“And at the sacring of the Mass, I saw
    The holy elements alone:  but he
    ’Saw ye no more?  I, Galahad, saw the Grail,
    The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine: 
    I saw the fiery face as of a child
    That smote itself into the bread, and went,
    And hither am I come; and never yet
    Hath what thy sister taught me first to see
    This holy thing, failed from my side?’”

“Ah! yes, John, Father Hyacinthe is mistaken, and Mr. Work is mistaken too.  There is more in our communion than can be explained.  The reason is a great deal, a great deal, but it is not everything.  And there are experiences which it can neither understand nor interpret.  Baby is not only up-stairs, John; he is in my heart of hearts.  And you are never away from home, husband mine, though often in the city, but are always with me.  And my Saviour he is not far away, he is not in the heaven that we must bring him down, nor in the past that we must summon him from centuries long gone by.  He is in our hearts, John.  Do I believe in the Real Presence?  Do I not know that there is a Real Presence?  And neither priest nor pastor can take it from me.”

“I wish you could have administered the communion this afternoon, Jennie,” said I, “instead of Mr. Work.”

“I wish some good friend of Mr. Work would advise him not to talk at the communion,” said Jennie.

“Write him a note,” said I.

Jennie shook her head.  “No,” said she.  “It would only do harm.  But I wish ministers knew and felt that at the communion table there is a Real Presence that makes many words unfitting.  When we are on the mount of Transfiguration, we do not care much for Peter, James or John.  And so, dear, I recommend you to do as I do—­if the minister must give us a doctrinal disquisition, or a learned argument, or an elaborate arabesque of fancy work, or an impassioned appeal, let him go his way and do not heed him.  I want silence that I may commune with the Real Presence.  If the minister does not give it me, I take it.”

Jennie is right, I am sure.  What we laymen want at the communion service, from our pastors, is chiefly silence.  Only a few and simple words; the fewer and simpler the better.  Oh! you who are privileged to distribute to us the emblems of Christ’s love, believe me that the communion never reaches its highest end, save when you interpret it to us, not merely as a flower-strewn grave of a dead past, but as a Mount of Transfiguration whereon we talk with a living, an ascended Saviour.  Believe me too, we want at that table no other message than that which a voice from on high whispers in our hearts:  “This is my beloved Son, hear ye him!”

CHAPTER V.

Our Church Finances.

I found one evening last week, in coming home, a business-like-looking letter lying on my library table.  I rarely receive letters at Wheathedge; nearly all my correspondence comes to my New York office.  I tore it open in some surprise and read the note as follows: