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by the priest, then does he exercise that power committed to him by Christ of remitting; and when, as sometimes happens, wicked persons are excommunicated (that is, forbid communion in Christ's Church), then the bishop or priest uses that same power which he has received so fully and clearly, and retains that bad man's sins, in the hope that the punishment of his sins and a just severity may bring back the sinner to a sense of his errors and a full and sincere repentance.

Thus the keys, first given to St. Peter, and which are the sign of that great apostle, as we see in churches called after his name, are, as I have shewn, the emblem of that power which Christ gave to His Church; and so are used on all occasions where episcopal authority has to be expressed.

THE BIRD-KEEPING BOY.
[Concluded from p. 200.]

As summer came and passed on, the children of Gladstone, like other village-children, had their various occupations different from other times of the year, which left much less time for school, and kept many of them almost constantly out of doors. This was a season when every hand that could work was sure to be employed; and, even at "haysel," whole families turned out into the fields together, even to the very least, which was commonly a baby, laid down in a quiet corner of the meadow upon its mother's cloak, and left in charge of some trusty little sister or neighbour, who, but a very few summers

ago, had herself been under the same sort of care, and stretched out to sleep, and kick, and gurgle all day long, upon much the same spot. As this time of year drew on, the children were all the more pleased, because they were never permitted to go out at other times for such work as stone-picking and weeding, which are best done by grown people, and, for many reasons, are unfit for young ones. This Mr. Saxham felt strongly, and had so effectually represented to the farmers, that none of those who had any regard to the children's health or manners ever asked to have them taken from school for any such work. But haymaking was quite another thing, and especially in a county like this, where the mown grass is not thrown about with forks, but by the hand, and where even a pair of little hands, if they are carried by pretty stout legs, can do a great deal.

But hay-harvest had now been gone by some weeks. The corn was full ripe; and the real harvest and gleaning-time was come. This, if it pleased God to send tolerably fine weather, was far the most joyous season of all. And well it might be, as you will think when you hear it described. By all good mothers it was thought about and provided for some weeks before it came. The first thing to be done was, to brew in good time, that the husband and children might have a little fresh beer, and rather better than common, to drink in the field. The next thing was, to look out a few clothes proper for such sort of work, and to mend them up a little; so that though they were meant not to mind wet or dirt, or be any the worse for them, they might nevertheless look tidy and creditable. Indeed, according to custom of very long standing, time out of mind, the whole business of gleaning was conducted in the most orderly manner. Every woman of a family paid a penny, as a matter of course, to the parish-clerk for this subscription he was bound to ring the church-bell every morning at eight, and

every evening at six o'clock. Before this bell rang, no one might go into the field; and after it, no one might remain in the field. This gave a fair and equal chance to all, whether they had much or little business to do at home. And a pleasant sight it was to see them in answer to either bell, or at any time of the day.

The whole parish turned out, and gleaned together in the same field. In the morning, nothing could exceed the fresh cheerful looks of the whole party as they came abroad after a good night and a hearty breakfast; the children screaming with joy, or silent only for their tricks, and the mothers looking about, as they passed along, to see that they were all there, taking a cheerful view or a gloomy one, each according to her own temper and industrysome declaring that they thought the gleaning this year spoilt as many clothes as it paid for, and others of a different spirit quietly reckoning over in their own minds whether it would not pay both the rent and the shoe-bill. Do but follow them, however, into the stubble, and see how they set to work, and what handsful and armsful there soon are, according to their work; and you will be convinced that, with gleaning, as with most other businesses of life, it is the sour-tempered only that are gloomy, and that all, when they are hard at work, are very tolerably cheerful. Or if you are not satisfied about this, you have only to put yourself in the way of meeting this very party as they come home again but a few hours afterwards. You might fancy, if your imagination is at all a brisk one, that you had fallen into a company of walking mushrooms, and some of them scarcely giants neither; for there are children whose white pillow-cases, stuffed with corn and set upon their heads, leave so little to be seen below, that they seem to be all cap and no stalk. And do but hear how Nancy Giles, who was so low-spirited this morning, is talking away now; and though she too can see nobody from underneath her burden, that

does not matter: her words will do equally well for Susan Wright, or Fanny Betts, or Jenny Tuck, or for nobody at all. She was very sulky in the morning, and she is very merry now; and that is all that could properly be gathered from her either time. It is well they are on the turnpike-road; for their eyes are so hid, that there would be many a one in the ditch, if they had to choose their way. It is true they get home all tired enough. But give them a little time, till the bit of fire is lighted, the kettle boils, the party is hungry at their supper, and by and by laid quietly down in their beds; and little harm, you will be very sure, comes of being tired ever so much, and that nobody need complain if they are but as happy as the gleaners.

Nevertheless this sunshine also had its shadow, and, in one spot of the village, a very dark one. Margaret and her mother had been gleaning with the rest; but one day she had been obliged to leave the field with a headach; and when her mother also returned home earlier upon her account, she found her exceedingly ill, and sent immediately for the doctor. She had no reason to hesitate about the matter, though her husband was not at home; for, being a thoroughly good man, he was, of course, a prudent man; and, by paying eighteen pence a quarter, he and his family were in Mr. Simmons's club, and so able to have good advice and medicine at any time without farther expense. This was a wise forethought; and it proved so now, though they had never been ill enough to send before.

From what he heard, the doctor came as soon as ever he could, and glad he was that he had done so ; for he no sooner saw Margaret than he perceived that she was very ill. A few questions from him made her acknowledge that she had not been quite well for many days; and it was plain now that she was in a high fever.

This was a sad distress to John and Mary Haycock; and it was soon increased by James's shew

ing symptoms of the same complaint. He too was obliged to be kept in bed; and it soon appeared that their mother could not leave them night or day-both were so ill and helpless. Mr. Simmons said that nothing could be hoped for without the greatest care and watching, and that anyhow there was great danger.

The poor mother would have been worn out, but that Mrs. Rose insisted that she should be allowed to share the nursing as far as possible with her.

"You know, Mrs. Haycock," said she, "these dear children are mine next after yours. I have taught them and loved them many a day, and now I will love and nurse them all I can. You must not say me nay-indeed you must not; for even if the fever is catching, you know it is holyday-time, and the little ones do not come near me now, and will not for some weeks to come."

There was no refusing such an offer: none ever was made more heartily or received more thankfully. But no care was of any avail with Margaret. The fever took its course. Sometimes she was delirious; and then again she was sensible for a little while-long enough to know who were about her, and to repay them with a softly breathed word or two of love scarcely to be heard, and with looks never to be forgotten. When anybody prayed, it was plain, from her seriousness, that she knew what they were about, and attended all she could. But when Mr. Saxham used to come, his voice, as he knelt by her bedside, would always bring her to herself for a few moments; and the last words she uttered were those of the Lord's Prayer, as she endeavoured to whisper them after his voice the very | night she died.

There could be no severer stroke to the parents than that dear Margaret died, and no greater mercy than that, in time, James recovered. But it was a long time first; and much weakness and suffering he had to bear: yet that was nothing. He would

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