often caused by the inconvenient pressure of our ideals on our preferences. The subject of the particular sermon on which he was at this time engaged was, the absolute self-surrender and self-sacrifice demanded by the religion of Christ. He was in the full flow of clear and elevated thought, and was just elaborating what he thought a specially apt illustration, with the enthusiasm of an artist.

A knock at his study door suddenly awoke him from his preoccupation; his brow involuntarily contracted, as, without looking up, he uttered a reluctant "Come in!"

A trim maid-servant entered and handed him a card. On it was inscribed, in clear and decided, though small characters, the name, Roland Graeme.

"Roland Graeme!" he mentally re-echoed. "I don't know the name—and yet it seems familiar." Then a ready misgiving crossed his mind, and, turning to the waiting maid, he asked, "Does he seem to be a book-canvasser?"

"No, sir, I don't just think he is," she replied, somewhat doubtfully; then in a tone of more satisfied decision she added, "any way, he hain't got any books with him now, as far as I can see."

"Well, say I'll be down presently," said the clergyman, with a sigh of forced resignation, dipping his pen into the ink to finish the interrupted sentence, in which he spent some minutes, with a half-conscious determination to have at least the satisfaction of keeping the unwelcome visitor waiting. The plan did not work well, so far as he was concerned. He wrote a few words, read them over, thought them tame and feeble, drew his pen through them, and then, as the dull winter day was fast fading, he thought he might as well go down at once; first putting some fresh coal on his grate, so that, when he returned, he might find the bright glowing fire which his soul loved, for its suggestiveness as well as its comfort, in a twilight meditation. It is curious on what trivial things great issues do often depend. That little delay of five minutes, as it turned out, was the means of changing the whole course of Mr. Chillingworth's life, as well as that of some other persons with whom this story is concerned.

Down-stairs, in the handsomely furnished parlor, whose somewhat prim arrangement betokened the absence of any feminine occupancy, the clergyman found his visitor, a young man of more than middle height and noticeable figure, with a broad fair brow and wavy chestnut hair, candid blue-gray eyes, somewhat dreamy in expression, yet full of earnestness and hope, and lighted with a smile of peculiar sweetness as he rose at Mr. Chillingworth's entrance. That gentleman's manner, however, retained an expression of protest, and he remained standing, without any invitation to his visitor to resume his seat. If he did not say—"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit?"—it was so clearly written on every line of his face, that the young man was constrained to begin in a tone of apology:

"I trust, sir, you will pardon the seeming intrusion of a stranger on your valuable time. May I ask you to grant me the favor of a brief conference on an important subject?" inquired the visitor, with a gentle courtesy of manner that impressed Mr. Chillingworth in spite of himself. "As a Christian minister, you——"

"As a Christian minister, sir, my time is much engaged. I must ask you to state the object of your visit as briefly as possible. Just at present, I am specially occupied with important work."

"I shall be as brief as possible," the young man replied. "I think you will recognize my object also as important. May I ask you to be kind enough to look at this prospectus?"

Mr. Chillingworth's high, arched forehead assumed a more and more clouded aspect. He made an impatient gesture as he said:

"I am afraid you really must excuse me! I cannot undertake to examine a long prospectus. Time is precious, and my own work is too exacting in its claims."

"That is what brings me here," the young man replied, still with a cheerful, undaunted look. "It is, I think, in line with your work, the