I shall never forget his reply, spoken as it was with such manly Christian simplicity and evidently unassumed faith: "Well, sir, to say the truth I have not thought much about it."

And then he went on to say how he felt sure that if we fretted ourselves much about such things it would "be the worse for us," and how certain he was that God, who had done so much for him in other ways, would take care of him in this respect too. He said further that, so far as he had thought of the future, it was with the hope, if his health should be restored, of doing something in God's work. I understood him to refer to the prospect of employment as a soldiers' scripture reader, or in some capacity of that kind. I listened to the poor fellow with tears in my eyes, and with many thoughts in my heart. Here was my own lesson of comfort returned "by a way which I knew not," to myself. Here was my own text of the previous Sunday evening become as it were a "living epistle," and addressed altogether unconsciously, and yet in a most personal manner, to myself. Here, I say, was the message I had spoken come back to me; and come back with interest too. For I had spoken of anxiety about temporal matters as being simply unprofitable. I was now reminded that it might be positively injurious, as well. I had said, " You will be none the better for it;" I was now taught the additional truth: "You may be very much worse." This unintentional reproof (for as such I accepted it) went straight to my heart. I felt my own anxieties in consequence to be less, my own cares to be lighter, and my own faith to be stronger. The sick soldier's desire to do "something for God" had begun to be fulfilled even then; and he had been watering one who had at least endeavoured to water others before.*

About the same time, I met with another instance of like kind. The causes for anxiety which I had spoken of above had rather increased than diminished; and "hope deferred" was, in consequence, beginning to make "the heart sick." I was very sad and cast down-more than I ought to have been. I remembered, however, the old saying, that "weeping must not hinder sowing," and that

It may perhaps interest and encourage the reader to be informed, that my modest and trustful friend did receive a small pension after all; and that I was enabled, by the help of friends, to secure him in other ways a little temporal assistance.

the best way often to console oneself is to endeavour to console others; and I went out therefore to my proper labour of visiting some of "the poor of the flock.” Let me describe the little room to which, as I cannot but believe, I was sent.

At the further end as I entered, under a window rather high up in the wall, and giving no view of anything but the clouds and the sky, I saw before me a little bed, which nevertheless almost reached from side to side of the room. In front of the tiny grate, which had in it a mere handful of red coals, out of which the gas was all burnt, there stood a very small round table, quite big enough, however, for the very diminutive tea-tray which it carried, with its scanty furniture of an exceedingly modest little teapot flanked by one cup and saucer and a plate. I could not help observing that there was no milk in the tea, and apparently neither milk nor sugar in the room; and that there was only one untouched and thinlybuttered piece of bread on the plate. Opposite the fireplace was a small chest of drawers, on which lay a few well-worn old books, and one or two other relics of more affluent days. There was something which appeared like a child's crib covered up with a cloth in one corner, and two or three chairs. Such was the tiny apartment to which I had come. Its occupant was a widow indeed," living on the charity of a somewhat distant connexion, and on a meagre parish allowance-half of which she paid for lodging and attendance. Her appearance was in thorough keeping with the room. She had that fragile and feeble appearance so often to be found in the aged, as though a strong breath of wind would extinguish the flickering flame of life. I can see her now as she sat, labouring for breath, and reaching forth a feeble and tremulous hand to finish her cup of tea. Altogether, indeed, she appeared, both with regard to bodily condition and worldly estate, to be at the lowest possible ebb.

I soon found reason, however, for believing that she was to be envied and admired. When I proceeded, for example, to sit down, in order that she might go on with her meal, I observed with considerable admiration that she did so with the most perfect ease of manner, and without any apology or remark as to its extreme meagreness and poverty. Surely, I thought to myself, here is the spirit of true Christian politeness, and of true contentment also.

Then, when her slender repast was finished (and it did not take very long), and we began to converse concerning the things of the kingdom, I found still more to admire. She was possessed of much sweet and quiet hope as to the pardon of her sins and a happy life after death. I found, too, what, in my judgment, was better still, that the ground of this hope was in the Lord Christ himself and his work, and on his gracious promise, "Him that cometh to me I will in nowise cast out." I asked her how she knew that Christ had received her.

She looked at me just for a moment as though she did not quite know what I meant. Then suddenly brightening up she replied: "Because he has given me whatever I have asked. I asked for you to come to-day; and he has sent you. At least," she added, "I asked for some one to be sent me, and you have come.

I earnestly sought to be made the instrument of conveying to her some heavenly message from God's word; for I felt, in any case, that she had been enabled to convey a very special lesson to myself. I looked at my aged friend and her room; I remembered what I knew of her circumstances; and her answer seemed to me quite sublime. What a wonderful experience, I thought to myself, has been here! "He has always given me what I have asked." What a golden spirit of contentment this implies and reveals! What singular spiritual wisdom in the direction of her desires, and what beautiful moderation and submission in the way of putting her requests! What remarkable discrimination, again, there must have been in the interpretation of answers to prayer, and in distinguishing between a real refusal and one that is only apparent! What perseverance, also, in the habit of supplication; what steady faith in its efficacy; what delight doubtless in engaging in its exercise; what evident readiness to have recourse to it; and what a really splendid testimony, even when every necessary allowance has been made, to the great and precious truth, that prayer can never be in vain! "A believer's prayer," says Rutherford, "never returns empty." My unconscious teacher and friend, in her simple but effectual manner, had been teaching me the same truth. I received the lesson, accordingly, in silent wonder and praise; and I went away from that dwelling of poverty, not only much less anxious and much less sorrowful, but a much richer man than I came.

PROMISES FULFILLED.

As the herbs and flowers which sleep all winter in their roots underground, when the time of spring approacheth presently start forth of their beds, where they had lain so long unperceived, thus will the promise in its season do. He delays who passeth the time appointed; but he only stays that waits for the appointed time and then comes. Every promise is dated, but with a mysterious character; and for want of skill in God's chronology we are prone to think that God forgets us, when indeed we forget ourselves in being so bold to set God a time of our own, and in being angry that he comes not just then to us.-Gurnal.

IN THY GOOD TIME.

IN thy good time, dear Lord, in thy good time,
I shall find rest,

Far from the strife and tumult of the world,
In regions blest.

After the heat and turmoil of the day,
The quiet night,

With fragrant breeze, while silver stars look down
With softened light.

After the heat and burden of life's day,
The quiet grave ;

Rest for the wearied frame and aching head,
Where sweet flowers wave.

After the storm upon the billowy deep,
The gentle calm-

Fierce winds are hushed, and soothing gales steal down
Like healing balm.

After the storms upon life's billows deep
I shall find peace-

That blessed peace, in realms of holy joy,
Where sorrows cease.

In patience, Lord, I wait for thy good time,
When thou wilt come

To take me to thy everlasting rest,

My heavenly home.

"I CANNOT do it, Martha. If I, in my position, should overlook a thing like this, I should be doing a positive wrong to the community. I am sorry for young Falloden; of course I am; and I am still more sorry for his mother and sister: but this is not all that is to be considered."

Ernest Lincoln not only said that he was sorry, but he really had sorrow in his heart, and ho showed it in every

FEBRUARY, 1868.