gale had increased in violence) gave zest to the good cheer provided in most homes; and the day dedicated to peace and goodwill was desecrated, as, alas! it is so often, by drunkenness and folly.

But about an hour before dusk the firesides were deserted; the grog was left to cool; almost all the inhabitants of Scoresgate were down on the beach, gazing with white, eager faces out to sea. A small ship, whether English trader, or foreign, they could not yet tell, was being rapidly driven by tide and wind on to the rugged coast.

"There's no hope-she must comethey've lost their hold over her;" these words mingled with the pitiful sighs that broke from the spectators. Now the driving rain would almost hide the doomed vessel from sight; and when a slight clearing gave them a farther view, it would disclose her coming nearer and nearer to her destruction. And when, at last, she struck upon the jagged rocks on which so many goodly boats had been split plank from plank, they on shore could hear the cry of agony that came

from those on board-a cry of agony, and a cry for help. As the clouds overhead parted and the rain ceased, they could see the small ship fastened between the rocks, every roll of the tide straining her powers of endurance to the utmost.

"A boat-push out the boats!" called many of the young ones; but the older and more experienced shook their heads. "No boat can live through that, no boat can go near them rocks in such a sea." And the bravest felt it was so. Yet they could not stand there and make no effort, and one boat was launched only to be dashed back, the men soaked and bruised and too dispirited to attempt it again.

They could see the crew clinging to the masts and rigging-seven in all, they counted; between the lulls of the raging storm they could hear their cries, yet were forced to stand powerless to aid them; only

the women prayed beneath their breath, and shivered at every wave that struck the quivering ship.

Meanwhile men had ridden along the coast to the nearest station for rockets, and one had gone further still, some fourteen miles off, where was a life-boat. But though all were glad that some effort was being made, all knew that even if the frail vessel held together till dusk, when the darkness came the chances of saving any would be slight indeed.

By this time Joe Maling had joined the crowd. The others made way for him curiously. The scene slightly recalled that one of four years ago. He had been much discussed that day, in connection with Widow Enderby's invitation and their pastor's farewell sermon; in the anxieties of the moment they were not surprised at his altered bearing and his different manner. For those years he had lived among them as a man apart, working late and early for his sickly wife (lately dead) and his cripple child, taking their shrinking and their unconcealed dislike as a thing of course, never meeting their gaze or joining in their revelry, but bearing his burden of remorse. alone; his repentence and his longing to repair the past known only to himself and God. And now he stood among them, erect and firm, demanding a strong rope that he might ventnre out.

"Can a man live through that?" hoarsely asked an old fisherman, pitying Maling's anxiety to retrieve the past, while others turned aside with a scoff and a sneer. "He to teach them courage! A good teacher, truly!"

"Mates," said Joe Maling calmly, "if you won't help me, I must e'en go unhelped. For four long years I've battled with myself, taking no drink to steal away my strength or turn me again into a loathsome coward. For four long years I've prayed that here in Scoresgate I might save as once I

wickedly lost, and I dare not let the chance. slip. Let me go-help me, boys, and wish me God-speed. Every moment lost is perhaps a life lost there-she can't hold out an hour longer: only, if I don't reach her, some of you must look after my crippled Joe!"

Even while they helped him, they would have held him back. It was such a forlorn hope, such almost certain death, and yet they could not stay him. Only Widow Enderby (who had left the children safely housed) caught his hand and cried, "Don't go for the sake of my poor man, Joe; he's safe and happy, and he bears you no illwill, be sure; he knows all you've felt. Don't fling away your life for the sake of him!"

"Not for him, but for the living!" and Maling pointed to the heaving, breaking ship. "What if it be the Little Lass from Hull, with my dead mate's son on board?

The thought blanched the widow's cheek, and she dropped his hand. "God speed you!" she said; and through blinding tears she watched him prepare

to go.

With pent-in breath, which occasionally found relief in sighs or prayerful ejaculations, the crowd watched the progress of Maling through the surging waters. Flung back several times, and often lost to sight, he yet held on his way; till distance and foam and the rolling billows hid him from their view. Minutes seemed hours to those who waited on the shore; what must they have seemed to those who watched for their deliverer, and who knew that every moment was precious indeed! Presently a shout, a shout of joy, told them he had won the victory, by God's good grace, over wind and wave. Bruised, well-nigh spent, with one arm broken at the last moment, he reached the parting vessel just in time.

Only one of the crew of the Little Lass was

lost; the rest (six men and Widow Enderby's son) were safely brought to land-numbed, hurt, and exhausted, but alive. The last to

be drawn on shore was Joe Maling. They carried him to the nearest cottage amid tears and blessings. The men who had scorned him, and the women who had shrunk from him, strove who should minister to his wants or honour him most; and crippled Joe had foster-fathers and foster-mothers without number.

It was a Christmas night long to be remembered in that village. The morning's sermon had been put into deed, and the lesson brought forth golden fruit. In the days that followed, while Maling slowly recovered, many an old grudge between neighbours was forgotten and forgiven, many a bitter word was retracted, many a parent opened loving arms to a repentant child. For had not they all condemned harshly and cruelly shunned one who had proved that, in spite of past errors and ill deeds, the Spirit of Christ was in him—the spirit of humility and forgiveness and goodwill? Had they not kept themselves aloof, withheld forgiveness for years, grudgingly and sneeringly given it that morning, while he, the outcast, had been growing in penitent self-sacrifice, till it had culminated in a deed of quiet heroism that touched and shamed them all?

So the New Year's Day dawned on the little village bright and clear, and found softened hearts and holier, purer homes; and when they all met-the rescued men among them -in their little church to thank God for all His mercies and for those saved from death, every head was bent in reverence, and scarcely an eye was undimmed, for the very meanest there had had set before them a holier, loftier ideal of life, and could recognise, however dimly, the wondrous beauty of loving sacrifice and good-will.The Appeal.

W

HENEVER I go to London, I always stand at the corner of the Bank of England for a minute or two, watching the crowd of busy men hurrying everywhere. What thousands of cares they carry! How many anxieties! Then I look at the Royal Exchange. It is pleasant to see the London sparrows, though they are a little black and grimy, chirping on the massive cornices, as free and happy as possible, above the din and awful hurry of the great city. They have no cares, no anxieties. They seem to know what the great letters mean, which are cut in the stones on which they hop: "The earth is the Lord's, and the fulness thereof." God keeps the sparrows, and they are happy. I wish the busy city men would watch the sparrows, and read the great City Text.

But the sparrows and the text are not the most attractive things about the Exchange, and I am sure, if you look at it, you would think as I do-that the weathercock is the most singular and curious thing about the building. It is not like any other weathercock in England, or, I should think, in the world; for there, twisting on the pinnacle of the spire, is a monster grasshopper; and I'll tell you how it came to be there.

About three hundred and fifty years ago a woman, with a little baby in her arms, was trudging along a country lane. Presently, after looking to see that no one was watching her, she climbed over a gate into the field, and wrapping the baby in its little shawl, she laid it down in the grass, so gently as not to awake it, and then, never even looking behind her, she climbed over the gate again into the lane and went on her journey.

The baby soon woke, and began to cry; and it cried for a long, long time. At last, tired and hungry, and hot with the sun, for

it was a fine summer's day, it was wearied out, and dropped off to sleep again. "But God had heard the voice of the lad," and see how simply He brought help for the little one.

By-and-by, down the lane came a schoolboy. He lived at the farmhouse up the lane. Now he gathered a few primroses, now he scampered after a butterfly, now he had a shy at a bird; but just as he came to the gate over which the woman had climbed he heard a grasshopper chirping away so loudly that he sprung over the gate to catch him, and there was the baby, fast asleep! Far more pleased than if he had caught a hundred grasshoppers, the boy took up the little fellow and ran home with his prize. The kind farmer's wife, although she had many children of her own, at once determined to keep the little orphan who had been saved from death by a grasshopper.

Years passed away, and the baby became a strong boy; the boy grew to be a man; he went to London, and became a merchant. God blessed all he did, and he rose to be the most noted man in the city. Queen Elizabeth was then on the throne, and often did she send for Sir Thomas Gresham (for the little deserted boy had become a knight) to consult him on the great affairs of state.

About three hundred years ago Sir Thomas Gresham founded the Exchange. The Queen came to dine with him, and to lay the first stone; and there, upon the topmost pinnacle, Sir Thomas placed a grasshopper. And there it is to-day, to tell the busy, toiling city, and to tell you and me, when we go to see the city, that Almighty God will hear the infant's cry, and can save a valuable life by even such a little thing as a grasshopper.

So it was that "God heard the voice of the lad!"