But of late John had attended very badly. He had got out of humour with the minister, and there were some other things about the chapel which did not please him. I am afraid the fault lay chiefly with John himself. His temper was naturally not one of the happiest, and for a good while -at any rate about chapel matters-he had allowed it to get the better of him.

Nobody will wonder that John's boys by-and-by took advantage of his absence, and that they stopped away from chapel when the Sunday-school was over. Sometimes they went to a church where there was fine music, and sometimes they rambled about in the fields. Mrs. Powell went on the Sunday evenings when she could get there, which was not always, on account of the younger children, and John sometimes with her. I think he seldom missed going to some place of worship, and now and then he took the boys with him. When he did not do that it was understood they were to go with their mother, but very often they got out before service time and went where they liked. A mother has a poor chance with a lot of strong-willed boys when she is not supported by the authority of the father.

The superintendent of the Sunday-school, Mr. Bolton, who sat in the chapel where he could see John's pew, soon saw that the boys were often absent, and he noticed also that John himself attended very badly. After some thought, he determined to go and see him about it.

Mr. Bolton went rather late one evening, when he was pretty sure the children would all have gone to bed, for, of course, he did not want them to hear his talk with their father.

He found John and his wife sitting by the fireside. I doubt whether John was specially pleased to see him, but Mrs. Powell was. They had both a tolerably good idea of the purpose of his visit.

After a few words of kind inquiry Mr. Bolton said, "I have come about the boys, John."

"Indeed, sir," said John. "I hope there is nothing

wrong, and that they have not been behaving badly at the Sunday-school ?"

"No," replied Mr. Bolton. "I am glad to say that, so far as their behaviour at the school is concerned, I have no fault to find. I wanted to know, however, if you were aware that when you and Mrs. Powell do not happen to be in your seat at chapel, they are very seldom there either."

"I reckon, sir," said John, "that if they are not there they will be with the scholars in the gallery." Which, of course, showed plainly that John did not know much about what his boys did on Sundays.

"No," replied Mr. Bolton. "I am quite sure of that, for I looked for them there, and saw nothing of them."

"Well," said John, "the fact is I don't care much for Mr. Crawford"-that was the minister-" and I don't think the lads do either, and so I did not insist on their going to chapel. There's no good in forcing them to go where they don't like."

"I don't see," replied Mr. Bolton, "how you could very well insist on their going when you did not go yourself. But may I ask how old your boys are ?"

"Let me see," said John. "I just forget. Mary, how old are they?"

"Ned," replied Mrs. Powell," will be thirteen next birthday, and that will be the sixth of next month; Harry is eleven, and Ben is nine."

"Well, now," asked Mr. Bolton, "don't you think that's rather soon for you to leave them to do as they like in this matter? A time will come when they will have to think and act for themselves about it, and when neither you nor anybody else will have any right to control them; but that day has not come yet. For a long time, it seems to me, it will be your duty to say where they shall go, and to have them beneath your own eye in the House of God."

"But what am I to do," said John, "when they don't care for Mr. Crawford ?"

"I should like to know how it is they don't care for Mr. Crawford," said Mr. Bolton. "Is not this it: "The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge?' Have they not heard you talk against Mr. Crawford, and has not that set them against him? Besides, you yourself are so often absent."

"Now let

"That's just it, Mr. Bolton," said Mrs. Powell; " and it's what I've said to John many a time. He's come home on a Sunday and found all sorts of fault, when the children were there. He thought they were not taking any notice, but they were. 'Little pitchers have long ears."" "I was afraid it was so," said Mr. Bolton. me say I am sure you will forgive my freedom-that you can scarcely have thought what harm you were doing. The good which people get from a minister's services depends quite as much on their respect and love for him as on what he says, and, I often think, a great deal more. If, then, you have taught your boys not to like Mr. Crawford, you have in so far prevented his doing them good. Besides, whether you intended it or not, you have taught and encouraged them to forsake the House of God; and if they grow up in the habit of doing that, it will be very sad for them both for this world and the next."

The tears stood in Mary's eyes, but she very wisely left the thing between Mr. Bolton and her husband.

John felt the force of what Mr. Bolton said, more than he was willing to admit; still he thought he had something to say for himself.

"There's a good deal of truth in what you say, Mr. Bolton, about our not being likely to get good from a minister if we don't like him. Now that's my case with Mr. Crawford. What can I do?

"Whatever you do, or do not," said Mr. Bolton, "don't talk against him before your children. But there are two things you may do. The first is this: I should be very sorry to lose you and your family from the chapel, but you had better leave us, and go where you can

enjoy the ministry and profit by it, and take all your family with you regularly, than do as you are doing now." "I should not exactly like to do that," said John; "for I like the old place, and, after all, it would be like leaving home."

"I am glad to hear you say so," said Mr. Bolton. "But there's another and a better way than leaving. Do you

ever pray for Mr. Crawford ?”

John was obliged to admit that he had not prayed much for him lately.

"Try what that will do, John," said Mr. Bolton; "and resolve, till you find you cannot profit by Mr. Crawford's ministry, that you will attend regularly and take all your family with you. Give him a fair, honest trial."

Further conversation followed, in the course of which Mr. Bolton explained some things by which John had been displeased, and he was frank enough to confess that he had been a good deal mistaken about them.

66

Well, sir," said John at last, "I won't say just now what I'll do; but I'll think about it."

The result, however, was that next Sunday morning John and his boys were all in their places at chapel, and they have attended regularly ever since. What is more,

Mr. Crawford has not now a warmer friend in the whole congregation than John Powell. He says sometimes to his wife that Mr. Crawford is so wonderfully improved that he is not like the same man; but Mary smiles, for she believes that, after all, the great improvement is in John himself. The lads promise well, and there is every reason to hope they are all getting good.

REV. S. GOODALL.

The Great Fog-bell.

WENT one day, a few years ago, with a party of friends, to see the Start Lighthouse. It stands on the utmost verge of some black, hard rocks, which run out into the sea, so that it can be seen for many miles by vessels going up and down the English Channel. It is a revolving light, and the effect is a little startling as you ride over some of the hills by the coast on a dark night, and see, for the first time, an exceedingly bright light flashing its rays over many miles of sea and shore, and then completely dying away for a minute or two. It soon returns, however, repeating the operation all through the night with untiring regularity. I had often seen it sending forth its warning rays, and I had a desire to go to it and examine it; so one day we made up a little party and drove over. We saw the lighthouse, had it explained, the light lighted, and the machinery which causes it to revolve set in motion. But what struck me even more than the lighthouse (because I had not expected to see it) was an immense bell, just a little distance from the lighthouse. I was not long before I inquired what it meant. "Oh," said our conductor, "that's the fog-bell; we use that when it is so foggy that the light cannot be seen.' He then took me inside a little house, and showed me a large clock, which, when wound up, set the bell in motion, and caused it to send forth its heavy monotonous peals for some distance all around. "Ah," said I to myself, as I saw its laborious motions and heard its harsh, almost deafening tones, "that bell has a mission to fulfil, and it is just like the kindness and sympathy of my countrymen to place it there."

Then I began to think about what it had to do, until I almost came to regard it as something human-something that I could and ought to talk to. So, if you like, I will tell you what in my reverie I said to the bell, and what it said to me.