MR.

DRAKE'S ARBOR.
While the curate was preaching that same Sunday morning, in the cool cavernous church, with its great lights overhead, Walter Drake--the old minister, he was now called by his disloyal congregation--sat in a little arbor looking out on the river that flowed through the town to the sea.

Green grass went down from where he sat to the very water's brink.

It was a spot the old man loved, for there his best thoughts came to him.

There was in him a good deal of the stuff of which poets are made, and since trouble overtook him, the river had more and more gathered to itself the aspect of that in the Pilgrim's Progress; and often, as he sat thus almost on its edge, he fancied himself waiting the welcome summoms to go home.