anxiously at his little brother, but the first giance at that bright, happy face, removed a heavy weight from his mind. At least the poor child had met with no disappointment so far.

Little Peter was the first to break the silence, with an eager exclamation, as soon as he had recognised his brother, and clasped his hand, I have touched it myself, Amos,-the beautiful organ! And, perhaps, some day I may be able to sing in the Cathedral if so be my voice do grow stronger."

The very thought of such a thing almost took away his breath, and it was Mr. Blake who calmly added, turning to Canon Ashton,

'Yes, decidedly, the child has a very strong taste-I would almost say talent-which ought to be cultivated; and as for his voice, well, we must make a choir-boy of him some day.' As he spoke, he gave a significant glance towards little Peter, to imply that he could not say more in his hearing.

Mr. Ashton understood, and replied with a nod and a few words of satisfaction. Then he turned to Amos, and said,

Now you must come to my house with your little brother, to have dinner, and let him rest awhile. It is only just across the Close, and our old housekeeper is a Stoke Melford woman, who will be proud to entertain you.'

The young blacksmith accepted his friend's hospitality in the same spirit in which it was offered. He was thankful on account of the boy, who, now that the excitement was over, was beginning to look pale and tired. So they all made their way together across the smooth lawn of the Close, to the quaint, old-fashioned retreat -an ideal Canon's house-which stood in the midst of its trim gardens.

Amos, who was passionately fond of flowers, would have loved to linger there all day long, but he had made an appointment to meet Farmer Yeatman in the Market-place at two o'clock, Now this was at the other end of the town, and he had to lead little Peter very carefully through the crowded streets-a work of time and difficulty, which made him many times regret that he should have chosen such a day for his blind brother's visit to Mere. However, Amos kept him amused and interested by his description of the various sights. In the High Street they met a procession of wild beasts from a travelling menagerie, accompanied by a number of gailydressed circus-riders on piebald ponies. Peter was intensely delighted with the account his brother gave him of all this, for with his vivid imagination, and a dim remembrance of pictures seen in his early childhood, he seemed almost to see it all. To add to his enjoyment, there was a very good militia band playing in the Market-place, and Amos promised to buy him a flute, for his very own,' as he said, so that altogether Mere Fair promised to be a red-letter day in his memory for a long time to come. Poor child! In his quiet life every new image and impression was a precious treasure which would help to pass away and brighten the long hours of darkness which no gleam of earthly sunshine would ever break.

(To be continued.)

A

LL places whatsoever that are reached by railway may be considered as fairly accessible, and consequently fairly known. But when you find yourself, as we did on Whit Monday last, on our way to a city sixteen miles from the nearest railway station, with sixteen hills to be encountered in the sixteen miles, then begins an experience which is daily becoming more rare—the experience of novelty.

And, first, we had forgotten to reckon that Whit Monday and Bank Holiday would have carried off for the day every available vehicle, and that a serious dilemma was impending when we left the train at Haverfordwest, and were told that nothing of any kind could possibly be got to take us and our baggage over those sixteen hills of difficulty.

We accepted our fate with a calmness that had a secret touch of hope in it. We walked about, surveyed the clean primitive town, were conducted over the fine parish church with its quaint specimens of carving, looked round the outside of the old castle, now the county gaol, and longed for a peep at its interior, and finally were rewarded for our equanimity by the sight of a carriage-and-pair making its hurried way towards the station, its only occupant being a venerable ecclesiastic connected with the Cathedral of St. David's, towards which our longing eyes were bent.

The fly was chartered to take us as return fare when the horses should have rested two hours (thanks a thousand times to that good Churchman whose journey was so opportune for us), and in due time we set forth for our four hours' drive.

Wild in most parts-here and there quite lovely-with sometimes the broad silver sweep of St. Bride's Bay lying out before us; sometimes a bright peep of it between the rocks, once for a short space driving along the edge of the shingle, the whole route perpetually varied by ascent and descent, by barren moor or straggling Welsh village, our journey at length ended at the New Hotel in the unique little city-village of St. David's.

And first we washed and dined-dinner, by the way, and all other meals, merely ringing the changes on good flat fish,' fried, and ham and eggs, and sour butter. Invariably sour, it seems to be a staple commodity in those parts; even the good hotel at Tenby could procure only sour butter on the market-day. Having dined, we set forth to see what we had come so far to see.

The fine square tower of St. David's stood scarcely higher than the first-floor windows of our hotel, from which we looked upon it.

There had been a great Whit Monday tea-drinking in one of the many chapels of the village. Men, women, children, all in their holiday best, were just breaking up and separating as we walked through the village. All was order and good-nature, savouring of Welsh Dissent, yet sober and well-behaved, and, moreover-rare in these days-respectful towards strangers. And as we returned through the village, at nearly 10 p.m., all was quiet and silent, provoking in one's mind a comparison with many an English Whit Monday, when brawling and drunkenness would too surely have played a prominent part.

Walking through this holiday group we reached the flight of stone steps from which rises the tall market cross. On its topmost step we stood to watch a gorgeous sunset behind the fine headland called the Bishop's Rock. We had hoped to see the sun drop into the sea, but rising ground intervened And then, the crimson flusli deepening and widening in our faces, we began a short, gentle descent, which brought us to the edge of the deep green basin, fringed with trees, alive with innumerable cawing rooks and chattering jackdaws, in the depth of which, like the sweetest picture artist ever painted at the bottom of a costly Sèvres or delicate Worcester bowl, nestled the Cathedral and the ruins.

The ruins of St. Mary's College and the cloisters are on the north, of the Lady Chapel on the east, and of a splendid palace on the southwest. The Cathedral is in a fair and careful state of restoration as far as funds hold out, but there is still a great work to accomplisha large balance required. A very fine west window is being placed in it to the memory of the revered and learned Bishop Thirlwall.

We made a particular survey of the exterior of the church and of the ruins by the waning light. In these ruins a fine rose-window in the banqueting-hall is perfect: so are the well-defined chapel, the great quadrangular court, the dreary series of living-rooms underground, with so little to brighten or enliven them. The grand entrance is also very imposing. The size and site add beauty and dignity in no small degree, and raise at once the question-In that far-off, outlandish spot, what need could there have been for provision in the shape of lodgings and hospitality on so vast a scale?

A streamlet, called the River Alan, runs between the Palace grounds and the western end of the Cathedral, whose fine front, judging by the remains of 'modern improvemeut' that lay around, is quickly working back to its original beauty in the Bishop's memorial. Two curious old flying buttresses, and two good modern imitation ones, meet the eye on the north side. The College, a far more complete ruin than the Palace, stands also on the north-nothing but the skeleton remains, the lower part being used as sheds for the workmen.

Meanwhile the summer twilight soon faded to darkness in that basin, and warned us to be wending homeward up the long flight of stone steps, and away to our hotel. Here we remembered to inquire the hour of matins on the morrow, the double festival of Whit Tuesday and St. Barnaby bright.'

6

But neither landlady nor waiters knew for certain, till a bright thought animated both their faces at the same moment, and they each remarked.

'But there's a Churchman downstairs in the bar there, and he'll know

As though a Churcnman was something quite exceptional in the City of St. David's! Alas' there was no possibility of finishing our survey. The morrow came with pouring rain. Through the pelting rain we hurried to matins in the Cathedral at eight o'clock. A few chorister-boys, a lay clerk, three priests, and a canon in residence, were present, the village schoolmaster presided at a little harmonium, ourselves forming the congregation. Nothing more simple or unique is

to be found in any Anglican diocese: nothing more beautiful in the way of situation.

We should have liked to see St. David's rings, and the organ stowed away in pieces in different parts of the building, and to have studied the internal architecture; but this could not be done in safety in damp garments.

We were able to hire a good roomy carriage, with strong horses, to take us back to Haverfordwest; our return journey not grand and solitary, and all to ourselves like yesterday, but enlivened at every few yards with droves of cattle, pigs, horses mounted by the tall-hatted Welshwomen, carts laden with many beings in holiday attire, all going home in the early part of the afternoon from the large annual fair at Haverfordwest. The station, too, was crowded on our arrival. Exuberant spirits, but good order and sobriety prevailed, and heightened our already pleasant impressions of St. David's.

K

HINTS TO HUSBANDS.

INDNESS is the key which unlocks the human heart; use it every day. A kind cheery word in the morning often lightens the load on the back of the poor man's wife for many an hour. Try not only to feel but also to show some interest in your wife's work. It is very hard to have to bear the fret and worrit of the children, and keep the house tidy, and to have a welcome ready when you come home, if you bring in as much dirt as you can on your boots, and fling the things about, and seem not to know whether the place is clean or dirty, bright and cheerful, or dull and miserable. If there be young children, or your wife is weakly, give her a helping hand before you leave in the morning. Make an effort to keep your children at school. Strive to worship regularly with your family at church. Don't spend your money at the public-house-1st, Because drink is the devil which devours the poor man. 2ndly, Because your spare time ought to be spent at home. 3rdly, Because your earnings belong to your wife and children as much as to yourself.

Just one glass! How many a happy home has been emptied, how many a wretched prison filled, by that temptation! Beware! Resist the devil to-day, there may be no choice for vou to-morrow.