Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

HARK, HARK, THE LARK
FROM A PAINTING BY W. E. EVANS

# SUNDAY
SUNSHINE.

EDITED BY

CATHARINE SHAW.

AUTHOR OF

"Something for Sunday," "Mother-Meg," "Dickie's Secret," etc.

LONDON

JOHN F. SHAW AND CO.

48, PATERNOSTER ROW

CONTENTS.

A Black Sheep.

A Charge.

A Dark Night.

A Decision.

A Favour.

A Lightened Load.

I.

II.—Changed.

An Uninvited Guest.

At Bethany.

A Telegram.

A Wet Day.

Devotion.

God's Messages—Lettice's Lark.

Gossip.

Grand-dad's Advice.

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

Her Sailor Boy.

Hindered.

Hira's Quest.

I.—A Strange Visit.

II.—Hira's Friend.

III.—A Startling Question.

IV.—A Sad Story.

V.—Alone in the Storm.

VI.—Father and Daughter.

VII.—Sukhiya's Scheme.

VIII.—The Old, Old Story.

IX.—"His Great Love."

X.—Rest.

XI.—"Ask, and It Shall Be Given You."

XII.—"He Careth for You."

XIII.—Hira's Quest Ended.

XIV.—Believing and Confessing.

XV.—Hunger and Thirst.

XVI.—Home at Last.

XVII.—Another Prodigal Son.

XVIII.—The Father's House.

XIX.—Sukhiya's Fall.

XX.—Behári Lál.

XXI.—Brought Home.

XXII.—"She Only Touched The Hem of His Garment."

"If Thou Hadst Known!"

In the Prison.

"I Love Him Still."

Jesus Looked round about upon all Things.

Jim.

Looking for Father's Boat.

Making the Best of a Bad Job.

"Master, Rebuke Thy Disciples."

Memories.

"Me Too."

Nellie's Card.

Nora's Message.

On the Moors.

Our Jack-a-Napes.

I.

II.

III.

Out of the Tombs.

"Peter Followed Afar Off."

Pollie's New Mistress.

Pulling.

"Punchinello."

Royalty and Loyalty.

Scripture Clock.

Smoothed Out.

So Much the More!

Sunday Lessons.

Sunset for Jamie.

The Alms-house Inmates.

The Call of Peter.

The First Day.

The Hill above Nazareth.

The New Governess.

The Ringleaders.

The Stay of the Family.

To-day.

Turned Out.

Twenty Times.

Under the Lych Gate.

"What Doest thou here, Elijah?"

When?

"Will I?"

Illustrations.

A blind beggar.

A "boat from the French shore picked him up."

"'Ain't you sold any more than that?'"

"All day she sat quiet and waited."

"A soft hand rested on his shoulder."

"Beatrice fidgeted her hoop backwards and forwards."

Big Bob and Little Bob were carrying Liz in a net between them.

Bring your work, and sit under the trees.

Dick bringing home the wood.

"Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate."

Elijah in the wilderness.

"Geraldine worked in a corner apart."

"Gladys is the little teacher."

"'Go out and stay by the church gate.'"

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

"He only moved his position nearer to the fire."

Her late Majesty distributing gifts to soldiers' children.

"Hira would steal away to this quiet corner."

His mother clasped him in her arms.

"'I don't believe I shall ever learn it!'"

"I never saw such a sweet baby," said Grannie.

"Ivan drew out his little Bible."

"'I will go with them myself,' said Geraldine."

Jesus and the angry Jews.

Jesus and the blind man.

Jesus and the man possessed with a devil.

Jesus at Bethany.

Jesus at Simon's house.

Jesus entering the Temple.

Jesus going up to Jerusalem.

Jesus viewing Jerusalem.

"Jim drew the child nearer and admired her fish."

Joseph interpreting dreams.

Launching the boat.

"Mary went out into the November mist."

Memories.

Milly getting her ticket.

"Minette took Hans by the hand."

Nellie's card.

"'Now I'll put him on his hat.'"

"'Oh, has it!' asked Tommy, looking up surprised."

Peace I leave with you.

Peter in the court of the palace.

"Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered."

Pulling.

"Rollo stood looking on."

Scripture clock.

"She lay back exhausted."

"She lay in her arms for her 'cuddle.'"

"She's in the passage, kneeling by the window."

"She stooped and tied a ribbon round her dog."

"She tossed the corn to the fowls."

"'Sleep, lambkin, sleep,' she sang softly."

"Taking the lamp she started back to the child."

The alms-house inmates.

The call of Peter.

"'The "Doris" is to proceed to the Cape, Nellie.'"

The fishing-boat.

"The foam broke up white at the water's edge."

The new governess.

Tommy's grandfather.

"Two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate."

"'What "doesn't" he say?' she responded lightly."

"'What do you want?' Sandy growled."

When she got out into the fields better thoughts came.

"'Why, see, child, it's all coming undone!'"

"'Why, you are reading a story book!'"

"'Yes; and it is all my fault,' sobbed the girl."

SUNDAY SUNSHINE

Edited by CATHARINE SHAW

HIRA'S QUEST.

BY LOUISE MARSTON.

## CHAPTER I.—A STRANGE VISIT.

THE sun was just sinking to rest in a mass of soft white clouds which were banked up against a clear blue sky—streaks and waves of crimson mingled with tints of almost indescribable hues showed upon the white background with an intensity of beauty for those who had eyes to see it.

The earthly scene, from which the sun was just hiding itself, was very different to the heavenly; "that" consisted of a few straggling mud houses, which could not be called a village: they were too near to the large Indian city of which they had originally formed a part, but had by some means become separated.

Near by was a muddy pond, which dried up in the dry, hot months, but now afforded a cool, refreshing resting-place to a herd of buffaloes, who wisely showed they knew the best place to be comfortable in. Except for these ungainly animals, which could not be said to add any beauty to the scene, the place looked so silent and deserted that it was difficult to believe it to be inhabited by any human being.

Suddenly the dreary dinginess was brightened by a patch of bright red, which appeared on the roof of one of the desolate-looking mud houses. It moved warily across the flat roof, and then subsided in a corner, where it became a "very" small patch, and kept very still.

A closer inspection would have revealed the fact that this red patch was a sari worn by a little Hindu girl. From between its folds, which were often disturbed by the breeze, could be seen her face, very small and thin, surrounded by black hair, which apparently did not receive much attention. The sad, patient expression of the child's face could not fail to be noticed, and though she sat as if gazing on the glorious sky before her, no sign of pleasure helped to dispel the sadness.

It was not to see the beauties of the sunset that she had crept up to the roof, and sat there so still.

It mattered not to her whether the sun rose or set, except for the heat of its rays, for amidst the brightest glare of a tropical sun she remained in perfect darkness, for Hira was blind.

She had never thought of grieving over this sad fact, but quietly accepted it, as she did everything which came to her. Joy and happiness were words which had no meaning for her, and therefore sorrow and sadness could not be known by contrast—just as, never having seen the light, she could hardly comprehend the dense darkness in which she dwelt.

If she had been asked whether she was happy, she would have been sorely perplexed how to answer, for she knew no more of happiness than she did of the world in which she lived.

If she could have analysed her thoughts and feelings and put them into words, she might have said that what she liked best of all was to climb on to the roof, and sit alone in the dark, and "listen," for though she had no eyes to see, she had ears which no sound escaped.

She loved silence too, and that could seldom be had in the courtyard and verandah below, where children cried, and women talked or quarrelled, and men scolded.

So, as soon as the sun went down, Hira would steal away to this quiet corner, which she knew so well that she never feared as she groped her way to it.

She talked very little, this blind child, but she thought much, though it might be difficult to explain "how," when she had so little to think about.

Her mother was dead, and her father had gone away years ago and never come back; so she lived with her uncle and aunt, who had plenty of children of their own. She never missed the love which she had never known, and it was only when she received an extra hard blow, dealt by some impatient hand, or did not receive enough food to satisfy her hunger, that she would creep away to her corner on the roof, where her tears fell unseen and unknown. Even then she did not know that she was unhappy.

As she sat on that evening with her chin resting on her hands, suddenly she gave a start, for an unusual sound had reached her quick ears.

It was not often she heard anything like this, and a more critical listener than she might have been pleased to hear the clear, full tones of the manly voice which broke the stillness.

Hira was not left to enjoy her delight alone; it suddenly became evident that this was not such a deserted region as it appeared. A small crowd collected round the singer, and several women came on to the roof, that they might hear from there. The words were very simple and oft repeated, and before the hymn was finished, two were clearly imprinted on the blind child's memory, words never to be forgotten, for they were the name of Jesus Christ.

The hymn told how His work was to save souls, and because He had laid down His life that He might be the Saviour, no sinner could ever come to Him and not receive salvation at His hand.

Clear and distinct the words rang out on the still evening air, and were wafted afar on the breeze.

The singer's heart rejoiced, for a stranger in a strange land, as yet separated by an unknown language from those into whose midst he had come to dwell, he had found a means of telling the good news which he had come so far to proclaim.

But he had another message to give before he went on his way, and, not now in tones of persuasive sweetness, but as a command given by one in authority rang out the words, not twice, but again and again, "Prepare to meet thy God."

Then the messenger went on his way, and the astonished listeners never asked him why or whence he came.

For a time, people talked of the mysterious stranger who had come and gone so quickly and sang with such a beautiful voice. Then they forgot.

But there was one who always remembered.

Blind Hira, wrapped in her red sari on the corner of the roof, heard the words of the command, and, perhaps because she could not be so easily distracted by the things of earth, which were hidden from her, they remained written on her memory and heart.

"Prepare to meet thy God." "Prepare to meet thy God."

The words rang on and on, sometimes mixing with the words of the hymn, telling of One of whom she had never heard, and having heard, understood nothing, but yet whose name became so familiar, even Jesus Christ, the sinner's Saviour.

GOD'S MESSAGES—LETTICE'S LARK.

"LETTICE, go out and sit on the form in the shade till I am ready for church," said her mother.

"May I pick some moon-daisies for old Mrs. Robins? She does love them so."

"Very well, but do not make yourself dirty."

So Lettice set forth, and when she had filled her basket, she sat down to rest.

How quiet it all was! How soft the air blew, bringing on it the sound of the distant church bells; while from the field, a lark rose up singing with all its might.

Lettice's eyes followed it far up into the blue sky, and her thoughts went further than her eyes—even into heaven, where angels and the redeemed were praising God.

When she carried the marguerites into the sick chamber of old Mrs. Robins, her face brought a message, though the little girl was quite unconscious of it. As the invalid looked at the flowers that quiet Sunday evening, she said over and over again to herself, "God's little messenger, that's what she was! She looked as if she'd been talking to Him."

AN UNINVITED GUEST.

ONE day when the Lord Jesus was on this earth, He was invited to dinner by a rich man named Simon.

Perhaps this rich man asked the Lord Jesus to dinner because he wished to see Him do some miracle—something wonderful, which no one else could do; or he may have imagined that people would think more of himself if he had Jesus for a guest. At any rate, by what we read afterwards, I am afraid the Pharisee did not invite Jesus because he "loved" Him.

But there was somebody at that feast who did love Jesus, but she was not invited!

In Eastern lands, the houses are not shut up like our houses, but because it is so warm, the dining-rooms are often open to the air on one or two sides.

When a great man makes a feast, people hear of it, and come round the house to look at what is going on.

In the city, there lived a poor sinful and sorrowful woman who had learned to love the Lord Jesus; perhaps she had heard Him say those loving words: "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

When this sorrowful woman heard that Jesus was gone to dinner at the Pharisee's house, she brought a little box made of alabaster, which was filled with some very sweet-smelling ointment, and she made her way into the open dining-hall, and when she saw where the Lord was sitting, on a sort of couch close to the table, she came up and stood behind Him.

And as she stood there and thought of all her sinfulness, and of all His love and compassion, she began to weep, and her tears fell down over His feet as He reclined at the table.

Then she wiped His feet with her hair and anointed them with the sweet ointment.

But the Pharisee who had invited the Lord Jesus looked on with great anger. He thought if Jesus were a great teacher, He would not have allowed a woman from the city to come and wash His feet with her tears.

But Jesus knows all our hearts, and He could see that the poor woman loved Him so much that she would go away and try never to grieve Him any more.

By-and-by, He told Simon to look at this woman, and compare her love with his.

Jesus said words something like this: "Simon, I was tired and dusty when I came in, but you did not give Me water to bathe My feet; but she has washed My feet with her tears; you did not offer Me a kiss, but this woman has not ceased to kiss My 'feet'; you did not anoint My head with oil, but she has even anointed My 'feet' with precious ointment. She has loved Me very much because I have forgiven her very much."

And turning to the woman, Jesus said to her, "Thy sins are forgiven; . . . go in peace."

Oh, the joy of hearing Jesus say those words! And we may have the joy too, if we come to Him with humble, loving heart, and tell Him that we are sorry.

He never turns anyone away who comes to Him; so, dear little children, let us trust His loving heart, and though we know we are very unworthy, do not let us stay away for that, for Jesus longs that we may be forgiven, and so be able to go away "in peace."

JIM.

THE "Sailors' Arms" had held out alluring hands to Jim Adams for many a long day. His was the most familiar figure by its fireside in winter, and in fact, the "Sailors' Arms" saw more of Jim Adams when he was home from sea than the bare, dirty cottage where he lodged.

But one sunny summer afternoon, Jim turned out of the "Sailors' Arms" earlier than his wont.

Somehow he had got thinking of the Lizzie who would have been his wife if she hadn't taken the fever and died. He mightn't have been the Jim Adams he was now if she had lived. Who cared for him? Nobody. Who respected him? Nobody. Who would shed a tear if he never came back from sea? Nobody. They called him a drunken ne'er-do-weel, and they took a drink from him and laughed at him almost openly, and the respectable men and women drew away from him. It was a black picture that Jim drew of himself as he sat on the shingle and looked at the sea.

A sound of voices and laughter came up to him, and he saw Bob Sheppard and his children coming over the sand. Big Bob and little Bob were carrying small Liz in a net between them.

Jim watched them wistfully. He might have had a little laughing daughter like that.

The two bearers deposited the child on the shingle, and Liz, after looking round for something to do, came trotting straight towards Jim.

Jim held his breath. He didn't know what made him think of such a thing, but he decided that if she turned from him, there was no chance of his being different, but if she came past him without fear, he would try to be more like the Jim that the dead Lizzie had known.

Little Liz stooped and picked up a piece of shining seaweed; she came towards Jim and held it out. "That's for you!" she said in her baby voice.

Jim took it. He looked at it, and folded it and put it in his pocket, and the child stood and watched him as he got slowly up and went away.

Big Bob and little Bob were carrying Liz
in a net between them.

Three days later, Jim Adams went to sea again, and Liz's bit of seaweed went in his pocket. For three days he had been perfectly sober, and the "Sailors' Arms" had been feeling empty.

Bob Sheppard sailed with him, and sometimes he would look pitifully at his neighbour's lowering, morose face. But Jim was such a well-known character that Bob never once dreamed of his wanting a helping hand or of the wish to be different.

But wish as Jim would, he had no power to make himself different, and when the ship put in at the seaport near his village home, he went on shore and got drunk. He was sitting on deck next morning feeling more ashamed and sorry than he ever remembered feeling before, and there was a terrible depression at his heart. He could never be different, never be good enough to meet Lizzie. He would not try any more. He even took out the little bit of seaweed that he had thought would be a talisman to help him, and was going to throw it into the sea, when a small voice beside him said,—

"Did you like my bit of seaweed? You never said you did."

Jim started violently. There stood little Liz, hugging a great fish, and behind her was her mother, smiling at her. The two had come over as a great treat to see Bob, and Liz had spied her old friend and sought him out.

Jim felt almost too shy to speak to her, but Mrs. Sheppard was talking quietly to her husband, and Jim drew the child nearer and admired her great fish. The two grew quite friendly, and hope began to creep back to Jim's heart. Suddenly looking up, he found Mrs. Sheppard looking down at him with a kindly expression in her eyes.

"My little Liz has taken quite a fancy to you," she said.

"I wish I was a better man," he said huskily. "I did try, but it don't seem no use."

"The Lord Jesus would help you," she answered softly. "He loves you and died for you."

A light came into Jim's bleared eyes.

"Lizzie used to talk like that," he said, "but it's too late now; I'm too bad."

"It's never too late," cried Mrs. Sheppard warmly. "Don't you remember—

"'The dying thief rejoiced to see
That fountain in his day;
And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away.'"

Bob called her just then, and she and Liz wished him good-bye. But before she parted from Bob, she said hesitatingly, "You know Jim Adams, Bob? Give him a kind word now and then; little Liz has taken such a fancy to him, and he looks lonely."

Bob looked down into little Liz's clear blue eyes thoughtfully. "He wouldn't take a word from me," he said, "but I'll think of it. You know, we think of those at home when we're out on the quiet nights, and I will see," he added fondly.

He watched Jim curiously after that. He wondered what had made Lizzie take to the man. She was a rather shy, particular little lady, and Jim was not prepossessing in appearance.

Bob watched Jim a good deal that voyage.

Jim was usually morose and taciturn; now, silent as ever, he looked different, less unkempt, less unhappy. But Bob did not find a chance of speaking to him; their duties lay apart, and it seemed as if all things combined to separate them.

One night a wild gale sprang up, and the ship, never very seaworthy in Bob's eyes, strained and tossed, and was beaten hither and thither in an alarming manner. Signals were fired, for they were in sight of the French coast, and as the tardy morning dawned, they saw that a small boat was putting out to them.

The storm had subsided and the sea had gone down, but the wild waves had done their work on the old ship and she was sinking fast, and but one boat was coming out in answer to the signals of distress.

Jim Adams stood looking out over the heaving water. He had a lifebelt on. He had just been at the pumps, and he knew the ship was doomed, and he was facing death and eternity. Yes, he could face them calmly now. He took out the bit of seaweed little Liz had given him—his first ray of hope—and he murmured over the verse Liz's mother had repeated. As he said the last line, he lifted his head with a look of triumph in his eyes—

"And there may I, as vile as he,
Wash all my sins away."

He started as he felt someone stand beside him, and Bob Sheppard's voice said, "She's going fast."

Jim nodded. "It's all right for me," he said gruffly. Then he added quickly, "Where's your lifebelt, man? That boat will never reach in time, and you've dear ones waiting at home."

Little Liz's fair face seemed to rise before Bob's eyes, but he knew nothing of the ring of pathos that came into his voice as he answered quietly, "There aren't enough belts to go quite round."

Jim made a quick movement, and Bob cried out earnestly, "No, no! Not your belt, Jim Adams; I'm determined about that."

"So am I," answered Jim; "I'll try for the boat. I've no one to shed a tear if I go down, and you have wife and child. If it should be so, tell little Liz when she's growed up as she pointed the way to God to a poor lost sinner—she and your missis."

He would take no denial, and he had but bound the life-preserver round Bob, when there was a sudden cry from below, "She's going!"

She was, indeed. In the rush of the swirl of water as the ship sank, Bob saw no more of Jim. He was not to wait for the boat after all, and Bob was borne away on the crest of a wave.

A spar touched his hand, and he grasped it. He would fight for the life Jim had tried to give him while his strength held out. An hour later, the boat from the French shore picked him up and bore him to land.

All his mates were saved but one, and the one that was missing was Jim.

It was early morning when the ill-fated boat that carried Jim Adams and Bob Sheppard sank into the seething water. The gale that had lulled somewhat rose again, and a few hours later, a little fishing-smack came in to the hospitable shore where Bob and his companions were recovering from their experiences. And with them, cold and still and altogether peaceful, came all that was left of Jim Adams. The fishermen said they had picked him up just alive, but in spite of all they could do, he had died before they could reach home.

As Bob Sheppard stood looking down on the face of the man who had given his life for him, great tears welled up into his eyes and rolled unheeded down his rough face. What was he that Jim Adams should give his chance of life for him? He remembered his wife's interest in Jim, and Jim's love for little Liz. Jim had given them back their dearest, and had died in the giving.

Bob stooped down and took a piece of seaweed from the hand of the dead man. It was twisted firmly in the fingers, and Bob took it as a little remembrance. It was all that he could take to tell of that morning's work. But he did not know that he was taking the bit of seaweed that Liz had given in the innocence of her childish heart that day when Jim had left the "Sailors' Arms" and gone to think of his lost Lizzie on the beach.

Bob did not guess that the seaweed that he folded in his pocket-book had been the first ray of hope for a new life for Jim. But he determined that the life given back to him that day should be devoted more wholly to following his Saviour.

He saw Jim laid to rest in the little French burying-place, and then he took the first opportunity of going back to his home.

How warm was his welcome!

And as he and his wife gathered round the fire that first evening, with small Bob at his elbow and Liz close clasped in his arms, he told them how Jim had given his life for him.

Ah, Jim! You thought that no tears would be shed for you; you thought no one would care! No one at the "Sailors' Arms" gave you another thought. Other sailors, tied and bound by the curse of drink, occupied the "Sailors' Arms," but you were mourned and spoken of gently in one home, the home where little Liz lived.

As Liz grew up, her mother often told her of Jim Adams, for the child had no knowledge of what her little innocent gift of seaweed had done for Jim, though she could well remember Jim's face and figure. And the story had an effect on all her life, making her kind and thoughtful for the sad and downtrodden, and ever ready to hold out a helping hand, or give a cheering word to those who had few to care for them.

TURNED OUT.

IT could not be true! George looked at his employer blankly; surely he had misunderstood. But once more, the harsh words fell on his ears, and he knew he had heard aright.

"Here are your wages, and I shall not need your services after next week."

George took the pile of silver handed him and walked mechanically out of the office. Some of the men eyed him curiously as he passed, not a few openly jeered, but George walked on, dragging his feet wearily.

At the corner he paused, then turned sharply away from the village towards the desolate bare heaps of refuse which lay around, and walked rapidly on. How could he go home and face his mother with that story, that mother so dependent on him, for whom he had toiled so long?

Making sure no one was within sight, he flung himself on the ground and moaned aloud. Oh, why had they left their little country home and come to this drear spot? It was all dark to him, and there was no one to comfort him then.

At last, he roused himself and turned back towards the village; the sun was setting in a red glow behind the church tower, and the rooks in the vicarage garden were flying homewards. All was at rest and in peace, but he alone. And why was it? What had he done that he should be dismissed? Ah! He knew, but the thought brought him no comfort yet.

"'Saint,'" they had called him, "'coward'" too, because he had refused to join in their gambling and drinks, and had mocked him; ay, and cursed him too for the loving care he gave to his mother.

So he strode through the village angry and sad. Angry, for he thought God had forsaken him, sad because his faith was dim, and he saw not the hand stretched out even then to shield.

He had passed the little gate which led from the vicarage garden, when a cheery voice called to him, and he turned to see the vicar leaning over it. A glance at his face told the vicar he was in trouble, and drawing him inside, he paced silently beside the lad while he told his tale.

He could do little then to comfort, but his sympathy helped George and took the hardness out of his heart and voice.

Then he hastened home and broke the news to his mother, never noticing in his trouble the glad bright light on her face.

When he had finished, she took her son by the arm and led him to the window, where lay a strange, long envelope. George took it, wondering, then read the letter almost with awe.

"Mother!" he said, and clasped her in his arms. "Then God has not forgotten."

The letter was from a strange lawyer, telling them that George's uncle had died in Australia and had left £500 to George's dear mother.

HER SAILOR BOY.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"I'D better go away, mother, and get over it as best I can!"

"Away from 'me,' Benny?"

"I shall be better away. It's no use trying here. I shall meet Mary every day, and I can't stand it."

Then the mother knew that what she had feared had come upon her. She only held his hand and looked into his face.

"There's only one way that I know on, to get broken hearts healed," she said, falteringly; "and that ain't going into foreign parts! There's a Healer as will do better for you nor that!"

The young man would not pull his hand away, for might it not be the last time she might hold it? But a slight movement on his part showed his unwillingness, which she well understood.

"Come back to me when you are tired of it," she said gently and tenderly. "If I'm alive, I shall be here waiting for you; and there's One as is nearer than ever I could be."

Then he packed his bundle; and with sore, wounded heart, and burning anger against the friend who had played him false, he went to sea.

His mother betook herself to her Refuge. She knew it would take time for the wound to heal; she knew that it would be hard for him to meet every day of his life the girl who had wronged him, and she let him go without further persuasion. Did she not know, too, that where she could not help him, God could?

Perhaps Ben had not guessed all it would cost him to leave his seaside cottage, and the fishing smacks, and the fisher folk.

He took train to the nearest seaport, and choosing a vessel that took his fancy, he engaged himself for a long voyage, and was soon off.

Whatever home-sickness he felt, he kept to himself. In the silent, starry nights when he was on watch, there were thoughts that passed through his mind that no one would have guessed in the day while busy life was round him.

Perhaps he thought more of his mother's God than he had ever done before; perhaps he humbled himself to seek comfort from Him who has so lovingly invited the weary and heavy laden to come to Him. But the three years were lengthened to many more. He had not meant to stay longer, but a sailor who was his chum persuaded him to try gold-digging, and somehow—Ben never knew how—he stayed on and on, writing to his mother that he was coming home "soon," but putting off the decision till ten long years had gone by.

At length, a letter reached him in a handwriting he knew long ago.

"I that did you the greatest unkindness years ago, will do you a kindness now," it said. "Your mother has aged a good bit lately. To my thinking, she won't be here so very long."

Then Ben woke up. All at once he realised that years instead of months had gone past. His mother's letters and her assurances of being well and thinking of him always had satisfied him. But now the world had grown dark suddenly, and he rubbed his hands across his eyes, wondering how everything was suddenly changed.

"I meant not to go back till I could take her a fortune," he said to his mate, "but I've mistook mother. She don't want a fortune, she wants to see me agin, and to know somethin' about me; that's better nor any fortune."

When once Ben had made up his mind to do a thing, it did not take long for him to begin it. The next morning saw him on his way home with much such a bundle as he had started with, but with a few nuggets hidden among his clothes. In the quiet nights of the homeward voyage, his real fortune came to him. It came in words which he had learned thirty years ago at his mother's side—"Seek ye the Lord while He may be found, call ye upon Him while He is near."

When his mother clasped him in her arms and looked in his face, she knew that the desire of her heart had been granted.

"The Lord's way is a right way," she said gently. "Welcome home, my boy, welcome home!"

His mother clasped him in her arms.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER II.—HIRA'S FRIEND.

HIRA had a friend, though even that fact she did not attempt to put into words, but merely accepted. She could not remember the time when Sukhiya had not come to her uncle's house to sell butter and milk. She was a kindhearted woman with an empty place in her heart which had been left desolate, as one by one her ten children had pined away and died. That had happened ten years ago now, but she still wept when she spoke of it. It was just after the tenth had gone the way of all the rest that Hira was born, and her mother died.

The heart of the mother with no children went out to the child who had no mother, and whenever she went to the house to sell her milk, she used to ask after the little one, who looked so small and frail that even with the best of care it seemed unlikely that she would ever live to grow up. But in spite of the fact that none cared whether she did or not, as we know, Hira did live, and if her life had brought little happiness to herself, at least it had been a comfort to the childless mother.

It may have been partly owing to the kind woman that her life lasted so long, for many and many a time had a brimming saucer of milk or cream found its way out of Sukhiya's basket and helped to feed the blind child.

Hira had not always been blind, but when she was three years old, like so many other children in India, she had a severe attack of inflamed eyes, and because no one took the trouble to see that they were properly treated, Hira had to pay the penalty and spend her life in the dark.

Before this happened, and as the sad fact began to dawn upon Sukhiya that she would never have other children than the ten who had been born only to die, she sometimes cherished the secret hope that the motherless child might be given to her. But now she had to give up any such ambition, for she knew her husband would never consent to her taking charge of a blind child, from whom they could never expect to gain anything, and who might always be on their hands.

Nevertheless, she did what she could for the child, who often used to follow her from house to house, as she went on her rounds, and sometimes spend many hours in her little hut beside her.

Whenever the child was missing, it was easily guessed where she was, and sooner or later she would be sure to be brought back. Although Hira seldom talked to anyone else, she had always plenty to say to Sukhiya, who never wearied of listening to the child's prattle. All her knowledge of the world in which she lived had come to her from this source; even the red sari, which she wore on the roof that memorable evening, had been a present from this faithful friend.

Now that Hira was growing up, she was not allowed as much liberty as she had had as a very small child, but still she and Sukhiya found plenty of opportunities for meeting.

After the evening of the strange Englishman's visit, the blind child waited anxiously for the coming of her friend, who would be able to explain the wonderful event, and answer the many questions which were puzzling her little brain. Several days passed, and when she did not come, Hira determined to go in search of her. By asking her way, she could easily find the house, as she had often done before; so, when no one was looking, she slipped out of the door and was gone.

Sukhiya was lying on her bed, groaning with fever, but as soon as she heard the blind child's voice asking, "Is there anyone here?" she forgot all her aches and pains and was on her feet in a moment, opening the door for the child, who for her meant all she knew of love and happiness.

A long story had to be told of the illness which had prevented Sukhiya going on her usual rounds, of the pain in her head which kept her from thinking, and the pain in her back which kept her from walking. In time, however, all was explained, and then came Hira's turn, and this is the story which was told:—

"I was sitting on the roof, trying to see some of the things you tell me about so often, and listening to all I could hear, but it was so still, just like it is at night when everybody is asleep. All at once I heard something I have never heard before; how shall I tell you what it was like? It was someone singing, only it didn't make my head ache, or want to shut up my ears, like I do when they grind and sing. This time I wanted my ears to be open quite wide so that I might hear every bit, and when it stopped, I felt so sad, I almost cried."

"But who was it, child? And what did he sing?" asked Sukhiya.

"How can I tell you?" answered the child. "The singer I could not see, and what he sang I could not understand; only two words he sang many, many times, and so they are written on my heart. 'Jesus Christ' was the sound; perhaps they were English words, for I heard it said that he was an English gentleman, but I want to know why he sang so many, many times those words, 'Jesus Christ.' Can you tell me what they mean? Or if not, can you find out?"

"Jesus Christ? Yes, child, those are no new words. I have heard and known them for many years, for that is the name of Him whom the English worship. It must have been an English gentleman who sang that day, but it is strange he should have come into these parts, for I have never seen one here, though I have in other places. It comes to me now the very first time I heard that name. I had gone to a house to sell butter, and while I was sitting there waiting, an English lady came in, for there was a girl in the house she was teaching to read.

"That day she was out, so there was no lesson given, but the lady said, 'I will tell you all a story.'

"So we gathered round, and then she told how one day a blind man was sitting by the roadside begging, and Jesus Christ came along. When the blind man knew who it was, he called after Him, and would not be quiet any way. By-and-by, he came up to where Jesus Christ was standing by, and as soon as He touched his eyes, he could see quite plainly."

"Oh, Sukhiya," cried the child plaintively, "why did you never tell me this before? If Jesus Christ gave new eyes to a blind beggar, I am sure He would to a poor little girl like me. How could you be so unkind as never to tell me? And now perhaps He has gone a long way off."

The woman looked distressed at the child's grief as she answered, "Why, little one, Jesus Christ is not here. How do I know where He is? That is the story the lady told. I expect it is only a story, and perhaps Jesus Christ is only just a name, and not any real person."

But the child was not to be so easily satisfied. "Promise me," she said, "that you will find out where Jesus Christ lives, and then that you will take me to Him. Just think if I had eyes like other people, and didn't have to sit in the dark all day and all night—oh, how glad I would be! Say, quick, that you will find out."

Sukhiya was willing to say anything to pacify the child, and she promised that as soon as she was well, and able to go about again, she would find out all she could.

Then Hira went back to her story, and said, "But I haven't told you all about that gentleman and what he said. When he had finished singing, he called out in a loud voice, so that all could hear, 'Prepare to meet thy God.'

"What did he mean? Is God going to come here, or is He going to send for us to go where He is? And how does He want us to get ready? I have been thinking and thinking ever since, but I don't know any better, so I came to tell you, for you must find out for me.

"When I ask my aunt she says, 'It will be time enough for you to learn about the gods when you are married.'

"But who will marry a blind girl?"

Sukhiya looked puzzled as she said, "Little one, why do you think about such things, such as never come into the thoughts of other children? It is enough for us to think of what we shall eat and wear, and how we are to get enough pice to keep us alive. It is for Brahmins and pundits to think about God: don't trouble your little head any more, and I will buy you a new doll to play with."

"But, I don't want a new doll," cried the child petulantly; "I want to know and understand, and there is nobody to tell me but you."

"And I am only a poor ignorant woman, who understands nothing but how to sell milk and butter, and count up pice. Yes, there is one other thing: I know how to weep, but maybe I have cried away all my tears, for they do not come as they used to. Now, child, my head and back are aching."

And not feeling inclined for any more talk on deep subjects, the woman lay back on the bedstead on which she had been lying when the child came in.

Hira said nothing, but sat on for a while in perfect silence, which was only broken by an occasional groan from the woman as she turned restlessly on her bed.

Presently she stood up, "I am going now," she said, "and remember you have promised to find out about Jesus Christ for me—and oh, do be quick and take me to Him, for I am so tired of groping in the dark."

"Yes, child, I will remember, and as soon as this pain in my head and back gets better, I will find out all I can. Take care how you walk, and don't forget to turn the corner."

The child groped her way out at the door, as the woman muttered to herself, "Poor little one, she is always thinking how she can get out of the dark, but I fear neither Jesus Christ nor anyone else can give her new eyes." Then the blind child was forgotten in the woes of a bad attack of fever.

A WET DAY.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

WHAT a day! The rain kept on steadily pouring down. Mrs. Rolle looked out on the rather dingy street in which she lived, and saw the settled look of the weather, and she sighed. For she knew that people would "do without" to-day.

And then the school children! Instead of their racing to her shop and standing, to peep in at her glass door and perhaps enter and buy, they would hurry by beneath their umbrellas (if they had any); and perhaps they would run home another way and spend their pennies elsewhere!

She descended to her tiny back parlour and her solitary breakfast, and though her bullfinch warbled a sweet song of praise, she failed to notice him, but went on with her gloomy calculations of how near rent day was, and how little she might expect in to meet it.

So she pushed aside her plate and cup, and instead of tidily washing them and putting them away, as she usually did, she went into her shop and sat down to wait for customers.

Again and again she counted her payments, again and again she thought of her bad trade, till her heart quite died within her.

Suddenly she raised her head.

She had forgotten in her pressure of spirit to read her daily portion ere she began her day's work. She put her hand slowly and hesitatingly beneath the counter, and felt on the usual shelf for her Bible. Yes, there it was, and to her surprise open in the darkness.

Now she remembered she had been reading yesterday when a customer came in, and she had popped it beneath in a hurry. Her eyes fell upon the open leaf, and as if the words were written for her and for no one else, she read one startling line—

"My people shall be satisfied with My goodness, saith the Lord."

Her heart leapt up with sudden rejoicing faith. "It is 'His' goodness I am to be satisfied with!" she murmured, while her eyes dimmed with penitent tears. "Why am I wanting earthly things so ardently, and forgetting that what He sees best He will give?"

She pressed her lips to the words, and closed her Bible. Then she sat on, and in humble, gentle whispers she told the Lord all her cares—all about the rent day, all about the slack trade, all about the weary dropping rain.

All day she sat quiet and waited. "My people shall be satisfied with 'My' goodness," she repeated again and again.

Just as she was shutting up the shop for the night, the postman passed across the street. He thrust a dripping letter into her box, and passed on.

The letter was from an old friend, whom she had supposed dead, inclosing a cheque which would keep her far from want for many a long day.

"I 'was' satisfied with His goodness," she said humbly, as she lay down in her bed, "and I said, 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want!' It was just like Him to send me this."

"What Doest thou here, Elijah?"

HERE is a man sitting in a very bare place, where there was no water and no food, and he was all tired out.

Now, God knew all about Elijah: he was God's servant, and loved Him very much, and God was taking care of him all the time.

King Ahab was a very wicked king, and his wife, Jezebel, was more wicked still. She hated Elijah, and made up her mind to kill him, because he had been sent by God to destroy the wicked priests of the idol Baal whom Jezebel worshipped.

So Jezebel sent word to Elijah that she would certainly kill him before to-morrow.

Now, as I said, Elijah was a very good man, and had served God very faithfully, but just now he was tired out.

So when Queen Jezebel sent him that message, Elijah forgot about God taking care of him, and he ran away as fast as he could into the wilderness, and there, when he thought he was far enough off to be safe from Jezebel, he threw himself down on the ground and asked God that he might be allowed to die.

Poor Elijah! So as he sat there in the wilderness, so tired that he wished to die, his eyes closed, and he fell asleep.

As he lay and slept, God sent one of His angels to him, and the angel touched him and told him to get up and eat.

Perhaps Elijah's first thought was that there was nothing to eat there in the wilderness. But when he opened his eyes, to his astonishment he saw by his side a cake of bread and a bottle of water!

So he ate and drank, and laid himself down again to sleep.

By-and-by, the angel came again and touched him, and said to him, "Arise and eat; for the journey is too great for thee."

See how God cares for His children, and how He knows whether things are too hard for us.

So Elijah ate and drank again, and then being wonderfully strengthened and rested, he rose up and went a very long journey till he came to a cave in a mountain-side, where he stopped a little time, still fearing that Jezebel would catch him and kill him.

And then the word of the Lord came to him again, and said to him, "What doest thou here, Elijah?"

Then Elijah told the Lord how he had tried to serve Him, and how Jezebel had killed numbers of the Lord's prophets, and that he feared he was the only one who was left, and that soon she would kill him.

Then the Lord told him to stand outside the cave while He passed by. And there was a great earthquake and storm, and then a very gentle voice, and the Lord asked him again: "What doest thou here, Elijah?"

And when Elijah told the Lord again that he feared Jezebel would kill him, the Lord sent him to give two very important messages for Him, and assured him that He could take care of him, saying He had still seven thousand faithful ones who loved Him, who were being kept as safe as He would keep Elijah.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER III.—A STARTLING QUESTION.

FOR several days, Hira waited, not patiently, but most impatiently, for Sukhiya to come and tell her what she wanted to know.

She would have gone again to seek her, but her last expedition had cost her a good beating, which she did not care to have repeated. Besides, if she was not careful, she would be so watched that she would have no opportunity of going out by herself. So she waited, counting the days, and at last Sukhiya came. It seemed that day as if it would never be settled just how much butter was wanted, and then how much must be paid for it. But at last, Sukhiya stood up ready to put her basket on her head.

Now Hira's time was come; she groped her way to a small passage by the door through which her friend would have to pass, so as to be ready to stop her there, where there would be no one to listen to what was said. As soon as Sukhiya saw the child, she put down her basket on the ground, and sat down beside it, as if quite prepared to stay as long as she was wanted, for time was no matter of great consideration.

"Tell me, Sukhiya," whispered the child eagerly, "Where is Jesus Christ, and how can I find Him? And has He ever made any other blind girl see? Tell me quickly."

"Stay, stay, child! What a hurry you are in! You make my head swim with so many questions, and I still weak from the fever; listen quietly, and you shall hear all. I went to a babu's house yesterday, where I sometimes go to sell, and as they are Christians, I thought they would tell me what you want to know. They laughed when I said that a blind girl I knew wanted to go to Jesus Christ, to ask Him to give her new eyes. I did not see anything to laugh at, but they seemed to think I was not quite in my right senses. And then I got angry, and came away, so that is all I know."

"Oh, how unkind!" cried the child in a tone of bitter disappointment. "How cruel of them to laugh, and how silly of you to be angry and not to ask any more! But I 'will' find out; I will go myself and ask. I wonder they can laugh at a poor blind girl!"

"Very well," said the woman, glad to see a way of escape; "that will be a very good thing. I will take you some day, and you shall find out all you want to know."

"Let us go to-day. Why should we not go now?" cried the child impatiently. "Surely I have waited long enough."

Sukhiya considered a minute, and then, seeing no serious objection, she agreed, and so they started on their way—the woman with a basket on her head, followed by the small figure in a red sari.

It was not far to the Christian babu's house, and as the door was open, Sukhiya walked straight in. The house was not very different to those in the midst of which it stood, but still, there was quite enough to show that it was not inhabited by ordinary Hindus or Mahomedans.

Several tables and chairs, none too clean and in some cases broken, stood here and there, while the walls were decorated with various pictures and prints, in the midst of which was a text surrounded by Christmas cards.

The courtyard and verandah seemed quite empty and deserted, but as Sukhiya called out, "Is there anyone at home?" a woman holding a baby in her arms came out of the inner room. She very well matched her house, being dressed in a style which was partly English and partly Hindustani, not over clean or tidy. She looked weary and listless, as if life had not proved itself very attractive to her, and she had ceased to take much interest in it. She sat down on the first seat she came to, and Sukhiya, putting down her basket before her, sat down beside it, Hira, who was holding on to the end of her chaddar, doing likewise.

Sukhiya, who had little thought of her own business, but was thinking rather of the child beside her, and how to get her satisfied, came at once to the point, and told the object of her visit.

"This is the blind girl I told you of," she said, "who wants to know about Jesus Christ, and whether He can make her see as He has done other people. So, as you are a Christian and know all about these things, will you please tell her? For she won't be satisfied any way till she knows, and I cannot tell her."

Mary Dayál looked up in surprise, and a gleam of interest lighted up her otherwise dull face. She was not accustomed to being asked questions like this, and she hesitated a little before giving an answer. Then she said, "The little girl must be very ignorant not to know that Jesus Christ is not here now. It is hundreds of years ago since He gave sight to the blind."

"Is Jesus Christ dead?" interrupted Hira. "Then why does the English gentleman sing hymns about Him? What use is a dead person?"

"But Jesus Christ is 'not' dead," answered Mary. "He is alive in heaven, but not in this world, and He doesn't make blind people see any more. You had better go to the hospital and have your eyes looked at; something might be done for you there."

The child's eager face clouded over; she had so hoped that she would be able to find Jesus Christ, and that He would just touch her eyes and she would see. Now it was all of no use, for He was dead. How could it be true that He was alive? If He was not anywhere, He must be dead, and this woman was talking nonsense. She drew her red sari further over her face and said nothing more.

And the two women began to talk to each other about such things as milk and butter.

Presently Sukhiya took up her basket, and Hira stood up also, ready to follow her. Suddenly a new thought seemed to strike her, and raising her sightless eyes to Mary's face, she asked earnestly, "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The woman started at this unexpected question, and turning to Sukhiya, asked, "Is this child in her right mind, that she asks such strange questions?"

Quite indignant at such a thing being said of her little favourite, Sukhiya answered quickly, "In her right mind! Of course she is, but while we spend all our time thinking of bread, and money, and such things, she, poor little one, sitting in the dark, thinks of God. It seems as if when the Almighty took away her eyes, He gave her a double share of understanding, for there are few of us as wise as she."

Then turning to the child, "Come, little one," she said, "there is nothing to be learnt here, that is certain." And the two went out.

But Hira, though she had gained nothing herself, left a message behind her. Mary Dayál sat on alone, for the baby had fallen asleep, and in the silence came back again the blind child's question: "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The questioner was only a little heathen girl, who knew nothing about the true God, and the one of whom she had asked was a Christian, who had been baptised and belonged to the Christian Church, and yet the unanswered question had made her feel uneasy, all the more so because it had come so unexpectedly.

If she had heard the words in church, as doubtless she often had done, they would have been soon forgotten, but it was quite different when this strange child, with her patient, eager face, and sightless eyes, stood before her and asked, as if she really wished to know, "Have you got ready to meet God?"

The question brought others. When and where would she have to meet God? What did it mean to be ready? And how could she get ready?

In the depths of her heart, she knew that she had no wish to meet God. She only knew Him from very far-off, and she had no desire to come nearer. She went to church when there was nothing to prevent, but very often there was, and when she was not too busy or too tired, she read a chapter in the Bible; if that would make her ready to meet God, then she was ready. But something seemed to whisper in her heart that God would require more than that. Then the baby woke, and soon the other children came in from school, and there was no more time for thinking.

NORA'S MESSAGE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"NORA, ain't you ready?" asked a querulous voice from the bed.

The child addressed was putting on a pair of heavy boots, while by her side on a box lay a rather tattered hat, and a shawl.

Nora did not answer; she was a good-tempered little girl, and she took things as they came, generally.

"It's hard to lie here and know it will be hours before you bring home a bit of bread or tea," moaned the invalid.

"I'm bein' as quick as I can, mother," said the child, "but these laces is so broken; I was near havin' a new pair yesterday—"

"You sure wasn't going to spend a penny when a bit of string would do?" sharply suggested the invalid.

Nora laughed a little. "Well, no, I didn't think of spendin' a penny, no more ner you would, mother!" she answered. "Not on that, leastways."

How often she had stood by the boys with trays of buns, and felt as if she would give her whole basket of flowers 'almost' for one of those warm, spongy, sugary, shiny dainties!

"Then how?" asked her mother, raising herself on her elbow.

"I was crossin' over a wide place, one of them old fellers with laces was crossin' too, and one of 'em fell off the wire in the mud—"

"And you didn't?" inquired her mother.

"I could easy ha' had it—nothin' easier," pursued the child, with a nod, "but—"

"But what?" asked the invalid, laying herself wearily back on her pillow.

"But I thought of what teacher telled us—and I couldn't! So I picked it up and give it to him."

"What did she tell you?" asked the invalid a little curiously.

"She telled us that 'Jesus' noticed what we was doin', and I couldn't after that!"

She took up her basket and ran out, and the mother lay in her weariness and faintness, and pondered.

"Jesus notices what we're doing," she repeated again and again. "Then if He notices, He knows all about us!" she thought. "He sees my pain, and how hungry and miserable I am. I wonder if He cares?"

There was a little rap at the door. "May I come in?" said a gentle, bright voice. "I thought you would like to see a friend this morning; and I've brought you a piece of toast we had on the table and a cup of hot tea in a bottle. Feel how warm it is wrapped in my cloak! I brought it because Jesus loves you! Is not that a nice comforting thought?"

Peace I leave with you,
My peace I give unto you.

So Much the More!

SEE how loving Jesus looks! He never turned anyone away who wanted Him.

When people are tired, we sometimes hear them say, "Don't come and ask me; I'm too tired." But Jesus never did like that; He always was ready to help and bless.

Perhaps you little children say in your hearts, "Yes, but then that was so long ago, and Jesus is not on earth now. I wish He were, and that I were there in the Holy Land, and could tell Him just what troubles me."

And so you turn away with a sigh, and wish Jesus were here now.

But though you cannot see the Lord Jesus, He "is" near you all the time. It is true that He left this earth and went back to heaven. But because He is God, He is here, close to us all the time, and is ready to help you the moment you speak to Him in your heart.

You see this picture? You would like to hear about it, I know, because the Lord Jesus looks so kind, and the poor man seems so anxious to get to Him.

Jesus was close to the city of Jericho, and as He passed along, a number of people were with Him who had seen the wonderful things He did.

Just outside the city, a blind man sat near the road, begging of those who passed by. His ears were very quick, and he soon heard the trampling of feet and guessed something unusual was going on.

He eagerly asked what it meant, and when they told him that Jesus of Nazareth passeth by, he called out aloud, "Jesus, Thou son of David, have mercy on me!"

The people who went before did not like the interruption, and told him to be quiet. But the blind man had heard of Jesus and knew He could make him well, so he cried out louder than ever.

The dear Lord never refuses a cry of distress: He stood still, and commanded the blind man to be brought to Him.

So the people ran to the blind man and said to him, "Be of good cheer, rise; He calleth thee."

So the blind man was led to Jesus, and Jesus inquired what he wanted. And the blind man asked Him to do the most difficult thing in the world, next to raising the dead; he asked that his blind eyes might be made to see.

But nothing is difficult to the Lord Jesus. In a moment, Jesus had given him what he asked, and told him that his faith had saved him.

And then the blind man did what all of us should do who have been to Jesus and received a blessing or an answer to our prayers from Him—we should "follow Him in the way, glorifying God."

We should try to please Jesus in all our daily work and play. When we think how He has heard our prayer, or comforted us, or made us pleasant when we felt cross, or helped us to forgive somebody who had been unkind to us—then we should say in our hearts,—

"Dear Lord Jesus, thank You."

And so we should find our faces grow brighter and our lives happier, and we should be following Him in the way.

SMOOTHED OUT.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"WHERE is Margaret?" asked cook crossly.

"She's in the passage, kneeling by the window," said the housemaid.

"'What?'" asked the cook emphatically.

"Writing letters!" said Jenny.

The cook marched to the door with quick step, and stood looking at Margaret with wrath in her eyes.

"How often have I told you that I will not have you writing letters before your work is done!" she exclaimed.

Margaret turned round, and her face grew scarlet as she rose from her knees.

"No wonder you are ashamed!" exclaimed cook. "What with Jenny always wanting to go out, and you always wanting to be writing letters, and Martha neglecting her work like she does, I have enough of it. I shall tell mistress that I can't make anything of you, and that she had better get another girl!"

With which words, she went into the kitchen and slammed the door.

Margaret stood dumbfounded; then she looked down at her letter, and then angrily she crumpled the freshly written pages together, and stuffing them into her little blotter, she hurried back to the scullery, where a whole heap of washing-up awaited her.

Boiling with anger, she plunged the plates into the tub, and dashed away at her work in a desperate fashion. All the time, she was conscious of that crumpled letter in her blotting-case. And that, worst of all, it was mail day, and there would be no time to write another.

Burning tears scalded her cheeks and dropped into the tub, till she was forced to get out her handkerchief and wipe them away. Then she dashed on again, the thought of having lost the mail making her half beside herself.

Just at that moment, there came a sudden check; a cover of one of the best vegetable dishes flew into two pieces in her cloth.

Here was a disaster! Margaret hid her face in her hands.

Cook had almost given her her dismissal; she had broken one of the best dishes, and she had spoilt the letter which was to have gone to her soldier brother by that afternoon's post! She put down the pieces of the cover without any noise now. She wrung out her dish-cloth and emptied away the water, and then slowly and sorrowfully she took her blotter and went upstairs to her room.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?" she sobbed, as she threw herself on her knees by her bed.

Oh that her own mother were alive, or that she could lay her head on her faithful brother's shoulder and tell him all her grief!

And if she did, what would he say? The thought quieted her. She ceased to cry so hopelessly, and her head sank on her arms.

"He would tell me to look to Jesus," she whispered to herself, "and he would say that He can straighten out the worst of life's tangles. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! But how can I ask Him after my passion? And then there's the mail—and cook—and the vegetable dish."

It did seem too many tangles to get straightened out. And yet—

Her head bowed lower and lower, and her heart went out to that loving Saviour who is near us when we call upon Him in truth.

After a minute or two she rose, and the first thing she saw was cook, standing in front of her with the broken dish in her hand and tears in her eyes.

"Oh, cook!" sobbed Margaret, "I was coming to tell you—"

"And I was coming to tell you," said cook gently, "that I'm sorry I spoke quite so sharp to you. I know you try to be a good girl, but I was vexed about the letter. We must make time in future for you not to be so drove over it. Cheer up, and I'll make it right with mistress about the dish!"

She stooped and gave Margaret a kiss—the first kiss she had ever given in that house.

"Where's your letter?" she asked kindly.

Margaret hesitated; then, still blinded by her tears, she drew it out of her case.

"I can't send it," she whispered; "I'm ashamed to let him see it—and I've never missed before!"

Cook sat down and took the case on her knee. She smoothed the crumpled edges and pressed the letter out with her fingers, and then she exclaimed—

"There's an iron hot on the stove; run down and iron it. There's just time!"

So Margaret flew down, and cook followed slowly.

"May I add just a line?" she asked humbly.

"All right!" said cook, who was bending over the fire.

And Margaret added—

"Oh, Jack, I've been so cross, and things did seem so hard, but Jesus has helped me, and I'm going to trust Him, as you wanted me to."

Who can tell what joy that sentence gave to the young soldier fighting at the front?

After that day, things grew better for Margaret. It was surprising how different cook was, and how many little pleasures she seemed able to put in the busy kitchenmaid's life.

And Margaret on her part was different too. At first, she shyly tried to be ready to do willingly what was required of her. And by-and-by, a mutual understanding of love sprang up between her and the lonely cook.

Sometimes in the quiet night, cook would say to herself, "Margaret has no mother, and I have no child; I'll be a mother to her."

Margaret did not guess that for many a long day. But she often wondered, and thanked God in her heart many times a day, that in giving her His heavenly love, He had sent her cook's earthly love as well.

"WILL I?"

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

THE letter had come that morning, and Mary had glanced at it as she sat at breakfast among her brothers and sisters, and had then stuffed it in her pocket, reserving it for the first quiet moment she could get.

"What does he say?" asked her favourite brother, looking up quizzically in her face.

"What 'doesn't' he say?" she responded lightly.

The fact was her eyes had caught a sentence which changed the whole course of her life. Instead of the long engagement which she had thought inevitable, here was her Jack proposing to be married within three months.

"You must think it well over," he said, in almost his first sentence, "and weigh all the things there are against it, as well as for it."

How good Jack was, she thought, and then she stuffed the letter in her pocket and tried to give her mind to helping the bacon and cutting the bread.

It seemed as if everybody wanted everything that morning. But at last, she found herself with her duties done, able to shut her door and sit down to think it well over, as Jack said.

But Mary did not sit there a moment. With the quiet came a habit, a holy habit, of using her solitude in talking to her Lord Jesus. She sank on her knees by her bed and whispered that she was ignorant what to do, uncertain what would be best, and asking Him to take "the government upon His shoulder," to be her Counsellor.

Then softly she arose and went back to her seat at the window and read Jack's letter over carefully.

"He wants it," she said thoughtfully, "but he would not press me to do it without well considering it. He has had a new place in the country offered him—a better position—and he says that it will be very lonely for him, and he asks me if I will be content to begin in a very small way. (Of course I will!) And he says that we cannot have the comforts and luxuries we may have had in our fathers' homes, but we can have happiness and each other, even if we do have to work a little harder."

She looked down at her pretty hands, in which she confessed to take some pride. "But that is nonsense," she thought quickly; "he says we shall have the upper half of a house, or perhaps a little one all to ourselves; and he promises to help me as much as he can, and not to shirk the hard things (dear Jack!) and he thinks there is every prospect in this new opening of improvement year by year."

"I know what I should like, if mother and father think it prudent," she said, "and they will help me to decide rightly."

So there was a long consultation that evening in the library, and Mary learned afresh what the tenderness of the parents' love is. Perhaps it helped her to understand a little more of the love and care of the great Heavenly Father.

The letter to Jack went off before post time and it was entirely to his satisfaction.

"I am not above work, you know, Jack," she said, "and I will make your money go as far as ever I can. We will go without what we cannot afford; and mother thinks we shall do very well, and be very happy; so there!"

Bring your work, and sit under the trees.

A CHARGE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

WHAT a long time it seemed! What a long fortnight to take care of all those children, with responsibility from morning to night!

Lettice waved the last good-bye to her brother and his wife, as they drove away from the door, and then turned round to survey the scene.

Roland and Ralph, her twin nephews, stood looking at her earnestly. Little Ivy nestled up against her with tears in her eyes, and Marjory—ah! That was the difficulty—what would her headstrong niece Marjory say and do?

"Come into the garden, auntie," called Ralph; "Roland and I are going to catch butterflies, and we want you to sit on the form and watch us."

"Yes, and I am going to pick flowers for you," said Ivy, winking away her tears, as she tried not to think of her parents gone away for all that time.

"Very well," said Lettice, "but what is Marjory going to do?"

"'I' don't need looking after, thank you," said Marjory disdainfully. "I have plenty to do, and can take care of myself. Father said I could—"

Aunt Lettice raised her eyes inquiringly. There was a gentle look in them in which the firmness was almost hidden.

"At least—" said Marjory, hesitating a little.

"At least?" echoed Aunt Lettice. Then she paused for an instant, while her heart sent up a swift prayer.

"Marjory," she said, "I want you to be my great help—will you?"

Marjory was silent. She stooped and tied a ribbon round her dog. She had meant to declare war to the knife with her auntie—but—

"Come along," said Lettice brightly, "we will try to have a very happy time. What a lovely day! Bring your work, and come and sit under those shady trees. We can watch the twins from there; and see, Ivy is already picking flowers. The fortnight will soon pass away."

When Lettice went to bed that night, as she passed Marjory's door a voice called to her—

"Good-night, auntie!"

Then, as she bent over Marjory's bed, she heard her whisper, "Thank you for being so patient; I 'will' try to help you!"

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER IV.—A SAD STORY.

MARY DAYÁL had had a sad, weary life, not marked by any special joys, but clouded by many sorrows. The daughter of Christian parents, she had taken it for granted that she was a Christian also, and never thought of being anything else. She had been sent to school as soon as she was old enough, and had there learnt English, and many other things, which had been soon forgotten. When she was seventeen, her parents had arranged for her marriage.

Her married life had not been a very happy one. Her husband had a knack of getting out of work, and they were never sure of any certain income. Sometimes he earned good wages, and they lived in comfort, but those days did not last long.

Very soon, through no fault of his, so he said, he was sent away; then there was nothing to live on, so what could they do but go into debt? And so they did.

They had had eight children, but out of those, only four were living: Reuben, the eldest, a boy of ten; Julius, seven years old; Maggie, six; and baby Rose.

The three eldest went to school, which was a great comfort to their mother. At the time of Hira's visit, the father of the family had some employment, though, as he considered, far beneath a man of his capabilities; so these were not some of the darkest days.

Still, they were quite dark enough, for there was a heavy debt on which they had to pay so much interest that they had little left to pay their daily expenses. And as Mary sat nursing her baby in the empty, quiet house, she used to think and wonder what could be done to bring in more money and ease her of this heavy load which weighed so upon her. Indeed, the one thought which filled her mind and absorbed all her attention was this: How can I provide food and clothes for my family? No wonder that she looked dull and listless, that she was cross and impatient with her children, and anything but an attractive, affectionate wife to her husband.

Mark Dayál was one who might have been a different man under different circumstances. From his earliest days, he had been allowed to do just as he liked. When he was ten years old, his father died, which made matters still worse, for it was he who ruled his mother, and not his mother who ruled him. Some kind friends paid for his education, and finding that he was a clever, bright boy, quite expected to see the reward of their kindness in his becoming a good, useful man. But they were sorely disappointed; the boy began to think himself far more clever than he really was, and thought everything was so easy that he need not take pains about anything, and so he became careless and lazy.

When he was twenty years old, though he had little or nothing to support a wife (that was a "small" matter), he married; the result has already been told. Now he was a hard, disappointed man, blaming everybody else for his want of success in life, but never thinking of blaming himself.

Such was the household to which blind Hira came to ask how she could find new eyes, that she might see, and what the command meant, "Prepare to meet thy God." Mary did not know it at the time, but the visit of the blind child was the beginning of what will never end. The question asked had made her "think," and thinking, when it is about what is good, will surely bring good results, as it did in this case.

For the first time in her life, the thought of coming into contact with God had claimed her attention, and though it was not a thought which brought her any pleasure, she could not get rid of it.

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## CHAPTER V.—ALONE IN THE STORM.

THE days of which we write were hard times for all, except those who lived in plenty, and of such there were few.

In many parts of India, famine was raging, and even where it was not actually present, it had its effect, and prices were so high that those to whom the question of rupees, annas, and pice was always a serious problem, were now sorely perplexed as to how to provide the necessities of life. Amongst those were Mary Dayál's family, as well as that in which Hira found a home. For the latter especially, life was anything but smooth, and many and bitter were the complaints of those who had to work, and of those who had to eat. The one who suffered most was Mira, and again was she reminded that it was her father's place to provide for her, but where that father was, no one knew.

Hira was a good deal to blame for what she had to suffer, and it was hardly to be wondered at that nobody cared to deny themselves for the sake of a child, who did so little to make herself loved. Except Sukhiya, whose mother's heart was touched by the child's sad, forlorn condition, no one had a good word for Hira. Though generally very silent, when once started, she could pour out torrents of abuse, without any regard as to who was the victim. There was not much she "could" do, and even that little she refused, or did very grudgingly.

Poor little Hira was like a plant grown in utterly uncongenial soil; there was more "good" in her than in anyone else in the house, but her circumstances only served to develop the bad and extinguish the good. Suddenly there came a great change in her life, and this was how it happened.

One day everything had gone wrong. Money was scarce, and therefore food also, and each one blamed somebody else. Hira was told that there was no food for her, and if she wanted any, she had better go out and beg for it. The child said little, but in her heart, she made up her mind she would go and seek her living elsewhere. Why should she stay in this house to be starved and abused, when Sukhiya loved her and would feed her on milk and ghi? So to Sukhiya she determined to go.

It did not seem a very difficult matter, as she had often been there before, and found her way quite easily. She waited till evening, for though the light and darkness made no difference to her, she would be less likely to be seen by others.

She could not see, poor child, and so she did not know that heavy black clouds had gathered round, and a great storm was pending.

Just after she had started, a terrific clap of thunder made her start, for Hira, so susceptible to sound, had a natural terror of thunder. Soon heavy rain began to fall, and in two or three minutes, the red sari was soaked through. In her fear and confusion, the blind child missed turning the corner which would have led her to Sukhiya's house, and then she was hopelessly lost.

It would not have been a serious matter at any ordinary time, for she could easily have asked her way, and would have been soon guided safely home, but at this hour and in the midst of the storm which was raging, there was no one to see the small red figure, from whom the water was now pouring, nor to hear the piteous words:

"Is there anyone about? Is there anyone near?"

Indeed, none could have heard if they had been there, for the torrents of rain and roaring thunder drowned every other sound.

For some time the child pressed on, driven by terror, and feeling that anything must be better than the place where she now was. At last, she could go no further; not only was the rain streaming down upon her, but a torrent of water was rushing down the narrow lane through which she was trying to force her way, and threatening to carry her off her feet. Groping her way by the walls of the houses, she came to some steps, and climbing up these, she was at any rate safe from the rushing water below. She sat down and tried to think, but this was no easy matter in the noise and confusion round her.

Then she began to do what she always did when she was troubled and distressed, the only thing she could do—she began to cry, a piteous wailing cry. It was hopeless to think that anyone would hear it, but at any rate it was better than doing nothing. Gradually the storm, having spent itself, began to subside, and still Hira went on wailing and weeping.

Suddenly the door behind her was opened, and a voice asked into the darkness, "Is there anyone there?"

Hira only wailed the louder. Then a hand was stretched out and the speaker was able to gain some idea as to who it was who was in such distress. She recrossed the large courtyard, and entering the house, went into a room where a man was sitting reading.

"Father," she said, "it is a child crying; it seems to be a little girl, and she is soaked through with the rain. I have come to fetch a light, and then I will bring her in, and we will try and find out who she is, and why she is crying alone in the dark."

The man looked up from his book with a face full of interest, and rising from his seat, said, "Yes, child, and I will come with you and carry the light."

"Oh, no, father! Indeed you must not. See how the water has collected in the courtyard, and only yesterday you had high fever. I will be back directly."

And, taking the lamp in her hand, the daughter started back to the child before her father had time to speak again.

Hira's cries were now pitched in a lower key, but as the noise of the storm still continued, it was difficult for the speaker to make her voice heard.

"Poor little girl," she said as clearly as she could, "why are you sitting here alone in the rain? Come inside, and I will give you a dry sari, and you shall tell me why you are crying."

Still Hira said nothing, but cried the louder. Her new friend was sorely puzzled; it was still raining heavily, and she herself would soon be as wet as the child, and yet she could not go back and leave her there.

Again she tried. "Don't be afraid of me, little one," she said kindly. "I only want to take you in out of the dark and rain, and you shall go away as soon as you want to."

Then Hira's cries ceased, and the plaintive answer came: "I am blind, and I have lost my way, and I don't know where I am nor who you are."

If anything more had been needed to touch the heart of Hira's would-be helper, surely this was enough, and without saying anything more, she set down the lamp, and taking the dripping child in her arms, lifted her through the door.

She could scarcely attempt to carry her across the flooded courtyard, but having brought her so far, with loving words of encouragement, the child became willing to be led into the dry, comfortable dwelling.

They were met on the verandah by the master of the house and an old servant, who had no eyes for the strange child, but was full of concern for her young mistress, whom she pressed to come inside at once and change her wet clothes.

"She is blind, father," whispered the daughter, "and has lost her way; no wonder she cried so piteously."

Then tender hands quickly changed the wet red sari for a dry white one, and Hira was transformed. Then came the question: What was to be done next? Gladly would the father and daughter have fed and sheltered the desolate child, who had been found weeping at their door, but until they knew from whence, and why she had come, and what her future would be, they shrank from doing anything which would cut her off from those to whom she belonged. Being Christians, how could they feed a child who was a Hindu?

The great difficulty was that the little girl could not be persuaded to give any account of herself. After having told that she was blind and lost, she would say nothing more; only in reply to the question, "Had she a father and mother?" she shook her head. As to the whereabouts of her home, she would tell nothing.

One thing soon became quite certain—she must stay where she was for the night.

The old servant Anandi wished to take charge of her, but Shushila having found her, claimed the right to keep her, and took her to sleep in her room. Rest did not come to either very quickly; evidently the blind child had received a great shock, and seemed nervous and restless.

"I wonder if she would like to be sung to?" thought Shushila.

And without saying anything, she began to sing what came first to her mind, the very same hymn which Hira had listened to on the roof.

She was little prepared for the look of joyful surprise which suddenly lighted up the blind girl's face.

She listened quietly till the hymn was finished, and then asked with almost breathless eagerness, "Tell me, do you know Him, the Jesus Christ you have been singing about?"

"Yes, little one," was the answer, "I do know Jesus Christ. He is my best and dearest Friend."

"Then you know where He lives, and you will take me to Him and ask Him to give me new eyes? That cruel woman said that He was dead, but I didn't believe He was. Say, will you take me to-morrow?"

Shushila did not speak at once; she was thinking how she could make this child, who knew so little, understand that He, whom she wished to seek, was even then close beside her, ready to give her, if not new eyes, what was of infinitely greater value.

At last she spoke. "No, little one, Jesus Christ is not dead, and He will never, never die, and I need not take you to Him, because He is here already, nearer to you than I am."

"Then ask Him to give me new eyes. I was so frightened all alone in the dark, and the rain and thunder made such a noise, but if Jesus Christ makes me see like other people, I shall never be frightened again."

Shushila drew the trembling child closer to her, as she said, "Dear little one, only be patient, and I will tell you about Jesus Christ, and how much He loves you, and how He will give you what is even better than eyes."

"But," interrupted the child, "if Jesus Christ is here, why does He not give me new eyes now? He did not tell that other man that he must wait, or that He would give him something else instead. You have told me a lie, and Jesus Christ is not really here; perhaps that other woman told me truly and He is really dead."

Then Shushila knelt down by the bed on which the child had thrown herself in her grief and disappointment, and prayed softly,—

"Lord Jesus, we know that Thou art here, and that Thou seest us though we cannot see Thee. We thank Thee that Thou didst take care of this poor little one in the storm, and didst bring her safely here. She is very tired and weary. Wilt Thou give her rest? Amen."

Hira said no more. And as Shushila knelt on beside her, softly singing, she gradually lay still, and the watcher knew that for the present she was at rest.

DEVOTION.

"YOU 'darling!'" exclaimed the young mother rapturously.

"You 'darling!'" echoed grandmother in the same tone.

While the father, just passing the window and seeing his sweet little daughter held up to be admired, stopped and admired her too.

"Does she not look rosy from her sleep?" said Anora. "Why, she has been asleep this two hours."

"I've been sitting here a great deal too long," said grannie, with a start. "What will grandfather say? He'll tell me I'm a bit silly over that baby, and so I am!" She gave a pleasant little laugh as she rose and gathered her basket handles together preparatory to setting forth.

"Well, father's as bad himself," smiled Anora, nodding and chirping to the baby, while smile after smile broke over the little one's face in response.

"I never saw such a sweet baby!" said grannie emphatically. "But I must go to see after grandfather's dinner. He'll be short of something nice, unless I mind."

She had a good kiss of her grandchild, and then, poking her vegetables further into her basket, she hurried off to her cottage.

That evening, when the baby was asleep, and Jacques was sitting by the fire resting after his day's work, Anora put her hand into his and looked into his face thoughtfully.

"Well, dear?" he said kindly.

"I'm so afraid we are getting to love her too well—"

There was no need to ask whom she meant, and to Jacques' surprise, there was a sound of tears in her usually cheerful voice.

He looked up quickly. "I never thought of that," he said at length.

"No more did I. But when mother went out this afternoon, somehow it came over me—What would life be without baby? And then—"

Jacques shook his head and they both looked towards the cradle.

"We do want to love God best of all, don't we?" she murmured.

"But He has sent us our child."

"I tell you what!" said Anora, suddenly brightening up. "I've thought of something! If we thank God for her every time we think how sweet and dear she is, I do believe that will save us from making an idol of her. I'll run in and tell grannie. I know she'll do it!"

Out of the Tombs.

ONE day the Lord Jesus was sailing over the lake of Galilee, and a great storm of wind came down between the mountains, and made the waves beat into the ship so that it nearly sank.

The Lord was tired with all His loving work among the people, and He fell asleep in the hinder part of the ship.

When the storm came on, the disciples woke Him up in a great hurry, asking Him if He did not care that they were in danger.

Now, Jesus always cares. Perhaps He was asleep during that storm that they might learn to trust Him more.

So at their despairing cry, He arose and told the wind and the waves to be still. And immediately there was a great calm.

So Jesus said to them, "How is it that you have so little faith?"

And the disciples felt a great surprise and awe come over them, because the Master whom they loved could have power over even the wind and the waves.

But Jesus wanted to show them that there are other things over which He has power besides the storm and the tempest.

So when they came out of the ship, as they were passing through the rocky country by the sea, a very strange and unhappy man met them.

The disciples were very frightened, for they knew that this poor man lived in the tombs and was possessed with a devil, so that no man could live with him, or do anything to make him happy. He had often been put in a safe place by his friends, but he was so strong that he had burst open the door and broken the chains that bound him, and day and night he was crying and cutting himself with stones.

But Jesus has power even over a man such as that.

When he who was possessed with the devil saw the Lord coming up from the lake, he ran to meet Him and bowed himself to the ground and worshipped Him, crying with a loud voice, "What have I to do with Thee, Jesus, Thou Son of the most high God?"

For Jesus had said to the devil that possessed him, "Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit."

So the devils were obliged to come out of the poor man, and by-and-by, when the people of that country came to see what had been done to him, they found him sitting with clothes on, and in his right mind, close to Jesus, and happy in His presence and His love.

Now, what do we learn, little children, from these two stories of the great power of the Lord Jesus?

Is it not that there is "nothing" too hard for Him to do?

That if there is a great storm in our lives, if things seem too hard for us to manage, Jesus is ready, and at our first call, He will arise and rebuke the storm, and smooth the difficulty, and bring us straight to land.

And if our sins and Satan's power, and our tempers and our temptations, seem to make us dwell in the tombs (as it were), if Jesus comes near, we may be delivered. And we can be found sitting near Him listening to His voice, and delivered for ever from Satan our great enemy.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER VI.—FATHER AND DAUGHTER.

IT was no ordinary home to which Hira's feet had been guided when she was lost in the storm. Rámpál Singh, the master of the house, was one who, brought up and educated as a Hindu, had been led to seek for One worthy of his heart's homage and obedience, and finding Christ to be that One, had left all to follow Him.

Never for one moment had he regretted that decision, but as in every new circumstance and time of need he proved his chosen Master to be all-sufficient, he longed more and more that others might share in the blessing which he had gained, and rejoice in the same great salvation.

For some years, he had spent his life going about from village to village teaching and preaching, but about a year ago, a severe attack of fever had made it necessary for him to lead a less wearing kind of life. So having taken this house, he sought to shed a light in the darkness surrounding him. His only daughter, Shushila, whose greatest joy and delight was to be with her father and share his work, was his faithful attendant and companion. Surely it could have been none other than the Good Shepherd Himself who had guided the steps of the lost child to those who were so well fitted to teach her what she so longed to know and understand!

The next morning, Hira was burning and tossing with fever, which was not to be wondered at, after the exposure and shock of the night before. The father and daughter took counsel together, and sought for that wisdom which is promised to those who lack, that they might know what was the right thing to do in this difficult case.

"Oh, father, I would just love to keep her always and teach her about the Lord Jesus!" said Shushila, whose whole heart went out towards the helpless child who had been thrown so unexpectedly on her hands.

"And so you shall," answered her father, "if she really has been sent to us, as it seems likely, and there is no one who has the right to take her from us. But it may be that even now others are anxiously looking for her, and it seems only right that we should seek to let them know that she is safe."

Then Anandi, who had been standing near, proposed that she should go out and make inquiries as to whether a blind child was missing from any house. This was thought to be an excellent plan, as if the child belonged to the neighbourhood, and any consternation was felt at her disappearance, the news would certainly spread. So Anandi set forth on her errand, doing her day's shopping at the same time.

Wherever she went, she asked the same question, "Do you know of any blind child living in these parts?"—Always receiving the same answer. No one knew of any such child.

The old woman had the wisdom to add, "If you should hear of any child having been lost, you can just tell them to come and inquire of us."

She returned home having learnt nothing, but those who had sent her felt more contented having done what they could.

Later in the day, Shushila remembered that she had promised to send some broth to a child who was ill, and Anandi went to take it. It was Mary Dayál's child, and through her illness, Shushila had found an entrance into this house, and appeared as an angel of mercy to the heavily laden mother who dragged out her weary existence there.

Anandi had given the broth, inquired after the sick child, and was just going out at the door, when she turned back and said, "Have you ever heard of a blind child living in these parts, a little girl who wears a red sari?"

Mary looked up with some interest. There flashed before her sight the vision of the small, red figure, the earnest face with its sightless eyes, and once more, the oft-remembered words sounded afresh in her ears, "Have you got ready to meet God?"

In a moment it came and went, and without any pause she answered, "Yes, a blind girl in a red sari came here one day. She came with a woman who comes to sell butter, and asked me such strange questions for a child, that I thought she was not quite right in her head. Why do you ask? What do you want to know about her?"

Then Anandi told the story of the voice crying at the door, and how her young mistress had brought in the lost child and put her to sleep in her own bed, and would gladly keep her altogether, if she could be quite sure that no one else wanted her.

When she had told all, Mary Dayál remarked, "There is one person who could tell you all about her, and that is the woman who comes to sell butter. She has no children of her own—they have all died, poor thing—and she seems to love this blind child as if she belonged to her. Hira, I remember she called her."

Here at last was some light, though to know who could tell was of little use unless she could be found, and that was no easy matter, for all that Mary knew was that she lived some little distance off.

Having received the promise that if she came there to sell milk, she should be at once sent on, Anandi went home to give time information she had gained. Mary Dayál went back to her sick child, and as she sat and watched beside her, she thought again of the blind girl. She felt glad to think that she was with one who was so well able to tell her what she wanted to know. She had often thought with shame of how this child had come to ask her about Him of whom she ought to have been so glad to speak, and had learnt nothing. Now as she heard of her being sheltered by Shushila's loving care, she thought to herself,—

"Perhaps God sent her to me first, and because I could not, or would not, help her, He led her Himself to one who can."

Then the burden which had pressed so heavily on her heart pressed so sorely that she buried her face in her hands and murmured,—

"O God, make me ready to meet Thee; for I am surely no better than that little heathen blind girl."

If only she had understood, how she would have rejoiced to know that, first by the message sent through the lips of Him, and then by this hunger in her heart, her heavenly Father was drawing His child home to Himself. One day she would hear the words, "I have loved thee with an everlasting love, therefore with loving-kindness have I drawn thee," and know them to be true.

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## CHAPTER VII.—SUKHIYA'S SCHEME.

THERE was not much rest for Sukhiya during the night of the storm; even after the worst violence had spent itself, the rain continued to stream through the roof. And when a dry place had been found for the butter and milk still left for sale, and another sheltered spot for her husband, who being an old man must be kept as dry as possible, there was none left for the mistress of the house, who had to be contented to do the best she could, and hope to be dry again some time.

Towards morning, the rain ceased and Sukhiya was roused early out of a deep sleep by someone knocking at the door.

No answer came to her inquiry, "Who is there?"

So she got up off the wet bedstead on which she had been lying, and went to the door.

"Is Hira here?" asked a voice, which she quickly recognised as that of one of the blind girl's cousins.

In a moment, Sukhiya was thoroughly awake, and the door quickly opened.

"What do you ask, Is Hira here?" she said, in a voice of some concern. "How could that be? Does she ever pass the night here? Whenever she comes, I always bring her back, and nowadays she seldom comes."

"Then how can we tell where she is?" remarked the boy in a voice which sounded as if he at any rate did not much care. "She is not in our house, and if she is not here, where can she be?"

A great dread seized the heart of Sukhiya; she knew that her little favourite had been becoming more and more unhappy in her uncle's house, and not long ago had said in a determined voice, "Some time I will run away."

Maybe this was what she had done. But where could she have gone, if she had not come to her, and where could she have been during the storm?

The ghi-seller was a shrewd woman, and as she stood at the door in the early morning, facing the boy who had come to tell her that the blind child was lost, she at once made up her mind on one point—if Hira had run away from her uncle's house, she should never go back there again, if she could help it. So she answered in a tone of indifference, "Tell your father that I have not seen the child for several days, for she has quite given up ever coming to my house." Then she asked, "Since when has she been missing?"

The boy answered, "She hasn't eaten anything since the morning, and no one has seen anything of her since just before the storm."

"Well, what can I do?" said Sukhiya again. "Those to whom she belongs are the right ones to look for her if she is lost, and they will know best why the child has run away."

Then the boy, finding no more to be gained, went back to give the answer to the question he had been sent to ask.

Although Sukhiya had appeared to be so indifferent, she was far from feeling so. And in spite of having implied that it was not her business to look for the lost child, she at once began to think how she could best do it.

She would have liked to have set off at once, but the cow must be milked, and as she did not wish Hira's uncle to know that she was making any efforts to find the child, she could not do better than make her inquiries as she went on her rounds.

So from house to house went Sukhiya with her basket on her head and a heavy burden on her heart, which grew heavier and heavier as the day wore on, and still there was no trace of the lost child. She longed to go to the uncle's house and ask whether she had returned, but then that might spoil her little scheme.

Little rest was found that night either. And the next morning, the poor woman began her day's work with a heavy heart, for with Hira, she seemed to have lost all her interest in life.

The first day she had kept to her own neighbourhood, not thinking it likely that the blind child could have strayed far away. The next day she went a greater distance, and so came at length to Mary Dayál's house.

The woman's sad, hopeless face reminded Mary at once of Anandi and the blind child, and she asked, "Do you know anything of the blind child you brought here one day? Is she safe and well?"

The simple question was too much for the sore heart of the anxious woman, and, bursting into tears, she answered, "She is lost, the poor helpless little one; there was no one to love and care for her, though I would have done it if I could. But she is gone, and how will I ever see her again?"

"I think I can tell you where she is," said Mary, glad to be able to comfort the sorrowful woman.

As Sukhiya listened to what Anandi had said, she felt certain it must be Hira who had been found on the doorstep. Was not the red sari she wore the very one she had given to her?

The children had gone to school, and Mary could not leave her home to show the way, but there was little fear that Sukhiya would not find the house which contained her lost treasure. So having received full directions, she set off to seek it.

Hira was still burning with fever, which had risen so high that she took little notice of anything or anyone near her, only sometimes muttering such words as "I don't know where I am; I must be lost. If Jesus Christ would come and give me eyes, but He won't. He must be dead."

Shushila, who dearly loved to tend anyone who was ill, sat by her side, putting wet cloths on her head, and speaking now and then in a soft, gentle voice, which seemed to soothe the restless child.

Sukhiya found the door open and walked in. Besides what she had heard from Mary Dayál of Shushila's goodness, her own eyes told her that however Hira had found her way to this spot, she had certainly found refuge in a peaceful, happy home, and if she could only stay there always, it would be well for her. So she quickly made up her mind to try and bring this about.

"Do you want any butter or milk to-day?" she asked, setting down her basket.

Anandi soon appeared to answer the call. And seeing the woman, asked at once, "Have you come about the blind child?"

"What blind child?" was the answer in a most indifferent tone.

Then Anandi told what she knew, and Sukhiya listened, but said nothing till the story was finished.

"There is a blind child I have seen about sometimes; if I were to see her, I should know whether it is the same."

So Sukhiya was taken to where Hira lay, just at that time in a heavy sleep. Shushila was sitting near, and as soon as the woman caught sight of her sweet, gentle face, she still more fully made up her mind that, even though these people were Christians, Hira could find no better home.

She tried to conceal her anxiety at the child's illness, and when Shushila called her out of the room and asked what she knew of the child and her relatives, she answered, "What can I tell more than that she has neither father nor mother, nor anyone else to care for her? For many a day she has been half starved, and now it has come to this."

"Then you think," said Shushila, "that I may keep her and that no one will want to take her away from me?"

"Who is there to take her away? Have not I said that she has neither father nor mother, nor anyone who cares whether she is alive or dead? Great will be your reward if you take this helpless little one and feed and clothe her."

Shushila was much relieved by the woman's words, but she thought it right to say, "If you should hear of anyone inquiring for her, you will tell them where she is, and that she is being well cared for."

"Who is there to ask?" was the reply. "Certainly I will tell if I should meet any such person. But surely you are needing some butter or milk, and you will find none better than mine."

Anandi was called to make a small purchase, and Sukhiya determined that it should not be the last, for how else would she be able to see the child in whose interests she had been working?

Although the woman felt glad for the child's sake, she felt sad for her own. What more would Hira care for her, poor ignorant creature, now she had a friend with a beautiful face and soft, sweet voice, to care for her? It was true that the blind eyes could see neither the beauty of the one nor the lack of it in herself, but something would surely tell her the difference. Anyway, she would be no longer needed, and Sukhiya felt as if she had lost yet another child.

However, there was still one more thing to be done before her work for Hira was complete. A few days later, she arrived at the blind child's old home, and having put down her basket on the ground began to cry and wail piteously.

The whole household gathered around and begged to know what was the matter.

It was a long time before Sukhiya's distress would allow her to speak, and then she sobbed out, "Alas! Alas! All my children have died, and now this helpless little one I loved as my own is gone too; it matters nothing to you, but my heart is made desolate."

"What do you mean?" was the general exclamation. "Have you heard any news of Hira? What has happened to her?"

Sukhiya shed a few more tears, and then, with a quivering voice, explained, "She got lost that night you turned her out in that heavy rain, and only a thin, worn sari to cover her. Was it any wonder that she should get fever and die?" And again the woman's cries and lamentations broke forth.

Then an angry voice asked, "Who says we turned her out? She went away herself; and it is you who are to blame that she was lost in the rain, for it was you who taught her to go wandering from house to house, which was most improper for a girl of her age. Now you can go and never come here again accusing innocent people of what you are to blame for yourself."

Sukhiya was only too thankful to find that she was not to be cross-examined on the story which she had made up. And taking up her basket quickly, departed. And for many days nothing was seen of the ghi-seller in Hira's old home.

A BLACK SHEEP.

BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

ARTHUR NEAL was the black sheep of the school. The biggest among the little boys, there was no sort of possible mischief in which he did not entangle himself, no sort of naughtiness or laziness or don't-carishness in which he was not foremost. They had scolded him, kept him in, deprived him of extra pleasures, caned him; but nothing seemed to affect him. He had once overheard the head master call him incorrigible and a black sheep; he rather gloried in it, and his mother and father in India grieved over the bad accounts of their boy, and wrote lectures and good advice and pleadings, and Arthur only laughed. India was a long way off, and nobody loved him and he loved nobody.

But the term was over and holidays had come, and Arthur was to go to Scotland to his cousins' home, for the head master had positively refused to keep him for the holidays. Arthur was well pleased. Here was a new field for his mischievous energies! Wouldn't he lead Ivan and Archie a life? Wouldn't he teach them a thing or two?

He was very quiet that first day in Glasgow; he was taking in his surroundings. His aunt thought he had been belied; it had cost her much to invite this little ne'er-do-well to meet her boys, and yet she prayed that this uncared-for little soul might find a blessing. Was he to go on to rack and ruin for want of a helping hand?

Ivan and Archie watched him curiously, too, the first day. They were in a difficulty. In the summer, both of them had given themselves to Christ to be His soldiers and servants, and since then, they had read together a chapter from their little Bibles directly after tea. What should they do now? Should they put it off and read separately at another time, or should they read aloud as usual, and let their new cousin laugh if he liked? It was a hard struggle, this first taking up the reproach of their Master, but the two boys conquered. When the tea was cleared, they sat down in the glowing firelight, and Ivan drew out his little Bible.

"We always read together," he said a little brusquely, for it was a very big effort to him.

Arthur said nothing. He was too surprised, too flabbergasted, to make any resistance. Had he had a minute to think, he would have retired with a sneer. But already Ivan had begun, and he sat still.

It began with the story of the lost sheep, and the shepherd seeking over the mountains until he found it. It rushed into Arthur's mind that he was called a black sheep, and it seemed as if the story was all written for him.

He did not hear the other stories in the chapter; he was too intent on this one. He hardly noticed when his cousins rose and left him. He only moved his position nearer to the fire, and sat staring into it. He knew enough of Bible teaching to know the meaning of the shepherd. He had heard often enough of the love of Jesus, but he had never thought of Jesus loving "him," wanting to find "him," the black sheep of the school.

But still, if Jesus wanted to find him, how was it all done? How could he know he was found, he was such a naughty boy? How could he become a white sheep safe in the fold? He puzzled and puzzled over it for three days. And then, when he lay in his little bed on the third night, his auntie came to him and solved his problem for him.

She sat down beside him and laid her soft hand on his. And then in the dim light, she saw his eyes were full of tears.

"What is it, dear?" she said gently.

"I didn't know you loved me," Arthur answered.

"Didn't you, poor lonely boy?" she answered. "I love you and Jesus loves you."

Arthur sighed deeply. "I'm such a naughty boy, a black sheep," he said; "but the boys were reading about the shepherd looking for the sheep. Would He look for me?"

"'The Son of God, who loved me, and gave Himself for me,'" said auntie softly. "He loved you so that He gave His own life to find you."

"How shall I be found?" asked Arthur.

"If you were a little lost sheep lying on the dark mountain, and you heard the shepherd calling you, what would you do?"

"I would call to him, 'Here I am.'"

Auntie knelt down by the little bed, and, still holding Arthur's hand, she spoke to the Good Shepherd.

"Dear Lord Jesus," she said, "Arthur has heard you calling, and he says he is here. Take him and make him Thy lamb, and wash his sins in Thy precious blood."

"And thank you for loving me, auntie!"

NELLIE'S CARD.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"SIT down, just a little while, Sister!" coaxed Nellie. "You haven't sat down all the afternoon, for I've been watching you!"

Sister Ruth smiled.

"Well! Just a little while, Nellie," she said sitting down beside her. "Why did you want me to, particularly?"

"'Cause you look tired; and besides, I wanted you to talk to me."

"What a lot of Christmas cards!" said the nurse, glancing at the little table on which Nellie had arranged all her treasures in front of her.

"Yes," she said softly, "everybody, almost, that loves me has sent me one!"

"What a rich little girl!"

She smiled a happy little smile; and then as the nurse laid her hand gently on hers, she looked up with an earnest glance.

"I know you're sorry for me," she said. "I feel it every time you come near."

"Indeed I am."

"Do you know, when I first came here, Sister, I was not—I didn't feel as I do now."

"You were so very ill," asked Sister Ruth, "and in such pain?"

"No-o," said Nellie reflectively, "it wasn't only that."

"Well?" asked Sister Ruth. A weary craving in her own heart made her long, somehow, to know what made Nellie's face so peaceful.

"At first I couldn't 'bear' it," said the child slowly, "and then all seemed dark and miserable."

"Poor little Nellie!"

"Then, on Christmas Eve, somebody sent me this."

She put her little hand out towards a card which rested in the very centre of all the rest. "That changed everything."

The nurse bent forward where she pointed, and read—"'Come unto Me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"

Sister Ruth was startled; startled at the child's look of heavenly peace, as she went on—

"I thought at first, when my foot had to be taken off, that all the joy had gone out of my life; as if nothing was any good any more. I thought how it would be when I got home, to be limping about on crutches; how it would feel to be unlike everybody else for always!"

"And how could that card make any difference?" asked Sister Ruth incredulously, and the longing in her eyes grew greater.

This child had lost all that made life dear to her—deep down in her heart she knew that she too had done the same.

"It did!" said the child with a flash of light in her eyes. "The words were so plain, and I was so sad! When I thought of my foot, I knew how heavy laden I was—and so—"

"And so?" asked Sister Ruth.

"I just told Jesus I was glad to come if He'd have me! And after that, the black darkness rolled away, and I've felt quite different."

The nurse bent and kissed the little hand that lay near her, almost reverently, while she turned away to hide her tears.

"Does He cure all sorrows, do you think, Nellie?" she asked softly.

"I expect He does; if the people are heavy laden, and come. I'm sure He does—oh, yes, dear Sister! I know He does!"

When she got out into the fields
better thoughts came.

A DECISION.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"WAIT for me at the stile, Mary: I'll be sure to come!" Charlie had said.

"How early you are going, Mary!" called her father a little complainingly after breakfast the next morning.

"Not earlier than usual, father."

"It don't take you an hour to get to town. What makes you start so soon?"

"I like going along by the hedges and picking the wild flowers," said Mary, while the slightest tinge of pink reddened her cheeks to a deeper shade.

"Oh, well!" said her father crossly. "I don't see the sense of it. You're always picking flowers, or sauntering along, or something—"

"Oh, I don't saunter," said Mary reproachfully. "I never saunter—" She took up her basket of eggs and went out abruptly, calling Fox sharply, settling her sun-bonnet on her head with a determined little shake that spoke volumes.

But when she got out into the quiet fields, better thoughts came, and all the irritation passed from her step. If father was unreasonable, she herself had not been blameless.

"Look here, Charlie," she said, directly he came up, "this mustn't go on any more. If I don't take care, I shall get to be an untruthful girl! Here, for the sake of meeting you, I've been and told father that I like to pick wild flowers, and that I started early for that! So I do, but—"

Charlie stood silent, and Fox, who had listened eagerly to the conversation, hung his tail.

"If we speak, he'll put an end to it," said Charlie slowly.

"Yes—at least, I think so—and yet, Charlie—"

The young fellow came closer to the stile, and he looked in her face. "I wouldn't be the one to ask you to do wrong," he said very gravely. "I've not been easy myself over it. Suppose we go back at once—"

"Now?" said Mary. She remembered her haughty departure and her father's black looks, and her heart almost failed her.

"If it's 'right,'" he said tenderly. It was that tenderness of Charlie's that had won her.

"I'll do it," she said, "and we shall be 'helped,' Charlie!"

And so they were.

Mary ran into the cottage and put her arms round her father's neck: "Oh, I'm so sorry I said that about the flowers!" she said, hiding her face. "Father, it was partly to meet Charlie. And Charlie has come back to ask you if we may."

A FAVOUR.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"KOTCHED!" exclaimed Roland, with a chuckle, stopping at the kitchen door.

"What?" asked Kathleen, looking up. "'Kotched' over what?"

"Why, you are reading a story book, while you are pretending to cook my dinner! I've kotched you!"

"Have you, indeed?" said his sister, springing up and chasing him. "I've a good mind to threaten that you shan't have a bit of my golden pudding!"

"Your 'what?'" asked Roland.

"Golden pudding. Look here, Rol, I want you to do me a favour—"

"I'm not workin'" said Roland, backing.

"Oh, yes, you are! No one can work like you when you've a mind."

"But you see I haven't a mind—"

He had reached the front door and managed to escape, and Kathleen slowly turned back to the kitchen with a more sober face.

Roland went down the road whistling, and somehow his whistling fell into a tune like this—

"I believe that girl's been at it pretty nearly all day! I wonder what she wanted of me? How pretty she looked in that apron, and what a nuisance it must be to have to see to things in the house when you want to be out and about! I wonder if Kathleen does ever want to be out and about? I declare I'll take her to the football match on Saturday; I never thought of that. I wonder what she did want of me? Not that I care! I can't be called upon to do odds and ends for her all the time. By-the-by, I wish I'd asked her to see to those buttons for me—what a nuisance I forgot! I wonder what she did want me to do? Nothing of importance, I dare say."

So Roland called in to see a friend, and forgot all about Kathleen and her wants.

Kathleen seemed to have forgotten all about them too, he thought, when he came in again. She was sitting very quietly at the table, and everything was prepared with the utmost nicety.

Roland did not feel easy; he still wondered what the favour had been that Kathleen had asked. Some "girls' tripe," he thought.

If he could have seen a letter in the pillar-box opposite, he would perhaps have ceased to wonder.

"Darling Nettie,—I have never missed sending you a present for your birthday before, but I simply could not get out to-day—nor yesterday—nor the day before. You know we are single-handed just now, and mother is upstairs ill, and I have to keep everything going. You will not think I have forgotten you? I meant to send you a bottle of scent; perhaps I shall be able next week."

That little note had not been written without tears of disappointment. And the only thing that made Kathleen able to meet Roland with a bright face was a line she read on her wall as she closed her letter—

"'My times are in 'Thy' hand!'"

And she went on bravely.

"If Thou Hadst Known!"

PERHAPS you ask, dear children, "Who is that standing there looking so sorrowful? And what is He doing?"

Well, I will tell you.

I have heard that as travellers approach the city of Jerusalem, it is hidden from them by the hills which surround it. But at one point, when you least expect it, the view of the city bursts upon you, and you see all at once that which you have been travelling many weary miles to catch a sight of.

Perhaps that is how heaven will seem to us when we die. We may be travellers towards it, and our feet may be tired with the rough way, and all at once, we shall open our eyes and find that the toilsome journey is over, and we are there!

Be that as it may, this picture shows us the Lord Jesus when the view of Jerusalem burst upon His view.

He had been travelling many long miles to reach it, and He well knew that there He was going to offer up His precious life as a ransom for all.

But to Jesus that view of the city was not all joy. St. Luke tells us that when He beheld the city, He wept over it.

Why did He weep? Ah, that is the question. Why did the Son of God, having been doing works of love and pity for three years, and now going up to Jerusalem to obtain eternal salvation for us, why should He weep?

Little children, Jesus cried because He knew that very few in that beautiful city would come to Him to be saved.

He cried because the people there would not believe in Him, or accept Him as their Saviour.

So when He wept, He said, "If thou hadst known, even thou . . . in this thy day, the things which belong to thy peace! but now they are hid from thine eyes."

I think that this story of the Lord Jesus weeping over Jerusalem should make our hearts very soft and tender.

We should think to ourselves, "Jesus is very sorry when we do not love Him, and come to Him to be saved from our sins. I would not like to make Jesus sorry, who suffered so much for me; so I will just tell Him that I love Him, and that will make Him glad."

And so it will, children. And the very thought of doing a little thing to make the Lord Jesus glad will make us happy too, and we shall be more cheerful over our lessons, and more bright in our play, than we should have been otherwise.

Jesus said to Peter, "Lovest thou Me?" Shall we not answer gladly, "Thou knowest all things; Thou 'knowest' that I love Thee"?

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER VIII.—THE OLD, OLD STORY.

AFTER several days' fight with fever, Hira began to recover.

Though she could see nothing of her surroundings, she knew quite well that she was in a different world to that in which her life had been passed hitherto.

She heard no harsh, scolding voices, no complaining and quarrelling about money, but she seemed to be in an abode of peace and love; even Sukhiya's house, her old refuge, was nothing compared to this.

If she had learnt of heaven, she would certainly have thought she was there, and that Shushila, with her sweet voice and gentle touch, was one of the angels who ministered to her. But what did she know of heaven?

As she grew better, she began to wonder what could happen next. Would her uncle come and fetch her away, or would she stay always in this lovely, peaceful spot, where everyone was kind and good to her?

It all seemed like a dream: the terrible storm with the thunder, which had struck such terror to her heart, the noise and confusion, in the midst of which, she had felt so utterly helpless to think of anything. Then loving hands had lifted her out of the storm and noise into peace and quiet, and there she was still; but what would happen next?

She did not care to see her uncle and aunt again, but if only Sukhiya would come and speak to her, and tell her where she was! She had a kind of vague feeling that during the dream from which she was awakening, Sukhiya really had come, but perhaps it was only part of the dream.

Presently she grew tired of thinking and trying to understand, so she put out her hand, and asked, "Is anyone there?"

Immediately, the voice she had learnt to know and love answered, "Yes, little one, I am here; is there anything you want?"

"I want to know where I am and where I am going to?" said the child feebly.

Then Shushila answered, "You were lost in the storm, Hira, and God, who takes care of little girls, brought you here, and if you like to be with me and my father, we will keep you always, so that you will never be lost again. Will you be my little sister, and stay with me?"

Hira did not speak at once. Then she said, "Tell me about God, for I don't know anything, and there was no one who could tell me. Did you see Him when He brought me here?"

It was Shushila's turn to pause now. Where should she begin to tell this child, who knew nothing, but was so eager to learn, of the glorious truths which were so precious to her? While she was thinking what she should say, the blind child spoke again.

"But tell me first, who is Jesus Christ? And if He is alive and here, why does He not give me eyes? I thought it was a dream, but now I remember that you told me that He was here."

Then Shushila answered, "Hira, I will tell you all about Jesus Christ, but it is a long story, and I am afraid so much talking will make your head ache. Will you not wait a few days till you are quite well?"

The blind child laughed, as if the very thought amused her, as she said, "How can it make my head ache to hear you talk? When I had fever in my uncle's house, there was noise and talking all the time, and no one thought they must be quiet."

So Shushila said no more, but began to tell her story.

"Long, long ago Jesus Christ lived in heaven with God. We cannot tell what heaven is like, because we have never seen it, but we know that there is no sorrow nor crying there, nor pain nor sickness of any kind. No one ever dies, and, what is best of all, there is no sin there. That could not be, because heaven is God's house, and sin cannot be where God is.

"But the Lord did not stay in heaven. He knew that in this world in which we live there is sin, and sorrow, and crying; and so, when God said He would send Him down from heaven to come here, Jesus Christ was very, very glad to come.

"He might have come as a very rich man, or as a great king, but He chose instead to be quite poor, and live amongst poor people."

"Was He as poor as my uncle?" interrupted Hira.

"Yes, I expect He was poorer, because He had no house at all," said Shushila; "but though He had no money to give away, He helped everybody who came to Him, and He could help as no one else could, because He could do what no one else could. They all came to Him—the blind and lame, lepers, and sick people—and whatever was the matter with them, He healed them all, and even when they were dead, made them live again. But it was not to heal the sick, not even to make the dead alive, that Jesus Christ left His beautiful home in heaven and came into our world. He came to do something very much greater than that."

"But what could be more than making blind people see, and dead people alive?" asked Hira eagerly. "Tell me, for I cannot understand."

Then Shushila answered, "There is something, Hira, even worse than being blind, or lame, or ill, or even than being dead. The worst thing of all is to be sinful. Sin is the very worst of all diseases, worse even than leprosy. It is sin which makes all the sorrow and sadness that there is in the world. Some day I will show you that it is sin which has made you so unhappy, and not being blind. Jesus Christ came into the world not to keep us from being blind, and lame, and ill, because that does not matter so very much, but He came to keep us from sin, to make us holy like He Himself is holy, and like God is holy."

"But I would like best of all to be able to see," interrupted the listener, "and if Jesus Christ can give me eyes, why 'doesn't' He?"

"Listen, child, and I will tell you more, and by-and-by, you will understand," said Shushila, and then she continued, "God wants us to know Him and be like Him, and then He will be able to have us in His house to dwell with Him; but sin is like a black curtain which comes between us and God, and hides Him from us, and it makes us so unclean that we cannot possibly go to live with God unless we get rid of it."

"Then is that what the gentleman meant when he told us to get ready to meet God?" asked Hira.

"Yes," said Shushila, "that is just it."

"But what has that to do with making people see, and walk? And what have we to do to get ready?" questioned the child eagerly.

Again the speaker paused, there was so much to tell and the listener knew so little.

Then she continued, "Hira, that is why the Lord Jesus came down from heaven, that He might make us fit to meet God. We cannot make ourselves clean and holy, and there is no one in all the world who can do it for us, because all are alike, and there is not anyone who is not sinful; but Jesus Christ is holy, just as God is holy, and so He can make us holy too.

"Jesus Christ became a man like us that He might make us like God; He came down 'from' heaven that He might lift us up 'to' heaven.

"Now, little one, you are tired, and I must not talk to you any more. Every day I will tell you something more about the dear Lord Jesus, and all that He has done for us, and it will make you so happy to think that He loves you and cares for you, though you are only a little blind girl."

Hira's answer was to cling close to her friend as she bent over her and whisper, "Perhaps if I had not been blind, you would not have brought me into your house and taken care of me, so I think I am glad that I am blind, and I don't mind a bit being in the dark if you are with me."

Just then Shushila was called away, and she went with a light heart, rejoicing to think how the child to whom she was ministering would one day learn to know One who could bring light into the very darkest spot, and whose companionship can make the hardest lot shine with glory.

WHEN?

BY MABEL MACKINTOSH.

"YOU always want to talk about those sort of things, mother," said Jim Harris, hitching his shoulder away from the hand that lay on it. "You'd take all the heart out of a fellow if you could, talking of dying and another world, and such-like. I'm young and I ain't a-going to die yet. When I see death coming, I'll prepare, maybe."

He had shaken off her hand, but he glanced into the face that still bent over him, and his heart softened. It was his last night at home. To-morrow he would be on the wide sea. The wind was howling round the house, and the waves broke heavily and monotonously on the beach. "I don't want to be rough with you, mother," he said, pulling her down for a kiss; "you shouldn't vex me the last night, but you knows I loves you, if I am a bit hasty."

He rose up and went out into the night. There was a moon between the scudding clouds, and the foam broke up white at the water's edge. He looked at it all and at the few boats lying at anchor, or on the shore.

"To-morrow I shall be out there," he thought. "I'll go back to mother; it's her last night of me."

The next day he had gone.

It was not an eventful voyage. Day succeeded day, and his conversation with his mother was forgotten till one evening when he and his favourite mate, Ben Davis, turned in.

"Jim," said Ben, "I don't believe as I shall last long."

"What!" said Jim, aghast and staring. "You're playing, Ben."

"No," said Ben slowly, "I ain't; I've not been well all the voyage, and captain, he's tried all he knows; he thinks I'm better, but he's mistook. My father, he went just like me."

Jim sat down and looked blankly at him.

All suddenly, his own words came back to him. "I'm young; when I see death coming, I'll prepare."

Death was coming, not to him, but to Ben!

"Ben," he said hoarsely, "are you ready?"

There was a long, long pause, and then Ben answered.

"No, lad," he said.

There was no sleep for Jim that night. He might have seen death coming for him, and yet it was Ben who was to die. Jim lay and tossed and turned. All his mother's words came back to him that night. He had never sought Christ's salvation for himself, and yet he was torn with anxiety that Ben should be saved!

Early next morning, he turned over his few possessions and found his long-forgotten Bible. Ben was leaning dejectedly over the ship's side, and he went to him and slipped the Bible into his hand. Ben glanced at it, and then his eyes sought Jim's.

"Jim," he said, "I'm no reader; tell me the way."

It was a strange scene—the man who was to die listening to the old, old story told by the lips of one who hitherto had had no care for it. Jim's mother's teaching was bearing fruit; her boy knew the way of salvation well enough.

"Jim," said Ben slowly, "do you believe all that?"

Jim's face was hidden. "My mother does," he said huskily.

Ben opened the little Bible. "Can't you show me one place where it puts it plain?"

Jim took it and turned over the pages, and his eyes fell on an underlined text. He remembered his mother marking it the day she gave the book to him.

"'God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.'"

"That's good," said Ben, with a long breath.

Three days later, when the evening sun was lighting up the sea with a crimson glow, Ben died. His last look was for Jim, his last word was, "I'm ready, lad."

And as Jim knelt beside him, looking down at the peaceful dead face, his heart went out in one great cry to Ben's Saviour,—

"God be merciful to me a sinner!"

A great peace filled his heart, and it seemed to him that he could almost follow Ben up the sunset path into that holy, happy land where he had gone to be with Christ.

That very night, he sat down and wrote to his mother, telling her how her words and her teaching had been the means used for Ben's salvation, and that when he came home again, she might talk about heaven and dying as much as she liked.

PULLING.

"I NEVER do what I don't want to!" exclaimed Poll. "I just 'don't.'"

"Oh! Well," said Ellen, "that's not my motto, is it, grandma?"

Grandma smiled. "I've seen a deal of life," she said thoughtfully, "and I could just tell you what I've found."

Ellen sat down by her affectionately, and leant her arm on her knee.

"The people that have the strongest wills 'do' the most!" said grandma.

"I told you so!" exclaimed Poll. "That's what I always say."

"But they have the most trouble with themselves, and with other people too," said grandma.

"How?" asked Poll.

"They're for ever knocking themselves against the fence," said grandmas, smiling.

"The fence!"

"Yes, and oh! What a job it is to get 'em to come into the shed!"

"The shed!" again echoed Poll.

"The shed where their food is! In my young days," said grandma, "I had an invalid father, and he was that gentle and patient. One day he said to me after I had had a self-willed fit, 'Mary, will you go out and get the calf in?'

"'Why, father,' I said, 'you know what a plague she is! She'll keep me ages pulling and pulling, and she'll knock against the fence, and she'll bang into the posts of the shed, and I shall be as hot and as uncomfortable as possible. I wish you'd send Bill out to get the calf in.'

"And so father smiled a bit, and he said, 'If you don't take care, Mary, you'll be as bad as the calf that doesn't know no better! Break your self-will now, my dear, and you'll be a happier girl ever after.'

"Well, I went out and got the calf in, but all the time, she was pulling this way and that way, for all that her nice food was waiting in the shed for her.

"I assure you, my dears, I did not forget his object lesson. And the more I saw of life, the more I saw that the self-willed people need a deal of discipline before they come out into tractable obedient folks."

Poll stood listening thoughtfully. There was "plenty of stuff in her," people were always saying, and she felt rather proud of it. But what if she should let that "plenty of stuff" cover over every other good quality?

She looked at the sweet patient face of her grandmother.

"And 'you' were like that calf," she said at last, incredulously.

"Exactly, my dear!" said grandma.

"And how did you get into—what you are now, grandma?" asked Poll, a little wistfully.

"By being watchful, and asking God to make me what would please Him."

Poll did not say anything, but as she went about her business, her proud heart humbled itself to say,—

"Teach me to do Thy will!"

And by-and-by, it came to be much easier than she had thought it ever could be.

MEMORIES.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"NOW, Milly! If you'll get through the work quickly, you and I will have a treat."

"Oh, what?" exclaimed Milly, looking up from her sweeping.

"Not but what there's heaps to do," added her elder sister cheerily; "but you and I can well do it, if we take one thing at a time. You shall have the dinner things to wash, and the hearth to clean, and the kitchen to sweep, and I will go up stairs and clean the bedrooms; we must have it all bright against mother comes back, mustn't we?"

"Oh, yes," assented Milly. It was so pleasant working under May's cheery direction. She felt as if she could do wonders.

May gathered the pail and broom and floor-cloth which she required for her share of the work, and disappeared through the little red door that led upstairs.

Then Milly looked round. Which should she do first? She was now sweeping up the kitchen, but May had spoken of that as the last thing. After an instant's thought, she decided that she had better finish what she was about, and then go to the dinner things. What a lot there were: should she ever get done, and what was the treat if she did?

She could hear May's spirited scrubbing overhead, and this nerved her to work away bravely. When at length, after an hour, her sister came down, a tidy smiling little girl stood by the clean hearth, and all was done.

"Why, you've scrubbed the table!" said May approvingly. "Now for the treat!"

She undid a long-shaped parcel and drew forth a large book. "This was one of father's greatest treasures," she said; "it is a book in which he used to draw all the things that happened. Father could draw beautifully, you know."

She sat down on a settee, and Milly edged up close to her, and laid her head on her sister's shoulder.

"That is a picture of the first house father and mother lived in, and I remember father telling us how he made a little trapdoor in the ceiling of the kitchen so that he could talk to mother if she was upstairs putting the baby to bed."

"Oh!" said Milly. "How funny! Did any one ever fall through?"

"No; it was made like a box upstairs, and I can remember mother peeping down and asking father something. And once, he had a joke and passed me up to mother through it! See, there is the picture of that!"

"Did he love us very much?" asked Milly, to whom her father was little else but a loved name.

"Love us!" echoed May, her dark eyes softening and glistening. "I've often understood more about God through thinking of father's love."

One day, little Mary was tiresome, and I had put her in the corner; and she sent word she was sorry. I was vexed with her, and I said, "I'd come presently."

"'Oh, don't keep her waiting for forgiveness,' said dear father tenderly; 'think how ready to pardon God is!' I never forgot that, Milly!"

"I wish I could remember him," said Milly wistfully.

"You'll see him some day in the Home above!" said May, kissing her. "But I never forget him—never!"

AT BETHANY.

THERE seems to have been one home where the Lord Jesus loved to visit.

We hear a great deal about the people who lived in this home, perhaps more about them than any other of the friends of the Lord Jesus.

Their names were Lazarus, Martha, and Mary.

"Oh, yes," you say, eagerly, "Lazarus was raised from the dead!"

And someone else remembers, "Yes, it was Mary who poured the precious ointment over the Lord Jesus only the week before He was crucified."

"Yes, and Martha served them at the feast," someone else remarks.

All these things are true, but our picture is not about either one of them.

One day the Lord Jesus was going about healing the sick and teaching people of His heavenly Father, and in His journey, He came to the village of Bethany, where Martha and Mary and Lazarus lived.

Now, you must imagine Martha as a very industrious, energetic woman.

When she saw Jesus and the disciples coming, I dare say she ran out to meet them, and invited them into her house to have something to eat.

She bustled about and spread the table; she told her servants what to bring to set before the large company who had suddenly come to her; and with joyful alacrity, she hurried to put before them whatever she could think of to make them welcome.

Suddenly her eyes fell upon her only sister, Mary. She was not bustling about and getting the dinner ready; she was sitting near Jesus eagerly listening to His words, and satisfied to be in His presence.

Poor Martha! She loved to hurry about and make Jesus welcome, but to have Mary sit idle and enjoy to hear Him talk was more than she could bear.

So she got quite cross and vexed. She felt that it was too hard, and she ran to Jesus and asked Him how it was He did not care that Mary had left her all the work to do alone, and begged Him to bid her come and help her.

And then, Jesus turned to her and said those words which have been a lesson to busy, bustling people all these hundreds of years: "Martha, Martha, you are too much troubled over these many things; only one thing is 'needful,' and Mary has chosen that good part which shall never be taken away from her."

Do you ask, children, what that one thing is?

It is learning of Jesus and hearing His voice.

Even if everything else is lost to us, if we have the Lord Jesus, we can be happy.

People who have everything that this world can give are often very miserable. But even the most wretched, ill, or poor person in the world, who has heard the voice of "Jesus," has the "one thing" which will make him happy here, and give him endless joy and glory by-and-by.

SCRIPTURE CLOCK.

CHOOSE A WORD FROM THE BIBLE, SUCH AS LOVE, AND WRITE IT NEATLY IN THE DIVISION OVER FIGURE I, WITH THE PLACE WHERE IT IS TO BE FOUND IN THE SPACE BETWEEN THE OUTER CIRCLES. THEN FIND A TEXT OF TWO WORDS, ONE OF WHICH IS LOVE, AS "HIS LOVE," (ISA. 63. 9), AND WRITE IT IN THE DIVISION OVER FIGURE II. NEXT, ONE WITH THREE WORDS, AS "WALK IN LOVE" (EPH. 5. 2), AND SO ON TILL YOU HAVE A TEXT CONTAINING TWELVE WORDS, AS "LOVE NOT THE WORLD NEITHER THE THINGS THAT ARE IN THE WORLD" (1 JOHN 2. 15).

WORDS SUGGESTED:—Faith, Peace, Jesus, Father, Trust, Believe, Forgive, Look, Seed, Sins, Blood, Glory, Everlasting.

THE NEW GOVERNESS.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"I AM certain I shan't like her."

"Oh, Miss Doris!"

"Quite certain. I heard mother talking about her to Mrs. Foster this afternoon; and I am certain she's the kind that I don't like."

"What kind?" asked the nurse, as she brushed out Doris' long curls.

"Oh, I don't know," said Doris carelessly; "it's a dreadful pity mother keeps on having governesses! They're always a plague, and there is not one in a hundred that—"

Her cousin Lilian looked up from the corner where she was sitting buried in a book. The book had been forgotten while Doris was speaking; instead of the printed words, a picture had come up before her eyes.

A far-off land, a wide shaded verandah, an invalid couch, a figure stretched upon it; sweet eyes resting on her face, an arm round her neck, gentle words of parting counsel—they came back now—

"Lilian! If the life is very different in England, and it must be, seek to please your Heavenly Lord, rather than yourself. Try to make other people happy, whether it is your aunt, or your cousins, or the governess who has such a lonely, trying life."

She remembered it all vividly, and how she had promised within her heart that she would.

Now she had come to England and these things seemed like a dream.

Directly she arrived, Doris had told her of the new governess, and then her mother's words had flashed across her. She was not inclined to want a governess any more than Doris, but what if she were lonely and Lilian should forget her mother's words!

Her earnest eyes looked across the nursery now, and Doris stopped in her tirade suddenly. Lilian was a funny girl, she thought, and one never could say anything spiteful before her!

Everybody in the house knew that Doris did not "get on" with the governesses. The nurse gave good advice, the parlourmaid thought it was rather a joke; and the cook said governesses always held their heads so high that she was not surprised.

So the governess came one morning just before lunch, and the little girls came to the schoolroom as the bell rang. It would be difficult to say which of the three dreaded the interview most!

"I will say grace and then we shall get more sociable," said Miss Smith with tremulous lips.

"We don't say grace," said Doris.

"Not, dear?"

"No—and I don't care about it, please."

Over Lilian's cheeks spread a burning blush, she could hardly raise her eyes to Miss Smith's face, which had turned very pale. Could she speak out? What was seemly and right for her to do?

Before Miss Smith had time to answer, the little girl said very gently but distinctly: "Please do, Miss Smith; I always do at home—and here—I couldn't be happy without—"

She knew months afterwards that that had been the one drop of comfort to the new governess on that first hard day.

ON THE MOORS.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"SLEEP, lambkin, sleep!" she sang softly, as she rocked the cradle to and fro in the shade of the doorway of her little cottage on the border of the moor.

The September sunshine shone brightly without, and far away she could hear the tinkle of the sheep-bells, while she dreamily pictured to herself her husband walking among his flock, leading them to the greenest grass, tending them with love and care such as only a shepherd knows.

"I'm glad he's a shepherd!" thought the young wife. "It is so nice to think he's something like the Lord in that!"

A shadow fell across the sunshine of the door, and she looked up to see her husband stagger into the cottage and guide himself uncertainly to the nearest chair.

"Alec!" she said, springing to his side. Was he ill, was he dying? What could it be?

He leant his head upon her bosom, but was dumb. Something in his action told her it was grief and not illness which had struck her husband.

"What is it, Alec?" she asked, bracing herself to be strong to bear for his sake. "Can't you tell me?"

"I telled ye lang syne that I'd hed a son that had gone awa' to Amerikay—and had got lost! He's come—back—Jeannie!"

She guessed it all in those few broken words.

She knew without telling that he had come back dishonoured.

"Where is he?" she whispered.

In that moment's pause, she had seen her own baby a man, wandering away in a far country, having spent all he had—ruined, hopeless, forsaken.

She had pictured him turning towards his father's home on the moors; she had seen him crossing the ocean and making his weary way home!

Should she have pity, or should she turn away?

"Where is he?" she whispered, with her eyes fixed on the cot where her innocent babe slept.

"In the wood juist beyond—"

When the poor wanderer looked up as he heard a rustle on the path, he saw a gentle face gazing down upon him, and two hands held out to him.

"Come home!" she said tenderly. "And I'll nurse you and love you for Christ's sake. He gave His life for you!"

"I've come to die," he groaned. "Can you have such as me?"

For answer, she raised him from the bank, and together they slowly made their way to the cottage, and straight into the little room she called her parlour.

There she laid him upon the little sofa and bidding him rest, she went to her husband.

"Jeannie?" he said, raising his eyes to her face.

"Yes," she answered simply, "I shall take him as my own, and some day—"

"Some day?" he asked with a groan.

"There'll be joy in the presence of the angels of God over a sinner that repents. I know it will be so.

"Cheer up, Alec, and trust the Good Shepherd who is seeking His lost sheep!"

Her late Majesty distributing gifts
to the Soldiers' children.

Royalty and Loyalty.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

GLADYS pushed away her lessons impatiently, and laid her head down on the table.

"Why, Gladys," said her governess, "so tired as all that?"

"I hate learning, and I hate French, and I'm so vexed at this tiresome cough that I'm sick of everything."

"Yes, it is disappointing!"

"And I wanted to go out to-day ever so much; this afternoon father was going to take me to see the Queen when she went for a drive, and I 'did' want to see the dear Queen."

"I am so sorry," said her governess gently. Then she added brightly, "Did you see the picture in this week's 'Illustrated News' of our Queen distributing Christmas gifts to the soldiers' children?"

"No," said Gladys, raising her head.

"Well, here it is—see what a sweet picture! Should not you have liked to be there?"

"Oh! Should I not!" Gladys looked at it long and earnestly. She thought she would almost like to be a soldier's child for such a privilege as that. But then—oh, the poor soldiers!

She sat for a good while silent, and her next remark was not of the soldiers, for whom her childish heart bled, but of scenes long past.

"I wonder what sort of a 'girl' the Queen was when she was my age," she said thoughtfully, "to have been such a good and true woman all these years."

"I can tell you that, for I was reading yesterday what her governess said about her. It was just this, Gladys; she told her governess in the sweetest way, when looking out on life and all its responsibilities, 'I will be good!'"

"Did she?" asked Gladys earnestly, her face flushing with a new thought.

"Indeed she did, and she has kept her promise nobly, Gladys; and when now she sympathises with the sorrowful and rejoices with the happy, and wins love and admiration of her people by all her acts, we follow her exultingly, and thank God for such a sweet and such a noble woman as our beloved Queen!"

Gladys smiled through two bright tears, and she said naïvely, "I mustn't fret about my cough after that!"

POLLIE'S NEW MISTRESS.

"I'M sure I shall be miserable, mother, and I shan't stop. I'll let her get settled in, and then I'll go away to Miss Edith. She always wanted me to be with her, she said so when she went away. I shall be miserable here, and then the baby will be miserable." And with that, Pollie burst into tears, and hugged the baby so tight that he cried too.

"Miserable!" echoed her mother. "What nonsense, girl! The master did right to marry again, and bring home a mother to his child, and a good one, too, as he writes. What are we, plain people too, to bring up his son in a gardener's cottage? Not but what we would bring him up as good as we knew. And the master's been considerate and good to us; he'll not part us from the boy, for you're to be nurse in the grand house and have the charge of him. As for going to Miss Edith, why, she's married."

"I know that," sobbed Pollie, still holding the baby tight, "but I know I shan't like it, and the new mistress will be cross if the baby loves me, and of course he loves me."

"You're a silly girl," said her mother. "Give me the child to dress, and go and get the flowers to deck the rooms, and then make yourself neat. We must be ready for them in two hours. Are the master and his lady to come and find us not ready?"

Pollie went slowly away down the garden. How sweet and peaceful the flowers looked! How little they knew that the master and a new wife were coming home that day, and that Pollie's heart was sore at the thought of the change and that she had determined to leave her precious charge rather than endure it.

But God knew. Somehow Pollie's thoughts went straight from the flowers to God, and her eyes filled with tears. God knew what was best for the baby, God knew what was best for her, and what was best for the master who had been so sorely bereaved a year ago.

Pollie hardly saw what flowers she gathered into her muslin apron. There was a battle in her heart, a battle between right and wrong, a battle between being a good girl to her new mistress and being a naughty girl and going away to serve Miss Edith.

But the right conquered, and before Pollie went back to her mother, she had looked up through the leafy trees and asked God to help her to be a good girl and to do right.

Two hours later, the flowers were all arranged, the baby wore his best frock and his blue ribbons, and Pollie and her mother stood in the hall to welcome the master home, for the rest of the servants were not to come till the new mistress had settled in.

Then there was the sound of carriage wheels, and the master, tall and handsome, leaped out, and behind him came —Pollie's head seemed to swim, and she held the baby tighter that she might not drop him—behind the master came her dear Miss Edith.

Pollie knew now that God had been planning happiness for them all, even while she had been encouraging that discontented spirit!

How joyfully she held the baby out to its father and new mother, and what a happy smile lighted her eyes as she hurried to help her mother prepare the travellers' meal!

And often in after-days, when things seemed to be dark, she remembered how good God had been, and that He was always the same.

THE CALL OF PETER.

WHEN the Lord was on earth, He did so many kind and loving things, and made so many people well who were sick that the multitude followed Him about everywhere, so that sometimes Jesus and His disciples had not even time to eat.

One day, when He was by the Lake of Gennesaret (which is sometimes called the Sea of Galilee), the people pressed so close to Him that, seeing two ships drawn up on the shore, He entered one of these and asked the owner to put his ship a little way out from the land, so that He might speak to the multitude where they could all hear. The boats were empty, for the fishermen were gone out of them and were washing their nets in the lake.

The one that the Lord Jesus entered belonged to Simon Peter, whose wife's mother had been healed by Jesus a very short time before. Peter loved Jesus very much, but he had not yet been chosen to be His disciple.

So when the Lord had done talking to the people, He told Simon to launch the ship out into deep water, and let down their nets to catch some fishes.

But Simon told Him that they had been up working hard all night, but it had all been for nothing, as they had not caught any fish.

But Simon did not stop there; he added what has been a comfort to hundreds and thousands of people since then—"Nevertheless, at Thy word I will let down the net."

Do you think they caught nothing this time?

Ah, if you do, you have not thought what it is to be in the boat with Jesus!

When He commands, He also makes it possible to obey. You will find that out, children, the more you love Him and trust Him.

So they let down the net, and now they enclosed such an immense number of fishes that their net began to break, and they were obliged to beckon to their partners, who were in the other ship, to come and help them.

So they filled both the ships full, so that they began to sink.

Then Simon Peter fell down at the feet of Jesus and told Him that he was too sinful to be near Him.

But Jesus comforted him with the loving words which are so often repeated in the Bible for all who are afraid—"Fear not."

Then Jesus told Peter that he should be a fisher of men, that he should be used by God to draw people into the kingdom of heaven.

And when Peter and his partners, James and John, heard that, and saw the wonderful miracle that Jesus had performed, they left everything and followed Him, and became very soon His three chief disciples who were chosen above all the rest to be close to Him.

Making the Best of a Bad Job.

"I SAY, girls, I have got a holiday on Friday. Couldn't we make up a skating party, start early for the lake, take lunch and eat it at the cottage, and come home here for high tea? What do you all say? Shall we, father?"

"Splendid!" cried Rose and Flora and Liz.

"I am quite pleased if the girls can manage it," said their father.

"Well, ask a nice set," said Gerald. "It's time I was off to the station." He disappeared from the breakfast table, but after two or three minutes, he reappeared and tossed a note across to Lizzie.

"Take that to Jess Bristowe," he said; "I want her to come."

"You'll lose that train," grumbled Lizzie. "Why don't you deliver your own notes? I don't want to."

But Gerald hardly heard her; he had risked the train to write the note, and he had to run for it.

"I do hate being asked to do his errands," went on Lizzie, giving the obnoxious note a toss. "Whom shall we ask, Rose? It's rather a jolly plan!"

So the talk drifted into other things, the girls wrote notes, made a list of needed provisions, and hunted up their skates. Lizzie told herself she supposed she must go with the tiresome note sometime, but she shouldn't trouble when, and consequently she forgot all about it.

Friday morning broke clear and bright, and promised an ideal day.

Breakfast was over, and Rose and Flora were trying to persuade their father to accompany them, when Gerald suddenly asked Lizzie what answer Jess had sent.

Lizzie gasped. "I never went," she said slowly.

"Then I shan't go," cried Gerald, his face flushing. "I never thought you would fail me."

"Can't we ask her now?" asked Lizzie lamely.

"At the last minute!" cried Gerald. "I told her I meant to have a party, and she must come, and a poor compliment she would think it! Well, you'll have to go alone." He went off into the study and stood moodily looking into the fire. The day would be spoilt without Jess.

A soft hand rested on his shoulder and Rose's voice said, "Gerald!"

"It's no good your coming persuading," he said roughly; but Rose knew it was disappointment made him rough.

"I think," she said gently, "that if I went down to Jess at once and explained how it was, she would quite understand, and she is not one to take offence, and she would so enjoy the day. I should have plenty of time. May I, Gerald?"

"It will tire you so," objected Gerald. "You'll be wet and cold before we start."

"Oh, no!" said Rose hopefully. "I'll bring Jess back with me, and if you have a cup of chocolate ready for us, we shall start warm."

"All right!" said Gerald briskly, for to make chocolate for Jess was an alluring prospect. "You are a good girl, Rose!"

It "was" a rather cold, long walk, but Rose went cheerily. And by-and-by, two laughing girls sat down to a cup of chocolate presided over by a smiling young man. And after that, the skating party went as merrily as marriage bells.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER IX.—"HIS GREAT LOVE."

AS the days passed and no one came to claim the blind child, Rámpál Singh and his daughter felt assured that she had been sent to them by God, and that in caring for this helpless little one, they were indeed serving Him to whom they belonged. They were not long in discovering that Hira was no ordinary child, and blind though she was, it was possible that God had some special work for her to do, for which they were to prepare her.

The little girl was very loath to speak of her past life. But from the little they were able to gather from her, it was very plain that there had been no one who really loved her, and therefore no one who would mourn her loss, and this seemed to justify her remaining where she was.

It was a great day in Hira's experience when she first went to church.

Naturally there was much which she could not understand, but the assurance that they were in God's house, and speaking to Him, made a great impression on her, while the singing thrilled her to the very depths of her heart.

A few days later, Shushila was going to see Mary Dayál and inquire after her sick child, and took Hira with her.

The child had no idea that she was going to the same house where she had been taken by Sukhiya, but Mary knew her at once, though the red sari had been exchanged for a blue one.

A great change was coming over Mary Dayál, the beginning of which had been the question asked by the blind child.

Soon after that, her youngest child had been taken ill, and Shushila, always ready to minister to anyone who was in need, had seized this opportunity of making the acquaintance of one whose sad, weary face had already won her sympathy.

It did not take long for Mary to discover that her new friend was one who knew God and lived in fellowship with Him. Here was a living proof that it is possible to meet with God and walk with Him, even amid the scenes of a most commonplace earthly life. And again and again the question repeated itself in her heart, "How can I get ready to meet God?"

Once more, the blind child was to bring her a message.

Hira's quick ear soon recognised the voice, which she had heard before, and while Shushila was talking, she had quite made up her mind that this must be the same house to which she had come with Sukhiya. What could be more likely? For did she not now belong to Christians, and was soon to become one herself?

As Mary sat quietly by herself, the old scene came back to her, and she almost thought with pity of the poor ignorant child who had come to ask where Jesus Christ lived. Now she knew so much that maybe she could teach the one of whom she had come that day to learn. She gave a start when suddenly Shushila drew her towards her, and said—

"This is my new little sister God sent to me in the storm."

Mary Dayál spoke kindly to the child, but said nothing of the former meeting; perhaps she felt a little ashamed of it. But Hira had nothing to be ashamed of, so she said boldly, "I have been here before. I came to ask about Jesus Christ, for I knew nothing then, but now I know a great deal, and some day I am going to have new eyes and see quite well. I do not mind waiting a little while, now I live with my dear sister Shushila."

Then she paused, thinking someone else would speak, but when no one did, she went on, "You never told me that day whether you had got ready to meet God, but of course you must have done, because you are not an ignorant little girl like I was. I do not think I am quite ready even yet, but I am going to be."

Still, there was no answer. Mary did not know what to say, and Shushila was hoping that the child's words would go home to the heart of the woman for whom she was longing and praying that she might learn to know and love God.

Then suddenly, Mary's lips were unsealed; the longing of her heart could not keep silent any longer, and she said wistfully, "Child, it is easy for you to get ready; it is no fault of yours that you are not so already, for there has been no one to tell you about God. But it is quite different with me. All my life I have known of God, but my mind has been filled with other things."

Hira looked puzzled. Then she said, "But cannot Jesus Christ make people even as bad as you ready? I should think He could, but then I don't know much. Why don't you ask my sister Shushila?"

But Shushila felt that the simplicity of the child's words and faith might give God's message more effectually than she could, so instead of explaining herself, she said, "Hira, what makes you think the Lord Jesus can make us ready? And how does He do it?"

The child hesitated a minute, and then she said—

"Sister, I only know what you tell me: you say that to be ready means to get rid of sin, and that God hates sin so much, and yet loves us so that He sent His only Son all the way from heaven to save us."

Shushila saw that Mary was listening intently to the child's words, so again she asked, "But tell me, Hira, what did the Lord Jesus do to get rid of our sin?"

Softly the blind child answered, "He took them all on Himself, a great, great load, and then He put them right away, but He had to die to do it. He must want us to be ready very much when He tried so hard to put our sin away."

"But," said Mary sadly, "it is the sin in my own heart I want to get rid of; every day I get cross and impatient, and feel ashamed for God to see me."

Hira knew of no remedy for this difficulty.

And Shushila saw it was the time for her to speak, and so she said, "We cannot be ready to meet God as long as we are keeping sin in our hearts, but the Lord Jesus will save us from that too.

"We cannot keep sin out of our hearts, but if we let the Lord Jesus come in, He can keep out the crossness and impatience. I think what we need is to believe more in the 'great love' and the 'great power' of our dear Lord.

"He would do so much more for us if we would only let Him. Shall we kneel down and ask Him now?"

So they knelt together—one who had known of God and His great salvation all her life, but had never received it for herself; another to whom had suddenly come the glorious news of a Divine Saviour, which had been received gladly and fully; and lastly the blind child, into whose darkness had shone the bright rays of the heavenly light, which would go on shining brighter and brighter.

Surely there was still Another present, though unseen, with pierced hands filled with blessings to be poured out on those who sought them.

Then Shushila prayed:

"Dear Lord Jesus, we come to Thee to tell Thee that we want to be made holy as Thou art holy, so holy that we shall be ready to meet God. We cannot get rid of the sins which we have committed, nor of the sins in our own hearts, so we come to Thee, because Thou art our Saviour, who hast died to save us. Wilt Thou come Thyself into our hearts and turn out all which does not please Thee? Amen."

"Amen," said Mary too, and she meant it, for there came to her a vision of what it would be to have a heart at peace and rest in the midst of the many trials and perplexities around her. And she realised, for the first time, that in order to obtain this rest, she must let the Great Rest-Giver come in.

When they were seated again, Hira said, "Sister, won't you sing the hymn about the hill?"

And Shushila sang—

"There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.
"We may not know, we cannot tell,
What pains He had to bear,
But this we know, it was for us
He hung and suffered there.
"He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven,
Saved by His precious blood.
"There was none other good enough
To pay the price of sin,
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in.
"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do."

It was a very simple hymn, which even a little child could understand, and yet it told the great facts of redemption, which one of the listeners had heard again and again, but never grasped; it told her once again what she so much needed to know.

"Would you mind singing that last verse once more?" she asked, as Shushila finished the hymn.

Once more the words were sung—

"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do."

"Thank you," said Mary; her heart was too full to say any more, and Shushila, seeing this, took Hira's hand and led her away.

Then Mary was left alone, except for the sleeping baby on the bedstead near by.

"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love 'Him too.'"

She knew the words were true, but had she loved this One, who had loved her to the death? Had she tried His works to do?

Her own heart told her plainly, "No." She had thought before of her sins of crossness and impatience, but now she saw plainly that all her life had been wrong, because she had shut out of it the only One who could give her the power to live it. It was true that the Son of God had died for her on the cross, but never once had she thanked Him for all He had suffered for her. It was true that He was alive for evermore, ready to save her to the uttermost, but never till now had she cared to be saved.

It had all been put before her—this mighty loving Saviour, the great salvation which He had given His life to win, the forgiveness and rest which He promised to all who came to Him, and at last, a place in His Father's house, which He Himself was getting ready. But she had been so taken up with her own affairs, her poverty, her husband, and children, the debt which weighed so heavily, that she had had no eyes to see God's great gifts, no heart to care for His unsearchable riches.

She knew now that if her heart had been at rest, if she had had the presence of this Divine Helper and Keeper, she would have been a far better wife and mother, and not so burdened by her own cares and sorrows; which, instead of keeping her away from God, made her need of Him the greater.

She knew now how great that need was; she could no longer live on earth without God, neither was she fit to meet Him and find a dwelling-place with Him; whichever way she looked, it was all dark, unless she could find the true Light.

If she had only understood, it was shining all around her, but as yet her eyes were shut to its brightness.

A DARK NIGHT.

THE parks were almost deserted when Nurse Clarice passed through the gates and slowly made her way to a seat beneath the trees. She had just come from "a case" and was quite tired out.
"Mother," she had said, as she put down her parcel, "don't you tell anyone that I've come home till to-morrow morning! I'll get half an hour's air, and then I'll lay my head on my pillow."
Her mother looked up anxiously from her work, and shook her head at her girl's tired face.

"Oh, well!" said Clarice, in reply to the shake. "You know in such a time of epidemic it can't be helped. I shall get rested by-and-by."

But though she had spoken so hopefully to her mother, when she walked through the twilight streets, all at once she began to think of the many things that worried her, and not least, that thin, tired mother who sat in the little dull house she had just left.

As she sat on the seat in the park, she felt as if life were too full for her to bear.

She so longed for rest, and somehow it so seldom came. She supposed there was nothing for it but for her to conjure up such patience as she could, and go on again.

As she looked up across to the sunset sky, which was rapidly darkening, a little thin line of the new moon was just visible.

With a start of surprise, she smiled to herself as the words came to her remembrance: "Neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and thy God thy glory."

Already she was rested, for Clarice knew the secret of finding in God her comfort, and she rose up and made her way back to her mother's home.

"Now for bed!" she said, as she knocked at the shabby door. "And I am even too tired to talk to mother. Poor mother! I believe I've been more than half an hour."

But before she got in, a telegram had come for her, and the mother worked with a more wearied look.

"Come at once to No. —, Park Gate."

"Oh, nurse!" said a young girl, meeting Clarice in the hall when she entered, "I am so glad to see you! My mother is so dreadfully ill! Will you come up at once?"

"If you wish, miss. But would you let me take off my cloak first?"

"Oh, yes! Come into this little room," she said, leading the way. "I have had this got ready for you."

But when they crossed the threshold, the girl's face changed from the forced calm which she had been trying to assume, and she covered it with her hands.

"Is she so bad, miss?" asked Clarice, while she quickly laid aside her bonnet and took her cap from the tray of her little box.

"Yes, and it is all my fault," sobbed the girl hopelessly, yielding to the sympathy in Clarice's eyes. "It was like this. Yesterday—only yesterday—she wished me not to go to a concert with some friends. I had promised, and she was very upset that I would persist in going. I ought not—I know that—she never denies me anything that she thinks for my good; but I would not heed, and ran up to dress in a hurry. She did not approve of the people I was going with, and did not wish me to appear in public with them. And she hurried upstairs to my room to try to persuade me to give it up.

"I was vexed that she should do what I knew was bad for her, and spoke crossly while I threw on my things. And after she had said all she could, she turned away with a very white face. I would not heed, but drove off in the brougham as if I had not a care.

"How I felt when I remembered her look, and that her heart was weak, I cannot tell you. I didn't enjoy myself one bit. When I came home, it was to find her very ill, and to-day they tell me her life is in danger."

"I am ready now, miss," said Clarice, pausing, however, to put her hand gently on the girl's arm. "Miss, there's a Refuge for us in time of trouble, if we will go to Him for it," she said earnestly; "and forgiveness for what's past too."

The girl looked at her almost startled, but then, comprehending, her eyes fell; but she gave the nurse's hand a squeeze.

"Thank you," she murmured, and led the way to a spacious room, where the invalid lay attended by her anxious maid.

Clarice put aside her weariness "till another time," she said to herself. And then came a resting, comforting thought, "'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength.'"

For more than a week, the invalid's life hung in the balance, and her daughter and Clarice, assisted by the maid, waited upon her with tender care.

Every day, when Madge's sad eyes were raised to the nurse's with anxious inquiry, Clarice would say, "Take heart, miss. Remember you can go to God in time of trouble!"

And Madge would go to her room and once again ask that her precious mother might be spared to her.

Then came a day when Clarice could say cheeringly, "I think there's a little improvement, miss; and now we must thank God!"

And so it went on, till the mother was sitting up in her room and needed the busy nurse no longer.

Altogether, it was a happy time to Clarice, for we cannot try to do God's work without a quick reward, even in this present time.

When she was putting her last things into her little box at the end of three weeks, there was a light tap at the door.

"Good-bye, dear nurse," said a sweet voice. "You have done more for me than anyone ever did before! I hope I shall be a 'comfort' to mother now, instead of a self-willed plague! But oh! If God had not forgiven my waywardness, how should I be feeling now?"

"Peter Followed Afar Off."

DO you think, if Peter had kept close to the Lord Jesus, he would have denied Him?

But Peter, though he loved Jesus dearly, followed Him afar off. And there is no surer way of getting into sin and difficulties than forgetting to keep close to Jesus.

Now, listen to the story of how poor Peter, who did love Jesus, came to deny that he ever knew Him.

The Lord knew all about Peter, and how he was apt to trust in his own strength and energy and courage; and just before that dreadful night when all the disciples forsook Him and fled, Jesus had warned Peter that Satan was very anxious to make him do wrong, and if possible to separate him from Himself altogether.

Peter trusted so much in his own strength and courage that he could hardly believe that the warning was needed.

He told the Lord that he was ready to go with Him to prison or to death!

But Jesus warned him again that before the cock should crow the next morning, Peter would have denied that he knew Him.

Then Jesus and His disciples went to the Mount of Olives. And there, Judas, the wicked disciple, betrayed Him to a band of soldiers. And Jesus was taken away by them to the high priest's palace, and all the disciples forsook Him and fled. Jesus knew all that would happen to Him, and He gave Himself up willingly for our sakes; but that does not make it any less wicked of the men who used Him so cruelly.

There seem to have been two of His disciples who, after running away at first, loved Jesus so much that they followed Him to the palace to see what would become of Him.

John, the disciple whom Jesus loved, was known to the high priest, and he seems to have gone right into the palace. And when he saw Peter standing outside, he spoke to the servant and she let Peter enter.

So the night being cold, and Peter having followed "afar off," he turned aside near the door, and seeing a fire lighted in the court round which the servants were gathered, he sat down among them and warmed himself.

Oh, foolish Peter, not to have pressed in close after his Master! Would he have denied Him then, if he had seen those dear and holy eyes upon him? I think not.

But being afar off, and being confident in his own strength, when a servant-maid charged him with belonging to Jesus, he denied Him, saying, "Woman, I know Him not."

And so, as he stood and warmed himself, Peter did, at three different times, tell one and another that he did not know Jesus.

At last the cock crew, and the dear Lord, from the place where He was being examined, turned round and looked upon Peter.

And Peter remembered how Jesus had warned him, and he went out and wept bitterly. Oh, can you not imagine how sorrowful he was?

Perhaps you ask: Was Peter ever forgiven for his sin? Oh yes, indeed. Jesus is full of love and compassion, and when He rose from the grave, He sent a special message to Peter to come and see Him. And afterwards, He talked to him many times, and gave him some of the sweetest directions to serve Him which the Bible contains. Peter was His faithful servant till his life's end.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER X.—REST.

THAT night, Mary Dayál was so overwhelmed by a new trial and anxiety that for a time the craving in her heart for spiritual blessing was forgotten.

At the usual time of returning from his work, her husband did not appear. That was nothing remarkable, for he was often late. But when hour after hour passed and still he did not come, her heart began to grow heavy. The eldest boy, Reuben, was sent to inquire at different houses where he might possibly have gone, but nowhere was any news to be heard.

One by one the children dropped asleep, but there was no rest for the anxious wife. It was true that her husband had not been the kindest or best of men, but now that he was gone, she knew not where, everything changed; the faults had all been hers, and she had driven him away by her constant grumblings and complainings. Was it any wonder that he had not cared to stay in a house with an untidy, cross wife, and children who were always clamouring for more than he could give them? There could be no doubt that his patience and courage had been worn-out, and now he had gone away to seek for peace and comfort elsewhere. Who could blame him if he had?

Then the darkness around the poor weary woman grew denser, till her heart ached with the sorrow pressing upon her.

"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved."

Clearly came back to her the words of the hymn she had heard sung so lately, though it seemed long, long ago.

Though her husband had left her, yet she was not altogether alone, for nothing could change this divine love, which had proved itself stronger than death.

If it was true that that love went out still to the most sinful and needy, then who could claim it more than she?

Oh for eyes to see the blessed form of Him who had called the weary and heavy laden to come to Him! Oh for ears to catch His words of forgiveness and comfort!

Mary Dayál had been brought up to say her prayers when she was a child, and she had never entirely given up doing so, only very often she was too tired, and the children made too much noise. But she had never known what it was really to "pray," to seek God because her heart cried out after Him, to ask Him for what He alone could give, what she felt she "must" have.

But now in her sorrow and desolation, there rose in her heart a great desire to come into contact with One who could do for her what no one else could.

The voice of the Son of God said "Come," and she heard it and came.

If she had been asked, she could hardly have told what it was which had so changed her that night of sorrow; she might have said that the burden of sin had grown light because for the first time she "knew" what she had before only "heard"—that Christ had put it away by the sacrifice of Himself; or she might have said that the burden of loneliness had been lightened by finding the presence of One who had promised never to leave or forsake her.

She had been like a child lost in a dreary forest, faint with hunger but having no food to eat, surrounded by dangers from which there was no one to protect her. Now she was like a child in its father's house, satisfied with that father's love and sure of his protection and care.

Again and again she had said and heard the words, "Our Father which art in heaven," but never till that night had she known the joy of having a Father in heaven. The darkness had passed away before the bright shining of heavenly light, and in that light, the form of everything was changed.

She had still to face the grinding poverty which had made her life a weariness to her; what was worse still, she had to face it alone if her husband did not return. There were four children to be fed and clothed, and a debt to be paid, and it might be, no money to do it with. And yet, in spite of all, Mary Dayál felt more light-hearted than she had ever done in her life, for she knew that henceforth these burdens would not have to be borne alone—that the great Burden-Bearer would be with her.

It was long before she went to sleep that night. But as she was saying over to herself the words, "Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved," gradually all things faded into unconsciousness.

She woke the next morning with a sense of loss, and yet of gain, and it took her some little time to distinguish one from the other. Gradually it all came clearly back to her: she had found God, but her husband was missing. She realised then how hard it would have been to begin this new day with this added burden if it had not been for the rest in her heart.

The children soon found that in some way, which they could not understand, their mother was different. Never before had they known her so patient and gentle; they thought it must be because their father was not there. They were all sent to school as usual, and then Mary, taking the baby in her arms, locked up the house, and went to ask advice of her new friends Rámpál Singh and his daughter.

Both listened to her story with all the interest, and sympathy she could desire. And when it was finished, Rámpál Singh proposed that he should go to the office in which Mark Dayál had been employed, and ascertain whether he had been there the day before. Knowing something of the man's history, he thought it was very possible that he had been dismissed, as so often happened, and rather than tell his wife the news, had gone off and left her; but of this, he "said" nothing.

As soon as her father had left the house, Shushila began more freely to express her sympathy with the anxious wife.

Great was her surprise and joy when Mary looked at her with a smile, though there were tears in her eyes, and said, "Shushila, whatever happens, the darkest part of my life is over. With the love of Christ in my heart, I can bear anything."

Neither had noticed that Hira was near by, but now she came eagerly forward and asked, "Do you mean that you have got ready to meet God?"

"Yes," said Mary gladly; "I never wanted to meet God before, but now I long to, because I know He is my heavenly Father."

"But tell me," said the child, "how did you get ready? What did you do?"

Mary paused a moment, and then she said, "Little one, once a man full of leprosy came to the Lord Jesus, and He put His hand on him, and said, 'I will; be thou clean,' and all his leprosy was gone. I was full of sin, but last night, the Lord Jesus came and put His hand on me, and said, 'Be clean,' and so I know He has put away my sin, and I am not afraid to meet God any more."

Hira gave a little sigh as she said, "Perhaps the Lord Jesus comes more to big people than He does to little girls, because to me, He seems such a long, long way off. If He would speak only one word, then I should know that He had come."

"And that is just how I know, little one," said Mary. "I did not hear His voice in my ear, but I heard it quite plainly in my heart; if you listen, you will hear it too."

Hira looked perplexed, but she did not speak again. And very soon, she got up and groped her way to another part of the house, leaving the two friends alone.

GOSSIP.

"FATHER, you'll let me take something down for the Harvest Festival! Something nice from the grounds, you know, and some flowers and fruit. I should like to help to decorate the church."

"Certainly, my dear," answered Mr. Granville, "I had thought of it myself when the curate spoke of the Festival. I will give Haydon orders about it."

"I will go with them myself," said Geraldine importantly, "and I can arrange where they go."

"Remember, dear, that you will be one of the youngest there," said her father gently.

Geraldine did not reply, unless a little toss of her head could be regarded as one.

The following Saturday was the morning appointed for all offerings to reach the church. And on the Friday evening, Mr. Granville asked Geraldine if Haydon had provided such flowers and green stuff as she wanted.

Geraldine reddened; "I don't think I shall trouble about it," she said. "Miss Whyte is seeing after it all, and I'm not going to be at Miss Whyte's beck and call."

"Why not?" asked her father, curiously.

"I don't like her."

Geraldine would say no more, but her father went on, "I should wish the flowers to go just the same, my child, and if you 'do' go to help, remember that in all church work, we are working for our Lord and Master, not for men."

"If the flowers go, so shall I," said Geraldine to herself, and she went.

The vestry presented a very busy scene, and Geraldine and her flowers were met with a hearty welcome, and Miss Whyte asked her pleasantly if she had any special wish about them, and though Geraldine answered properly enough, there was something aggressive in her tone that sent the colour to Miss Whyte's face. She had guessed for some time that Geraldine disliked her.

So Geraldine worked in a corner apart, for she could not feel friendly to anyone. Her father's words rankled.

Miss Whyte was busily decorating a pillar when her eyes fell on the proud little face in the corner. It seemed such a pity for two who were decorating God's house to be at enmity. She jumped lightly from her chair and went round to Geraldine.

"Geraldine! Have I done anything to vex you?"

"You had no business to say I couldn't draw a bit."

"When did I say so?" gasped out Miss Whyte.

"The girls told me you said so at the Prize-giving at school."

"My dear!" said Miss Whyte. "I said 'I had no idea that Geraldine drew.' Somebody has made mischief. Let us be friends; it seems so sad to have a difference and to be working together in God's house."

Geraldine lifted her frank eyes, "I am sorry; it is my fault for listening to such stories. May I come and help you? It is so dull alone."

And so there was peace in the church.

Sunday by Sunday, long after the harvest thanksgiving had passed away, as Geraldine sat in the church, she would glance over to that little corner where she had sat alone, and the remembrance of it helped her all her life to try to be one of God's blessed Peacemakers.

"I will go with them myself," said Geraldine.

"I LOVE HIM STILL."

"AND what has happened, then, Mrs. Lloyd?"

The silver-haired clergyman had just finished his reading, and had paused, his fingers still in the place that opened of itself at the story of the cross, to hear some fragments of Mrs. Lloyd's story. The white face in its clean frilled cap was scarcely less white than the pillow on which it lay. But the expression was peaceful, though the wrinkles on the fine brow told of trials long and painful.

A week ago Mrs. Lloyd had been brought, badly burned, to a kindly neighbour's, and little hope was entertained from the first of her recovery.

No one knew how the accident had happened; the baby was safe, that they all knew. And though Mrs. Lloyd was reticent and scarcely answered any questions the doctors and nurses put to her as they dressed her burns, it had oozed out among the neighbours that Jim Lloyd had been seen to enter the cottage not long before the place had been found in flames, and that he was drunk at the time.

But now Mrs. Lloyd's tongue was loosened; she was alone with the vicar she had known and loved from her youth, and she must tell him all, that he might comfort Jim.

Jim was her one care. Such a brave, strong fellow he had been when she first met him and loved him years ago. But the demon of drink had seized on him, and had pushed him far on the downward path.

"Well, sir," continued the dying woman, slightly raising herself on her elbow in her earnestness, "you must not be hard on Jim, but help him to live right, for the baby's sake. Tell him, sir, as I'm sure he did not mean it, and that I forgive him and love him still. Be sure you say that, sir. I love him still."

She lay back exhausted by the effort she had made, but after a moment she went on—

"I was out washing in the back yard, sir, for I had not heard his step. His dinner was all ready for him on the stove, and baby was asleep in the cradle. I don't know how long he'd been home, when I noticed a queer smell, but I didn't think much of it, 'cause there's often bits of rag and such-like burnt by the neighbours. But in a few moments, I noticed smoke coming out of the back kitchen door, and I knew it was all wrong.

"The first thing I saw as I got to the door was a great blaze. The clothes-horse was full of blouses I'd just starched, and they were just one great flame. I made a rush for the cradle, but I never saw Jim until I fell over him, and then I suppose my clothes caught fire, but I didn't notice them. I felt I must save Jim even before the baby, for she was ready, the little darling, and my Jim wasn't. So I just pulled him out by his legs, and then I ran back for baby. I thought maybe she'd be safe, for I just prayed God to spare her if only I could pull out Jim. And there she was sitting up in her cradle, and laughing at the 'pitty fire.' I suppose the neighbours saw the smoke, for when I got outside again, they were holding out their hands for the baby, and some were looking after Jim, and then I didn't know any more until I got here. But you'll tell Jim I loved him still, and best of all that God loves him too?" And the faint voice ceased for ever.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XI.—"ASK, AND IT SHALL BE GIVEN YOU."

THERE was much to talk of, for though Shushila was much younger in years than Mary Dayál, she had been learning in God's school for several years, while the other had only just enrolled her name as a scholar.

While the talk was still going on, Rámpál Singh returned. He had found what he had expected. Mark Dayál had been dismissed the day before, and that was evidently the reason of his disappearance.

"He will probably go and get work elsewhere, and will then write and tell you of his whereabouts," added he, anxious to give some comfort.

Then he proposed that they should commit the matter into the hands of their heavenly Father, and ask Him to guide and keep the one who had gone, as well as those who were left.

Mary Dayál never forgot that prayer, for it taught her what true prayer really means, and her heart rejoiced as she realised that, having become a child of God through faith in Christ Jesus, a key had been put into her hand, with which she could unlock the storehouse of heavenly riches.

If she had lost her husband, she had found a Father; and the grief and anxiety caused by the loss, only increased the joy of the gain.

It was only after she returned to her desolate house that she began fully to realise what it really meant to be left with four children to feed and clothe, and no means, as far as she could see, to provide for them. Whichever way she looked, she could see no light. Her parents lived so far away that it would cost a great deal to get to them, and they were quite unable to support a family. Besides, how could she bear to tell them that her husband had gone and left her? Whatever happened, she would be loyal to him, and shield him all she could.

If there was anyone to blame, it was she, for not being more patient and gentle, and she determined that if her husband returned, he should never hear a word of reproach from her lips.

Of course he "would" return, she told herself again and again, or if not, he would send for her and the children. He never intended to desert them, but only to seek employment to enable him to provide for them. As soon as he succeeded, he would surely write.

Then there came over her a great desire that her husband should be one with her in her newly found happiness, that he too should be ready to meet God. Gradually all other needs seemed to be lost sight of in this great cry of her heart.

And why should it not be granted? The mighty Hand which had been stretched out to save her could reach her husband also, wherever he might be. The first treasure which she would seek to obtain by this newly found key should be the salvation of her husband, and never would she cease seeking until she knew she had obtained it.

So, as she had committed herself into the hands of this almighty Friend, she committed her husband also, and prayed that wherever his wanderings might lead him, or whatever his disappointments or difficulties might he, he might at last be guided, as she had been, if not by easy means, then through sorrow and suffering, to the cross of Christ, there to find pardon and salvation.

Then Mary began to think of the present, and consider her earthly lot. Something must be done, and besides herself there was none to do it, so it was quite plain that she "must" find some work; but what was it to be?

Besides learning her lessons in school, and, after her marriage, looking after her house and children, which her conscience told her had been very badly done, she had never tried to do anything.

It was true that sometimes in her days of greatest poverty, when her husband was out of work, she had thought of trying to get employment as a Zenana teacher, but though she knew of others who did this in order to obtain the salary, her own heart told her that it should not be so, and that only those who knew God themselves were fitted to teach others about Him.

It was different now. Having found salvation herself, it would be a joy and privilege to tell others about it; only who, knowing her circumstances, would be able to understand that she was not seeking her own good only?

Again, she remembered her newly found key. Did not her heavenly Father know all her needs and difficulties, as well as the change in her heart?

If He would call her to take a share in His work, and count her worthy, it would not matter what others thought. And so again, Mary prayed that God Himself would lead and direct her, and make it quite plain what work He would have her do.

By-and-by, the children returned from school full of questions about their father, whose sudden disappearance sorely perplexed them all. The mother tried her best to satisfy them, by saying she believed he had gone away to find work, and very soon they would hear from him.

Reuben, the eldest, listened gravely to all his mother said, and did not join in the questions of the others.

Though only ten years old, in many ways he seemed older, being a steady, studious boy, more fond of learning than of playing. From this time, he seemed suddenly to grow older still, and to realise that he must be the helper and comforter of his mother, so in this also the deserted wife found comfort in her sorrow.

A TELEGRAM.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"SHE'S dyin'! That's what the telegram's put, and I'm goin' down by the next train."

There was a pause, for Milly had had a hard struggle, and how to find the four and eight-pence for the fare she knew not. But the kind neighbour came to her aid. She searched deep in a drawer, and brought out an old stocking foot, and from this, she counted out five precious shillings.

"I'll pay you, if I work my fingers to the bone," said Milly gratefully; and then she made her way, just as she was, to the station.

Meantime, down in a country village, far away from the din of London, Milly's sister lay and watched from her little window.

"Go out," she whispered to her pretty, tidy children, "and stay by the church gate; and when you see your aunt, bring her to the door, but no further. I haven't seen her for twelve years!"

The invalid lay on a neat bed beneath the window of the front room.

And when Milly came, her eyes rested on a face which had once been like hers, but was not so any longer, for peace and joy shone on the wasted features, instead of hard care.

"Agnes!" she said, and came forward and knelt by the bed, burying her face in her hands.

"I could not find your address! I've tried over and over," whispered Agnes. "Look up, Milly, and kiss me; our time may not be long together."

So Milly got up and kissed her over and over again, stroking her thin hand fondly.

Both remembered that they had parted in anger twelve years before, and Milly had said she "would never see her, never, till her dying day!"

Ah! Words too true, as words are sometimes, which we fain would not have spoken!

"Will you forgive me?" said Milly brokenly.

"And will you forgive me?" asked Agnes. "I know what it is to be forgiven myself, by Him who loved me and died for me; and since then, I've never ceased to seek for you that you might be happy too, whether for life or death."

"Life!" groaned Milly. "That's but a hard, poor thing to me."

"Ah! But if you have my Saviour, it will all be different," whispered Agnes faintly. "You'll take care of the children—and there's a little annuity for you besides. God's been very good to me! I felt sure He would send you in time."

And it was in time. Before Agnes went "Home," Milly had time to go back to London and pack up her few belongings.

She bid good-bye to her kind neighbour, and thanked her over again for enabling her to travel down to see her dear sister. And then she returned to the sweet country home, and nursed Agnes and settled down to the care of the children, which she was to undertake henceforth.

"What you have been to me," whispered Agnes on the last day, "and what the Lord has done for me, words cannot say. To think He should let me 'know' that you have come to trust Him! That is worth all the rest."

"I am lost in wonder to think of His love," said Milly.

Hira's Quest.

## CHAPTER XII.—"HE CARETH FOR YOU."

AS soon as Mary Dayál had left, Rámpál Singh and his daughter began to think what means they could take for helping her, for they believed in "doing" as well as "praying."

"Shall I go and see my uncle," suggested Shushila, "and see what he advises? He knows Mark Dayál and his wife, and will know better than anyone else what is the best thing to do."

Rámpál Singh quite approved, and so, accompanied by the faithful Anandi, Shushila started for the house of her uncle Harnáth Singh, who was the pastor of the Hindustáni Church in this city.

It did not require much argument to enlist his sympathy with Mary Dayál and her family, and greatly did he rejoice to hear that one of his flock had received such great spiritual blessing. He advised waiting a few days to see whether the runaway husband would return, or send his wife any news of his intention. But in the meantime, he would be making all inquiries with regard to finding means of help.

When Komela, Shushila's aunt, joined her husband and niece, she was able at once to throw some light on the subject.

"It was only yesterday," she said, "that Miss Elsemere came to ask me if I knew of any truly Christian woman who could take charge of a small school she is opening for Hindu girls. She said, 'It must be one who will do this work for "Christ's sake," and not merely for the sake of a salary. I "cannot" ask anyone to take a share in our Lord's work who does not really love Him and wish to serve Him.'"

Shushila hastened to reassure her aunt on this point, and they all agreed that nothing would be so likely to strengthen the faith and warm the love of one who had so lately found Christ herself as to teach others about Him.

"Whether her husband returns or not, it will be well for her to have this work to do," said Harnáth Singh; "so the best thing will be to let Miss Elsemere hear of her at once, then she can go and see her."

"I am so glad," said Shushila, with a beaming face; "it seems as if God knew of the need which was coming and had prepared the supply beforehand. It will be a proof to Mrs. Dayál of what she may expect now that she has learned to know God and trust in Him."

"Yes, indeed," answered her aunt, "she will soon find what a difference it makes when we give up ourselves and all that concerns us into God's keeping, and know that our heavenly Father cares for us. But now tell me about your little blind Hira; I have heard nothing of her for some days."

"She is a strange child," answered Shushila, "and very difficult to understand. She is at the same time 'so' naughty and 'yet' so 'good.'"

"How do you mean?" asked Komela.

"I mean," was the answer, "that in some ways she is more naughty than most children. She will not do anything unless she chooses, and as for telling lies, she thinks nothing of it. But at the same time, she loves to hear about God and our Lord Jesus, and though she has been learning such a little while, it is quite wonderful how much she knows and remembers. I cannot understand what has come over her to-day; she has been sitting in the quietest corner of the house, and even when I called her to eat, she would not come, so I just left her alone."

"The more I hear of her," said Komela, "the more it seems to me that God Himself sent her to you, and that He has a work for you to do in training her, and then some special work for her to do. You will need much love and patience to accomplish your task, but I feel sure that it will not be in vain."

"I just love to have her," said Shushila warmly, "in spite of her naughtiness. I love her dearly, and her love for me quite makes up for any trouble I have. Most of all, I want you to pray that she may truly receive Christ into her heart, for until she does, I cannot think that it is right for her to be called by His name. I do not think she wants it either, for she seems quite to understand that there must be a great change in her before she can be a Christian."

"Would that all knew as much as this blind child!" said Komela earnestly. "Then there would not be so many bearing Christ's name and yet bringing dishonour on Him."

The day after this conversation, as Mary Dayál was busy in her house, there came a knock at her door.

For a moment, her heart beat faster; could it be that her husband had returned? Quickly, she went to unfasten the chain, and then saw that it was not her husband, but an English lady, who was standing there waiting for admittance.

Mary knew Miss Elsemere very well by sight, and had met her more than once. But this was the first time she had come to her house.

She was at once asked in, one of the broken chairs dusted for her, and then Mary waited to hear what was the cause of this unexpected visit.

She very soon felt at ease with her visitor, who spoke so kindly, and sympathised so warmly in her husband's absence, though she never said a word which implied that she knew why he had gone, or that he was in any way to blame.

Very soon she introduced the subject which was in her mind. She was just about to open a school for Hindu children, and wanted someone to take charge of it. Having heard of Mrs. Dayál, she had come to ask her about it.

For a moment, Mary was almost too much overcome to answer. Had the answer to her prayer come so quickly as this? It seemed almost too good to be true. Her heart was too full to say much, and if Miss Elsemere had not already heard her story, especially the spiritual part, she might almost have doubted whether this very silent, grave woman would be a suitable teacher for bright little girls.

When all arrangements had been made and she was just leaving, a little glimpse was given her into the heart of the one who, she trusted, had been chosen of God to be a fellow-worker with her in His service.

With tears in her eyes, Mary Dayál said earnestly, "It seems to me that it was God Himself who put it into your heart to ask me to do this work, and if so, He will help me to do it, though it may be difficult at first."

Miss Elsemere pressed her hand warmly as she answered, "We may be quite sure that God never gives us anything to do in our own strengths; in all our times of need, His word to us is, 'My grace is sufficient for thee.' I am sure you will find it so."

As soon as she was alone, Mary Dayál gave thanks for the light which had shone upon her path. Glad as she was to know that her children would be provided for, she was most glad to have this proof of her heavenly Father's care, and of His readiness to hear and answer His children's prayer.

Then there came to her mind that other petition, offered at the same time, that her husband might not only be brought back to her, but also be made ready to meet God.

If one had been granted, then why not the other also? So with strengthened faith, the wife determined that she would not grow weary, though she might have to wait many days to see the desire of her heart granted.

But there was something else for her to do besides pray; the prospect of so soon beginning to teach others about God made her realise how very little she knew herself.

The Bible, which had been for many days so little read and never studied, was now often in her hands, and as she sought for food to feed others, she was fed herself.

"It is a perfectly 'new' book," she said one day to Shushila. "I used to read the words, but they did not mean much to me; now it is just as if God Himself is speaking to me, and the words go right into my heart. I would rather give up anything than this book, though I have had it all these years, and cared little for it."

Shushila answered earnestly, "Is not that because it contains God's message to His children? As long as we do not know Him, we do not care to listen, but as soon as we know our heavenly Father and love Him, we listen to hear what He will say to us."

"If only I had known all this before!" said Mary with a sigh. "What a difference it would have made to my life! Now I feel that it has been wasted and spoiled."

"Yes, indeed," answered Shushila, "you have missed what alone makes our lives worth living. But do not be too sad; now you have given your life to God, He will make it new again according to His will; and after all, 'this' life is only just beginning—our real, perfect life we shall live with God."

That evening, the three younger children had gone to sleep, Mary was reading, and Reuben preparing his lessons for the next day.

Suddenly the boy looked up from his books. "Mother, tell me what it all means. Why has my father gone away like this? And why do you read so much and seem so different? It seems to me as if something has happened, and yet I do not know what."

Mary smiled at her boy's perplexity as she answered, "Yes, something very wonderful has happened, Reuben, but I do not know whether you will understand if I tell you."

"Why, mother, of course I will; you forget how old I am," said the boy with an air of importance; "please tell me."

Then the mother answered, "Reuben, this is what has happened: I have been trying to live my life without God, but lately my heart became so hungry that I could not stay away from Him any longer. The Lord Jesus has put away my sin and so brought me to God."

The boy looked surprised, for he had not expected such an answer. It seemed so strange to hear of heavenly things from the lips of one who had always been so taken up with the things of earth.

He had himself learnt much in school, but his mother was the last person to whom he would have thought of speaking of what was in his heart. His class in Sunday-school had at one time been taught by the pastor's son, Harnám Singh, and young though he was, he had not forgotten his teacher's earnest words; and this fact remained clearly impressed on his mind, that to belong to Christ and serve Him was the greatest honour to which anyone could attain.

When the teacher had had to be separated from his class, he had given to each of the boys a card, on which was printed the words, "If any man will serve Me, let him follow Me; and where I am, there shall also My servant be."

This card Reuben kept among his special treasures, and as often as he looked at it, he would say to himself, "When I am a man, I am going to serve Christ."

He had not yet learnt that "any man" means anyone, even a boy of ten years old. He felt glad as he listened to his mother's words, and after a while, said thoughtfully, "It will not matter so much that my father has gone away if God has come; He will take care of us."

The mother then told her son how that care had already been shown, but she added, "Although God is with us and caring for us, yet we must ask Him to bring your father back, for we want him too."

Already the faithful wife had forgotten all her husband's failings, and only longed for his return.

The Alms-house Inmates.

CHRISTMAS EVE was terribly cold, the snow fell fast, and the wind howled round the alms-houses, making the inmates shiver and draw nearer to their firesides. In the first house lived old Mrs. Lunn, or Beckie as she was commonly called, and when the wind blew more fiercely, she spread her old wrinkled hands to the blaze and said reverently,—

"I thank Thee, Lord, for all my comforts. Here I have a home and fire and many kind friends, while there are others who are hungry and alone.

"I wonder," added the old woman, "how Nancy is next door; she'll feel the cold terribly, and she always is in pain, so she can't help grumbling a wee bit."

Nancy was lying on her bed in the next house, while every bone in her old worn-out body ached. Yet when the bells rang out over the snow, she crossed her hands and whispered,—

"Let me be in heaven next year, dear Lord, and free from pain."

In number three lived Mrs. Peck, a little, nimble, bright old lady, who hopped about on one leg, as bright as a button.

"To-morrow is Christmas Day," she said. "Well, we'll all get something warm from the Squire's lady for sure; may mine be a petticoat, which I need sorely, then I'll be very thankful."

Away at the end of the row, and opposite to the men's houses, a couch was drawn to the window, and a frail, delicate woman gasped her life away.

"On Christmas Day—to meet them all again! Oh, I am ready, dear Lord, quite ready."

And when the Squire's lady bent over and whispered, "Mary, can you hear me?" the dying woman murmured, "Yes, the angels with their harps ringing over the snow."

When Christmas Day dawned, all the earth was white and beautiful. The old alms people, men and women, walked up to the Manor House, when each one received a present.

"There is one parcel over, ma'am," said the maid, when all the old folks had departed.

"Ah! Yes," replied the lady; "that was for Mary, but she needs no present now, her eyes have seen the King."

By Beckie's fireside sat Nancy, wrapped up warm and comfortable in a new Scotch plaid, and Mrs. Peck was there also, holding her petticoat under her arm.

"It's a wonderful thing, is prayer," she was saying. "I just asked God to let the Squire's lady give it me, and sure enough, I have it—you see."

The Hill above Nazareth.

LOOK at those angry men! You ask, "Whom are they angry with, and what has he done?"

That is the dear Lord Jesus.

Now I will try to tell you why the Jews were angry with Him, and what they wanted to do to Him that day.

Jesus had been baptised in Jordan, and had been led by the Holy Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by Satan for more than a month.

So you see Jesus knows what temptations mean, and He can feel for us.

Well, when Satan had finished all the temptations, Jesus came back to Nazareth, the town where He had been brought up, and when the Sabbath day came, He went, as He usually did, to the synagogue to worship God.

He stood up to read the Bible to the Jews, and then He explained to them how God had sent Him to be the Messiah they were looking for, and how He would bind up broken hearts and make all sorrowful people joyful.

The Jews listened to Him with great wonder, and some of them could not believe that one who had been brought up in their own town could possibly be the Christ.

Then the Lord told them that strangers and Gentiles would believe on Him, if the Jews would not; and after that, they grew very angry and took hold of Him, and thrust Him out of the synagogue and led Him up to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, that they might cast Him down from there.

How sad that they should want to kill the blessed Lord, who had just told them that He would be their Saviour and their Messiah!

You notice in the picture that Jesus did not resist them or seem angry with their cruelty. He was ever patient and loving.

The Bible does not say "how" He escaped out of their hands. It says: "But He, passing through the midst of them, went His way, and came down to Capernaum," and began healing the sick and doing kind things directly to those who needed His help.

Very soon, people began saying all round the country what wonderful things He did.

One day, He entered into Simon Peter's house, and there He found the mother of Peter's wife very ill with a bad fever. They had all seen the wonderful things that Jesus could do, so they begged Him to heal her. So Jesus told the fever to leave her, and she felt quite well all at once, and got up and waited on the Lord Jesus, and did her work as usual.

Soon the heat of the day began to subside, and all the people who had sick people in their houses brought them to Jesus, and the dear loving Saviour laid His hands on every one of them and healed them all.

Let us, like those people at Capernaum, bring all our troubles and sorrows to Jesus; let us kneel down and tell Him what we want most, and believe that He is able and willing to help us, and we shall know that He draws near to us and gives us the blessing which we most need.

The Stay of the Family.

"THE 'Doris' is to proceed to the Cape, Nellie, at once!"

"'What,' mother?"

"To the Cape at once!" repeated her mother slowly.

"Oh, mother! I thought Jim was going to cruise about in the Channel."

She bent over to see the words for herself, and her pretty placid countenance fell. The world would be changed for her if brother Jim were gone out of their life.

Hitherto he had been the one to see after their mother since father's death. His advice had been what had been acted on, his loving wishes had ruled the little home.

"The 'Doris' is to proceed to the Cape, Nellie,
at once!"

Nellie drew her fallen work back to her lap, but there was no more cheerful gossip with her mother, no more remarks as to what Molly and Pollie were learning at school, and how George was getting on at his new place—instead came down over her a blank feeling of dismay. Who would take the responsibility of the home if Jim were gone?

Then her thoughts went back to what she had been thinking of and praying about lately—how she could be more of a comfort to her invalid mother. Was this the opportunity come which she had longed for? But how different from anything she had planned!

Then she looked up and put her hand gently on her mother's arm.

"We shall all try to take care of you when brother is gone," she faltered with quivering lips. "I hoped he'd have come backwards and forwards as he had been doing; but if he goes—" Nellie knelt down hastily by her mother's side and put her head on her shoulder with an unwonted caress—"If he goes, there's always Jesus left," she whispered, "and He will never leave us and never forsake us, mother."

And while Jim was at the war, that was how Nellie became the stay of the family.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XIII.—HIRA'S QUEST ENDED.

WHILE Mary Dayál was rejoicing in her newly found peace and happiness, Hira's heart was daily growing sadder. At the time Mary told her that if she listened, she would hear the voice of the Lord Jesus speaking to her, she made up her mind that she would begin to listen with all her might. If she could not "see," at least she could hear, better than most.

So she crept away to the quietest corner she could find, and after saying,—

"Please, Lord Jesus, speak to me—"

sat still and waited for the answer. But though she waited long and refused to eat food, which she was always so ready for, or to sit by her dear sister Shushila, yet hour after hour passed, and still no voice came.

Again and again she cried,—

"Please, Lord Jesus, speak to me like you did to Rose's mother."

But there was no answer.

Then she began to grow angry. She had been deceived by everybody; there was no Jesus Christ at all. How could anyone know if they had never seen Him? It must be a lie to say anyone had heard His voice. If He were alive and close by her, as Shushila said, why did He not give her eyes, or at least answer her when she spoke to Him?

So she groped her way to where Shushila was sitting, and before her new sister knew that she was anywhere near, she was suddenly aroused by hearing an indignant voice say, "It is very wicked of you all to tell lies to a poor little blind girl who cannot see for herself. It is not true that Jesus Christ is alive; I do not believe He ever was. He does not make blind people see, and He does not speak so that we can hear His voice. I have been listening and listening, but no voice came.

"I am not going to get ready to meet God, because there is no one to make me ready. I will just go on being as naughty as I want to be, and if you do not like to have a naughty girl to live with you, I will go and beg. That is what my aunt always told me to do."

Shushila listened with astonishment to this outburst of childish wrath. But by the time it was over, the child, who was trembling with anger and excitement, felt two loving arms round her, and she was gently led to a seat.

Shushila did not speak at once, for it required some thought and prayer to know what to say. But she tenderly soothed and calmed the child she held so closely to her.

Presently she said, "Little sister, do you remember the night you came here? How you sat on the doorstep in the dark and storm, trembling with fear of the thunder and lightning? Then I came to you, and though you could not see me, nor hear my voice, yet you let me lift you in my arms and bring you into the house. You trusted me, even though you could neither hear nor see me.

"You are afraid now, not of storm and tempest, but of meeting God. You are afraid of your own heart, which is so full of all kinds of sin and naughtiness; and just as I lifted you in my arms and saved you from the rain and storm, so the Lord Jesus will surely save you from the fear and sin which are troubling you so much. Cannot you 'trust' Him, even though you cannot see or hear Him, just as you trusted me that night? It will grieve Him so if you do not, and He has loved us so dearly."

"But Rose's mother said she heard His voice," said Hira in a subdued tone.

"Yes, dear, so will you some day, just as you hear my voice every day, now you are in the house beside me and there is no noise of rain and storm. But you did not hear it when you were sitting outside on the doorstep, and did not know who was speaking to you."

"I think I will go away again," said Hira.

And as Shushila unclasped her arms, she groped her way back to her old place.

Then she knelt down as Shushila had taught her, and said,—

"Lord Jesus, I want to see you very much, but I am blind, and I want to hear your voice, but you do not speak to me; but most of all, I want to be ready to meet God, and to be made good, because I am so bad. Shushila says you are quite sure to do this, even though you do not give me eyes, or speak to me in a loud voice, because she says you love us so. Please, Lord Jesus, here I am."

Then into the dark, sinful heart of the blind girl, a light shone—the light of the divine love poured out in death on the cross for the very weakest and most unworthy.

As of old, the Son of God took the children in His arms and blessed them, so, as the risen and exalted Son of God, He drew the blind child to Himself, and Hira's quest was ended as she found the Saviour.

In the distance, she heard Shushila softly singing—

"Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do."

And as she listened, she knew what Mary Dayál meant when she said she heard the Lord Jesus speak to her.

TWENTY TIMES.

"COME near, Lizzie, and hear what I have to say!"

"I can hear!" called Lizzie at the top of her voice.

And the hens clucked, and the little kid "baa'd," and Snap barked, but Lizzie came no nearer. She tossed the corn to the fowls, and took no further notice of her mother waiting there.

"Lizzie!" called her mother, coming out of the doorway. "Lizzie, come at once!"

"What is it?" asked Lizzie very coolly.

Her mother advanced out into the sunshine and came slowly up to her. "Lizzie, you grieve me very much. I like you to play and enjoy yourself, but when it comes to not attending when I call you—"

She took the basket out of the little girl's hand, and led her gently into the house.

"What are you going to do with me?" asked Lizzie, raising her blue eyes wonderingly.

"I'm going to make you remember."

"But I haven't finished feeding the fowls."

No answer.

"Mother!"

No answer.

"Can't I put the little kid away?"

Her mother was getting out pencil and paper, which she laid on the table in front of the little girl. And then she drew a chair forward and put her gently into it.

Lizzie was awed by these proceedings. She was conscious that lately she had been taking advantage of her mother's frail health to do as she chose.

Her mother's thin fingers were tracing some words in large writing across one of the sheets of her copy-book, which, to Lizzie's astonishment, she had torn out for the purpose.

Torn out a leaf of her copy-book! The occasion must indeed be great. Then five words stood before her in rather trembling, but plain, round-hand—

"I must obey my mother."

"Write that twenty times before you move, Lizzie," said mother, "and when it is done, come up and show it to me."

Slowly she left the room, and Lizzie saw her going out to shut up the goat, and then watched her stoop and pick up the puppy and put him in his kennel. Fancy mother doing that!

"Twenty times!" How "could" she write all that? was her next thought.

At first, she decided she would not even try to do it. Then she heard her mother come back through the scullery and go up the stairs very wearily.

Lizzie's heart smote her. She remembered with dismay all those thoughts of independence and restiveness which she had been cherishing.

The sounds ceased, and perfect silence reigned. What was mother doing? But she might not go to see till the twenty lines were done!

Tears filled the blue eyes at last.

"Oh, mother, mother," she sobbed, "I do love you! Come down and kiss me!"

Perhaps her sobs were heard; there was a little movement above, and presently the face Lizzie loved best in the world was close to hers, and two arms were about her, and mother was whispering words of forgiveness and "beginning again!"

"Lizzie," she said, "if I were to let you go on being self-willed, what an unhappy girl you would grow up, and how wrong it would be of me! I love you too well, my darling."

And Lizzie wrote those twenty lines with dimmed eyes. But she did "begin again" in good earnest, and turned out to be mother's greatest comfort.

HINDERED.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"I DON'T believe I shall ever learn it!" Hugh thought hopelessly. "It's just one of those lessons that 'won't' get into your head."

"I say," began his next door neighbour, in a whisper, "did you see my kite go up last night?"

"Oh, bother!" exclaimed Hugh. "I'd almost got a line, and now I've lost it!"

"No, but did you?" persisted his neighbour.

Hugh frowned, and put his fingers in his ears. Harry was always trying to distract him, and the consequence was, down he went in his class.

No, the lesson would not get learned. Instead of the tiresome lines of poetry, which he hated, came a string of thoughts like these:—

"Harry does it on purpose; of course, Harry is clever, he can carry anything before him. My master always sets me the hardest pieces he can find! I've had a headache all the morning, and Harry always bothers more when he sees I've got a headache."

The preparation hour was over, and Hugh put his books into his satchel with a hopeless feeling that if he had conquered that tiresome poetry, he would have been able to fly "his" kite that evening. But now it was quite useless: there would be such a chatter at home, that with his headache, he would never do it!

So he entered the dining-room at home with clouded brow and heavy heart. His eyes fell on his little invalid sister, lying on her pillow in the corner.

She saw in a moment that something had gone wrong, and beckoned him to her side.

"Put my pillow straight, Hughie!" she said, gently.

He bent to do it, and then kissed the little white face.

"Has it been so tiresome?" she asked wistfully.

"The old story!" he said, bitterly. "Headache and stupidity. It's no use, Angel!"

"There's another 'old story' besides that one," she whispered, with a slight nod of her little head.

He shook his, as much as to say he was willing to be comforted, but—

Yes, she understood that, but it did not daunt her. She stroked his boyish hand with her thin fingers, and went on softly—"A lesson I had to learn seemed very hard this morning—"

He looked at her suddenly. Angel learning a lesson?

But she went on—"And I felt I could not! And then—then I remembered to tell Jesus about it, and He said, 'I'll help you, Angel; I've set it, and I won't let it be too hard!'"

Her eyes were full of tears, and his watered in sympathy.

"And then?" he asked.

"Then I felt I could go on learning it—if 'He' had set it!"

He squeezed her hand, thinking—how could he put Harry and his headache into one of the lessons Jesus was teaching? Then he raised his head.

"I see," he said, more brightly. "Angel, after tea, may I come and read my poetry over to you, line by line!"

And then the rest came rushing in, but the little comforter had had her chance—and had taken it!

A Schoolboy's Message.
"Oh, has it?" asked Tommy, looking up surprised.

THE FIRST DAY.

"WELL, Tommy, where are you off to?"

"To 'school!'" said Tommy impressively, with surprise in his tone. He thought everyone knew that this was his first day at school, and that he had in his pocket a bright penny which grandfather had given him in honour of the day.

"Oh, I see!" said the big boy, smiling down upon him and taking his hand. "So you have a new suit and a new slate. How kind your mother is!"

"Yes," said Tommy, as if that were a very ordinary affair, "and grandfather has given me this," letting the penny peep out of his pocket just a little bit.

"Oh!" said the big boy. "Someone else kind too, eh?"

"Grandfather's going away by train to the country to-day," pursued the child; "he's going to where 'he' was a little boy, and lived at a windmill, and went to school, like me, and he said he should be thinking about me all day!"

"I'm not as old as grandfather," said the big boy, "and so it's no wonder that I remember the first day 'I' went to school, is it? And you know I had no kind mother like you have, Tommy, and it was 'your' grandfather that gave me a kind word as I went past his cottage, that's done the good ever since."

"Oh! Has it?" asked Tommy, looking up surprised.

"Yes. He told me to remember that the Lord Jesus was close to me all the time, and would be better to me in everything than even father and mother! I've never forgotten it—never!"

They hurried along hand in hand, the little boy skipping over the ground with eagerness; while the big boy, who was a true missionary at heart, wondered if the tiny seed he had tried to sow would bear fruit some day.

But he remembered that we have to sow in faith, like Tommy's grandfather did in his case; so he ran along by the little boy, brightly planning to meet him after school to hear how he had got on.

Tommy never did forget that kind little word, and often when he would have been over-pressed by difficulty, or evil, he suddenly thought, "The Lord Jesus is close to me!" and took courage.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XIV.—BELIEVING AND CONFESSING.

ALTHOUGH Hira fully made up her mind that henceforth she was going to "try His works to do" who had so loved her, yet she found it was not always easy to leave off doing those very different works which she had been doing all her life.

It was not easy always to ask, "What would the Lord Jesus like me to do?" for one who had been accustomed to ask, "What would 'I' like to do?"

Shushila looked on and prayed much as she saw daily battles being fought, in which her little charge was sometimes defeated and sometimes victorious.

She understood that every contest was a clear proof that a new principle had been introduced into the child's life which was trying to subdue the old one.

There could be no doubt that, though still weak and faulty, Hira was really a new child in Christ Jesus.

Shushila began to wonder how she could best explain to the little girl the next step to be taken, so as to make her baptism a very real and lasting blessing to her.

So one day she read to her the story of the woman who touched the hem of Christ's garment and was made whole. And as she finished, she asked, "Hira, why do you think the Lord Jesus asked who it was who had touched Him? Because He must have known."

Hira considered a minute, and then she said, "Perhaps it was because He wanted her to say 'Thank you,' just like you teach me to say 'Thank you' when you give me anything."

Shushila smiled as she answered, "Yes, I think that was one reason, and besides that, I think He wanted her to let all those other people know how good He had been to her. When we were in church to-day, I thought that perhaps if the Lord Jesus had been there, as He was that day, He might have asked, 'Where is that little girl whom I have made ready to meet God?'"

"But, sister, if He had, I would have said directly, 'Here I am.'"

Then Shushila explained how the Lord Jesus had appointed a way by which His followers could confess Him before men, and let it be known that they belong to Him.

Hira listened gladly, then she said, "I am so glad, because I would not like anyone to think that I am a little heathen girl when I am not, and really belong to the Lord Jesus. Please let me be baptised very soon."

Shushila did not answer at once, then she said, "Hira, I want very much that you should be, but supposing after you have been called by the name of Christ and received into His Church you tell lies and get into those naughty tempers, those who see you will say, 'Is that what Christians do? Hira is no better than heathen girls'; and so the name of our Lord Jesus will be dishonoured."

The little girl looked very sad and grave, then she said, "Sister, do let me be baptised, and I will ask the Lord Jesus to put His hand on my lips so that the lies will not be able to come out, and another on my heart to keep the naughty tempers away."

"Yes, Hira," was the answer, "He surely will if you trust Him, for that is just what He came down from heaven and gave His life on the cross for. You have learnt that verse, 'Thou shalt call His name Jesus: for He shall save His people from their sins.' You are one of His people, and these are your two special sins, so I am sure He will save you from them; it is just what He came to do."

Hira gave a little sigh as she said, "I wish I could be cured like that leper was you told me about, his leprosy went away all at once. I wish my naughtiness would go like that."

Shushila could not help sympathising with the child's wish. "Do not you think, little sister," she asked, "that if you want to tell a lie, or to be angry, and you do not because you want to please the Lord Jesus, that is one way of showing that you love him, and that He is really able to save you? Those who are in no danger do not need to be saved, do they? You are going to be made a soldier of the Lord Jesus, and soldiers always have to fight."

"But you do not have to fight," said Hira.

Shushila smiled. "Yes, indeed I do," she answered; "sometimes I have to fight very hard not to be impatient with a little girl who will not do as she is told."

At this point someone came in, and so the conversation ended.

A few Sundays later, Hira had her wish and was baptised. It was a day never to be forgotten in her experience, for it was the "visible" line which separated the old life from the new, darkness from light.

Besides Rámpál Singh and his daughter, there were two others among those who were present who watched the ceremony with strong feelings of interest.

Of these, one was Mary Dayál, who had been much interested in the blind child ever since she came into their midst.

As she saw her openly confessing her faith in the Lord Jesus, and being received into His church, there was some regret mixed with her joy. She thought to herself, "Hira is a precious jewel which the Lord gave 'me' the opportunity of seeking and finding for Him, but I was unfitted for the work, and so He has given the honour to another."

As she thought of this, she determined that she would with all her heart seek for other jewels which should adorn her Master's crown.

The other spectator was of a very different appearance, and had very different feelings. Soon after the service began, there crept into the church a poor woman, who looked as if she was little accustomed to enter such places. Without looking for a seat, she sat down in a corner on the ground. No one noticed her except those who were sitting close by, and while the last prayer was being read, she got up and went out. Then Mary Dayál saw her and recognised Sukhiya.

Her fears had been to some extent realised. It was quite true that Hira, in the days of her comfort and prosperity, did not feel the need of her old friend as she had done when she was her only friend.

This was quite as much the woman's fault as the child's; for, partly because she thought she was no longer needed, and partly because she feared to let it be seen on what familiar terms she had been with the blind girl, she kept out of her way, and except when she came occasionally to sell her milk and butter, Hira saw nothing of her.

Still, it had occurred to her that she would like her old friend to be present at her baptism, and so she had begged her to come.

Sukhiya had promised, and that is why she was there; but to her, it was a time almost as sad as when her last child died. It was the final severing of the link which had bound her to the child who had filled the empty place in her heart, and been the one bright spot in her sad life.

Now Hira was a Christian, and to Sukhiya's mind that meant that henceforth she lived in another world to her own.

It was very true that every time the child had had an opportunity she had pleaded with her, "Sukhiya, do believe on the Lord Jesus, and let Him make you ready to go to heaven, for I do want you to come too."

But she had always shaken her head and said, "Child, I am too old and stupid to understand these new things. All my sense has gone in weeping. I will go on selling butter and milk a little longer, and then my days will end."

Hira grieved over the indifference of her old friend, for one of the first lessons taught her was that, having come to Christ herself, she should now seek to bring others; and who so likely to be the first as the one who had done so much for her in the darkest days of her life?

After leaving the church, Sukhiya went to her home, and that day no food was cooked, and no milk and butter sold, for the poor woman cared nothing for those things.

All that day she sat and wept. The next, she went out with her basket as usual, and her husband found his food cooked, and from that time, all went on as before, only that Sukhiya never talked of the blind child, and went to see her even less frequently than before.

There had been some discussion as to whether Hira's name should be changed at her baptism. It was Harnáth Singh's custom to let each convert choose for himself or herself, and child though she was, Hira was quite capable of knowing her own mind.

When she was told what was the meaning of her name, she said, "Then, please, let me keep it always, for I like to be a jewel belonging to the Lord Jesus; and some day, He will make me as shining and beautiful as a real diamond."

So Hira she remained.

A LIGHTENED LOAD.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

## CHAPTER I.

"IT'S so fearfully cold to-day, Mary! I do not seem to be able to get a bit of warmth!"

Mary looked at the fire, warm still, but dying down on the hearth. How fast the wood did die down, she thought, with a sigh. How many little things there were to do even to keep moderate comfort round her mother.

"I'll get some more wood, mother," she said patiently.

"Yes, do," said the invalid, not thinking much of the tired legs of her little nurse, nor noticing the pale cheeks which lately had grown so thin.

Mary put away the cups she had been washing, and took off her apron.

"Is there any wood outside?" asked her mother.

"Only a stick or two," said Mary. "It does burn away so fast!"

"I wish there were, I'm that cold, Mary! Be quick, child, and get some, will you?"

She cowered over the red embers, and Mary, thus urged, put on her hat and went out into the November mist.

She would not have disliked this if her legs had not ached so much, and if she had not felt so faint and hungry. She had been cleaning up all the morning; and then she had cooked mother's gruel. But the invalid had never asked her if she had had anything to eat.

Poor little Mary!

She took a piece of cord in her hand and slowly left the cottage door. She knew she would have a good way to go, for she and her mother, before she became ill, had picked up every scrap of wood that they could find near the house.

"I wish mother would get into bed; she would not feel the cold there," she thought, and then she ran back to suggest this.

"Oh, no, any dear; I'd a deal rather sit by the fire," said the invalid. "Only you be quick with the wood."

Thus bidden, Mary started once more. She walked and ran, walked and ran, till she had reached a spot in the forest where the wood began to lie about, and there she halted out of breath.

The autumn grass was strewn with leaves and bits of the branches blown off by the wind; and instead of gathering them up eagerly and returning, the little burdened girl sat down on the damp leaves and hid her face in her hands.

It was so hard—so hard! And she was so tired, and mother only thought of how bad she felt herself, and never guessed how tired and dispirited little Mary was.

Was there no help? Had she only to wipe away her tears and get up and go on again?

Mary sobbed hopelessly for a few minutes, and then a thought came over her, which, to her surprise, brought a sense of relief and comfort. How could it be? She was as hungry, as tired, as hopeless as before, and yet—

The words were, "Jesus wept."

She had a tiny text-book given her when for a few months she had lived in the town and had gone to Sunday-school, which contained a selection of the shortest texts in the Bible. Mary had promised her teacher she would read it, and occasionally she glanced in it to keep her word.

To-day, her eyes had lighted upon those two short words, and she had wondered, and closed the book.

Now they came over her with a sense of sweetness.

"Jesus wept"? That meant then that when He was on earth, He had been sorrowful like her! Was He? That was a nice thought, because then He would know something of how sad and lonely she felt.

"Jesus wept"! Then He felt for her, she was sure He did; for she remembered her teacher had told her that the Saviour knew all that was passing on this earth, even though He is in heaven.

Mary sat very still, while she thought of all this; and as she thought of it, she felt, without knowing how, that she had had an interview with the King of Glory, and that earth was a changed place.

Then her eyes fell upon the scattered wood, and she quickly gathered a large bundle, tied it together, and set off homewards.

She had not taken many steps before she heard a voice, and turned to find a neighbour calling to her to stop.

"Mary, I'll help you along with that bundle. Why, see, child, it's all coming undone! Lucky for you I overtook you. Why, child, what a pale face you have! I guess you've thought a goodish bit more of your mother than you have of yourself by the looks of you! I'll help you home with that wood."

————————————

## CHAPTER II.—CHANGED.

SO, helped by the kind neighbour, Mary brought the wood into the shed, and, carrying a few sticks in her hand, she entered the cottage once more.

Had a change come over her own heart only, or was there something different in her mother's too?

Was it only the unexpected bright blaze of the firelight that made Mary's blue eyes shine?

"See, Mary! Dick brought home this wood all of his own accord, and I've got nice and warm; and I've made a cup of tea ready against you came in. Why, child, how pale you look!"

Mary's blue eyes, which had been shining in the firelight, were shining in tears now, the solicitude was so unexpected—and so sweet.

"Thank you, mother," she said gratefully; "but where is Dick?"

"Dick's gone out again to fetch in some more. Come right along and have a cup of this steaming tea. It will put some life into you, child!"

Mary took the tea, and stood by the fire warming herself and looking down on her mother.

"Are you better, then, mother?" she asked quietly.

"I don't know as I am, my dear. But while you were out in the forest, and I sat thinkin' by those few embers, I kind of dreamed that I heard someone a-knockin' at the door. It was different from our neighbour's knock, and somehow I knew it wasn't her; and I sez, 'Come in, Lord,' afore I thought as this ain't no place to ask Him into."

Mary looked up startled, while her mother went on—

"And He said some words like these, which it seems to me as I've heard long ago, 'Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in and sup with him, and he with Me."

"How nice!" whispered Mary. Had her mother seen a vision of Jesus too? That Saviour who wept with the sorrowful, would He come in and sup with those who welcomed Him?

She bent and kissed her mother's forehead.

"So I seemed to wake from my dream, and I said, 'Lord Jesus, if you are knocking at my heart, I'm willing.'"

Mary's eyes shone again.

"I have not thought of these things as much as I ought," she went on musingly, "but there was a time when I did. Perhaps this illness, Mary, has been sent to lead me back to Him. If so, I'm glad on it!"

That night when Mary went to bed, she knelt down in the moonlight and looked up to her pitiful Saviour, and thanked Him for letting her feel His sympathy, and for bearing her through so wonderfully.

When she came down the next morning, Dick had already lighted the fire and set on the kettle.

"Why, Dick!" she exclaimed.

"Do you like it?" smiled her brother.

"Oh, Dick, you can't think how a little thing is a help. Thank you so much."

So they set about getting the breakfast together, and it took half the time, of course, to Mary's great satisfaction.

They did all very quietly so as not to wake their mother in the next room. And when they sat down, Mary whispered, "Do you know, Dick, who it was, I think, that told you to help me?"

Dick shook his head. "Nobody did," he said, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth.

"Ah, but I know better," said Mary, smiling; "and, Dick, I like to tell you, because He'll help you too—it was Jesus our Saviour, Dick!"

IN THE PRISON.

YOU have most of you heard the story of Joseph: how his jealous brothers sold him for a slave, and how he was carried away from his loving father to a country, a long way off, called Egypt.

Yes, you smile and say you have heard all about Joseph: how God was with him and made him ruler over the land, and how his father and his brothers all came down to Egypt, and how he forgave his brothers and gave them nice fields for their flocks, and made them as happy as ever he could.

But there is one thing which I wonder whether you have ever heard about Joseph.

You ask what that can be, because you have read the history in Genesis so many times.

This picture tells you what it is.

In the 105th Psalm and the 17th and 18th verses we read: "He sent a man before them, even Joseph, who was sold for a servant: whose feet they hurt with fetters: he was laid in iron."

Now, I think this verse is a great comfort to people who are in any trouble.

Perhaps you ask—Why? Because it tells me that though it was hundreds of years after when God told David to write that psalm, yet "God" had not forgotten that His faithful Joseph had been laid in iron and had his feet hurt with fetters.

So it seems to me that there are numbers of places in the Bible which show us that God is watching over us all at all times; that whether our troubles are very great or very small, He notices them, and remembers them, and sends us deliverance out of them.

Joseph was cast into prison and bound by his angry master, though he had done nothing wrong, yet God soon delivered him from the chains and fetters.

We read that the Lord was with Joseph, and showed him mercy, and made the keeper of the prison kind to Joseph, so that he began to trust him and gave him charge of the other prisoners, and whatever Joseph thought best to be done, they did.

Joseph was in the prison for quite two years, but God was watching over him, and at the end of that time caused Pharaoh the king to have a wonderful dream; and he sent for Joseph to explain it to him.

Perhaps you remember how Joseph had told Pharaoh's butler and baker the meanings of their dreams when they were in the prison with him? At any rate, when Pharaoh had his dream, the chief butler suddenly remembered how he had promised when he was set free to speak to the king about Joseph.

So he asked Pharaoh to send for him, which he did. And God told Joseph all about the dream, and Pharaoh was so astonished and delighted that he released Joseph from prison, and made him a great ruler in the land of Egypt.

See what it is to be "God's" servant!

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XV.—HUNGER AND THIRST.

MANY days had passed without bringing any news of Mark Dayál, but still his wife watched and prayed, believing that sooner or later she would see the answer to her second petition, as she had done to the first.

In the meantime, the school had been opened and Mary installed as teacher. At first, it hardly seemed as if this could be work for God, teaching the alphabet to children who at first seemed to make no progress, and only wished to play and tear their books.

When it came to the Scripture lesson, it was not much better; either they "could" not or "would" not remember, and every day the same thing had to be repeated.

But as time went on, a change came. The teacher found that if "some" of her pupils were dull and stupid, "all" were not, and as she saw their faces beginning to brighten with interest, and their eagerness to answer the questions put to them, her courage began to rise.

Perhaps one great secret of the change was this: Miss Elsemere came to the school one day, and seeing the teacher looking very depressed, and hearing her words of discouragement, she said as she was leaving, "Shall I tell you what has often helped me very much in my work? When I have had to teach those who seemed careless and indifferent, I have prayed,—

"'Lord, help me to love these children as Thou dost love them; give me love like Thine.'

"And you know love makes everything easy."

Having proved the help of prayer in other difficulties, Mary was quite ready to try it in this also. She was not disappointed, and as she began to love her little pupils, she wondered how she could ever have thought them dull and unlovable.

But it was not only in her new work that Mary Dayál found that knowing Christ, and seeking to follow Him, had not changed the world in which she lived, though it had entirely changed her relationship towards it. Like Hira, she too proved that a soldier must fight, and many a hard battle she had to engage in.

Like Hira, too, she turned to Shushila for help and guidance. Doubtless they both felt, without saying so, that one who lived so near to God must know His will and be able to help others to do it.

One day Shushila found her friend looking more than usually downcast, and without waiting to hear the cause, asked, "What new trouble is it, Mary, which is making you look so sad to-day? Have the children been more troublesome than usual?"

"Oh, no, it is not the children; I think they get better every day. It is myself I am troubled about, for I seem to get worse daily. I thought that when I let the Lord Jesus come into my heart, He would turn all the evil straight out, and I would find it quite easy to be good; but it is not so. I have been doing my own works so long that it is almost impossible to leave them off and do only His works, though I do want to."

"That is just what Hira says," answered Shushila, "and I am sure all the followers of the Lord Jesus have to learn the same lesson. We have to find out our own utter weakness before we can prove the greatness of His power. It is not enough to commit ourselves to Him; we must also believe that He is able to 'keep' that which we commit.

"It often seems to me that many of our difficulties arise from this, that we so little know and comprehend the unspeakable 'love' and 'power' of our dear Lord. We are so inclined to think of Him as being like ourselves."

Mary did not speak, so Shushila spoke again.

"I have learnt so many new lessons since Hira came to live with us. She can do so little for herself, poor little one, and yet she is so anxious to that, she often gets into trouble.

"Only to-day she wanted to take a message to my father alone. I let her go, but she fell and hurt herself; presently she came to my side, and slipping her hand in mine, said, 'Sister, you take me.' I thought, 'Is not that just how it often is with us and the Lord Jesus?' We try to go our way alone, and do what we have to do without Him. If we would only in the beginning, put our hand in His and say, 'Lord, do Thou take me,' He would indeed fulfil His promise and keep us from falling."

Mary's face brightened as she said, "I am sure it was the Lord Himself who sent you to me this afternoon, for it just seemed as if I had come to such a difficult place that I could not go on any farther. Now I see that it does not so much matter if the place is difficult, if the Lord Jesus leads me over it."

Then after a pause, she said again, "It seems as if I have so much to learn, because all my life I have been doing things and seeing others do them which I did not think were really sins, but now I see they must be for those who are called by the name of Christ and profess to follow Him."

"What sort of things do you mean?" asked Shushila.

Mary paused a minute, and then answered, "I feel almost ashamed to tell you, because you are so good, but I have never thought it any harm to tell a lie sometimes, if it seemed necessary, or to go into debt. And as for grumbling and complaining if things did not go right, or getting angry if others did not please me, why, I have done it constantly, and never thought I was sinning against God."

"But what makes you think that these are sins now?" asked Shushila.

Mary smiled as she said, "Knowing you for one thing, for I see quite plainly that you do not do them, and if they are not right for you, they cannot be for me either. Then, too, I read so much in the Bible which I never noticed before about being holy. I cannot think now how I could ever have thought that I could be a Christian and yet do just as I like."

Shushila took up a Bible which was lying on the table, and opening it, read, "'The great God and Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us, that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself a people for His own possession, zealous of good works.' Whatever we or others may think it means to be a Christian, that tells us quite plainly what the Lord Jesus means by it, and why He gave Himself for us—not just to take us to heaven that we may be happy there, but 'to redeem us from all iniquity, and to make us a people for His own possession.'"

"But that must mean after we get to heaven," said Mary.

"I do not think it can mean that," answered Shushila, "because listen to what is written, 'For the grace of God hath appeared, bringing salvation to all men, instructing us to the intent that, denying ungodliness and worldly lusts, we should live soberly, and righteously, and godly "in this present world," looking for the blessed hope and appearing of the glory of our great God and Saviour Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us that He might redeem us from all iniquity, and purify unto Himself a people for His own possession, zealous of good works.' You see, it says quite plainly what we are to be in 'this present world,' not at any future time."

"But surely there are very few who do this," said Mary, with a sigh.

"Then all the more reason that 'we' should," was the answer. "Does it not seem very sad that the dear Lord should not see the accomplishment of His purpose? We may be quite sure that nothing less will satisfy Him than that for which He gave Himself. 'He died to make us good.' Does not the thought make us long to be so?"

Shushila found it was now time for her to return home, but she left a bright ray of light behind her. And as Mary thought over what had been said, she began to realise that what the Son of God had given Himself to accomplish, must be possible.

Then there came to her mind a text she had often repeated in her childhood, but little understood the meaning of, "Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled."

With all her heart, she thanked God for the hunger and thirst of her own heart, which brought with it the blessed assurance of future satisfaction.

THE RINGLEADERS.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"THAT'S our master!" said Jim.

"It isn't! He ain't a bit like that."

"You do it better, then!" said Jim.

"All right," said Ned, "so I will."

He took the chalk, and, with his companion jeering at him all the time, he rubbed out the first attempt and accomplished a second, much to his own satisfaction.

"Now I'll put him on his hat," exclaimed Jim, "and then we'll walk away and watch to see the old bird coming along. Won't he just be mad?"

There was a lot of loose wood piled up in the corner of their playground, which afforded delight to the boys at all times. Sometimes it served for a lion's den, at another for a castle, at another for a palace most rare and beautiful.

To-day, as the two hastened towards it, their imagination made it into a cave in which fierce robbers lurked, and they stealthily made their way behind some of the slanting pieces, and crouched down to watch for their victim.

It seemed a long ten minutes, and their patience was almost exhausted. They could hear the other boys racing and tearing and shouting in the field on the other side of the wall; and they almost thought of giving it up and joining the more lively game beyond.

Just as they had reached this conclusion, and were whispering it to each other, the head master came out into the empty playground. He glanced round, and then slowly began to pace up and down in the shade, his head bent and his hands clasped behind him.

"He's up to mischief," said Jim.

"No, he ain't; that's the way he walks mostly when he's thinkin'. He's not a bad sort," said Ned.

"N-o-o," assented Jim; "if you don't come across 'im too much. Hush—"

The master turned their way, and walked straight to where their sketch stood out boldly in the sun. The master came to a stand in front of it, and still he kept his quiet hands clasped behind him. Then he walked briskly towards the wood pile.

Jim and Ned shook in their shoes, or would have if they had had them. But Ned bethought himself that he had done no wrong. And when the master peeped down beneath the boards, his eyes met a candid pair of brown ones that somehow touched his heart with a sort of tender stab.

"Hullo!" he said. "What are you two doing here?"

Jim was covered with confusion, and could think of no ready answer.

But Ned, still looking into his master's face, added naïvely, "We was waitin' for someone, sir—"

"I suppose it is meant for me," said the master, smiling slightly. "Nobody else wears a hat quite like mine. Was it meant for a compliment?"

He sat down on one of the logs, and took Ned's soiled little hand in his. "You are the two boys who love to be called pickles! I was wanting to ask you both if you'd be my right-hand boys. I once had one such as you," he said, glancing at Ned, "and I wish I had him now, pickles and all!"

After that, the head master had no firmer friends than Jim and Ned, and somehow, when the ringleaders in mischief turned good, the rest followed.

The master never forgot that pair of brown eyes, and years afterwards, Ned became his greatest comfort, as his love that day had been Ned's greatest help.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XVI.—HOME AT LAST.

MONTH after month glided quietly on, till a year had elapsed since Mark Dayál left his home.

His children had almost forgotten the time when they had a father—all except Reuben, who had grown a tall, manly boy, and was the chief help and support of his mother.

Those who spoke of the missing man shook their heads and whispered mysteriously that there must have been more in his disappearance than they had imagined; if he were living, he would surely have sent some news of himself before this.

Mary heard nothing of these hints and suspicions, and it was well for her she did not. In spite of her faith that God would hear and answer her prayer, her heart sometimes failed her, and she grew weary of the long waiting and watching.

It was true that this year of sorrow and anxiety had also been one of great blessing; that was evident to all.

The family had been obliged to move into a smaller house, at a lower rent, but it was kept so much more clean and tidy that no one could regret the change. Mary herself in her busy life, teaching her school and looking after her own children, could hardly be recognised as the untidy, discontented woman who had done so little in past days. The children too, though it needed more than a year to correct the negligence and bad management of former years, were learning to be obedient and less self-willed.

The heavy burden of debt under which it would have been almost impossible for the lonely wife to have made her way had been taken off her by the united efforts of several kind friends on condition that nothing should ever induce her to go into debt again.

To this Mary readily agreed, especially when it was pointed out to her that "Owe no man anything" is one of the commands of God's Word, and cannot be broken by His own obedient children.

Harnáth Singh had undertaken the education of Reuben, while another friend had shown the same kindness to Julius, the second boy. And thus the burden had been lightened, and with great care, it was possible for Mary to provide for the needs of her family.

The school had prospered under her charge, and as she listened to the children joining eagerly in Christian hymns and repeating texts so willingly, and realised that only a year ago they had not even heard the name of Christ, she thanked God for having given her the honour and privilege of making known His great salvation to these little ones outside the fold.

If it had not been for the cloud which always rested on her heart and life on account of her husband, Mary Dayál would have counted herself a much-favoured and happy woman.

One day she was returning home from school, when, just as she reached her door, a postman came up, "Can you tell me anything of a Mrs. Dayál?" he asked. "Here is a letter with that name, but the address does not seem to be right, for I cannot find it anywhere."

"I am Mrs. Dayál," said Mary, her heart beginning to beat. Could it be that news had come at last?

She held out her hand for the letter and recognised her husband's handwriting at once.

The postman, relieved at having found the rightful owner, went on his rounds, while Mary turned into her house, and with eager hands opened the much-longed-for letter.

Her hands trembled so that she could hardly read it, and the letters seemed to dance before her eyes. Gradually she became calmer and was able to read what was written.

"MY DEAR WIFE,
"I am almost ashamed to write the word because I feel I no longer deserve to call myself your husband, and that is one reason why I am writing this letter instead of coming myself. Another reason is that I cannot come to be a burden on you. After these many days of silence, my own fault I know, the other day I heard news of you and my children, and from what I heard, I know that my going away did you no harm, but rather good.
"I am told that my wife has become so good and industrious that I should hardly know her, and my children so well-behaved and obedient that they are favourites with all. I might tell you that I am changed too; but how will you trust me when I have so often deceived you? I shrink from coming to the home which 'you' have made for yourself and the children. I would rather make a home to which I could fetch you, but that may take time, and there is much I want to tell you.
"First of all, I ask you to forgive me for forsaking you as I did, and I leave it for you to decide whether I shall return.
"Your affectionate husband,
"MARK DAYÁL."

By the time Mary had finished her letter, she could hardly see for tears, but they were tears of joy, not of sorrow. Was not this letter a proof that her prayer had been answered? What but the grace of God could have transformed her husband so as to make him write a letter like this?—He who had always been so quick to blame her, but never himself.

No time must be lost in sending an answer. And though writing materials were not abundant or often used in this house, a sheet of paper was found, and the few words necessary quickly written.

"MY DEAR HUSBAND,
"Come home as quickly as you can. I forgive you all; please forgive me too. The new house is very near the old one.
"Your loving wife,
"MARY DAYÁL."

Just as the letter was finished, Reuben came in and was at once despatched to buy a stamp and post the letter.

"It is to your father; he is coming home," was all the explanation given to the astonished boy as he was hurried off on his errand.

It was difficult for Mary to give her mind to her work the next day. However much she tried to keep her attention to what she was teaching, she constantly found herself wondering by what train her husband would arrive, and would she be there to receive him.

Happily for her, Miss Elsemere paid a visit to the school that day, which relieved her for a time and also gave her an opportunity to say, "I am expecting my husband home to-morrow."

Miss Elsemere knew enough of the teacher's story to understand how much that one sentence meant, and her heart went out in loving sympathy to the wife who had borne her grief so bravely.

"Then you must have a holiday," she said at once; "so do not think of coming to school, and I will arrange for someone to take your place."

This removed a great difficulty, and as Mary saw her pupils depart and started for home, she felt she was now free to give herself up to the thought of meeting her husband and hearing all he had to tell her.

"How much 'I' shall have to tell," she thought to herself; "and even if he has not yet come back to God, surely when he hears of all the Lord's goodness to me and the children, it will touch his heart and bring him back."

But something seemed to tell her that her husband, like herself, was already "a new creature in Christ Jesus." Had not this been her constant prayer all through the year? And why should she not believe that it had been heard and answered?

Very little sleep came to Mary Dayál that night. And when it was still scarcely morning, she was awake and active, for it might be that the traveller would arrive by some very early train.

When school-time came, the children begged that they might have a holiday as well as their mother, and so all the family waited in readiness to welcome the father home.

It proved to be a long wait, and when four o'clock came and still no arrival, Mary's heart began to sink. Perhaps the letter had not been received, or she had not said enough to show that he would be welcomed back.

Suddenly the door opened, and the long-expected wanderer was present in their midst.

In a moment, Mary saw how much her husband must have suffered during those days of absence; he looked so thin and ill, and at least ten years older than when he went away. But the change in his words and manner was even greater than that in his appearance, and again came the thought, "What but the grace of God can have accomplished this?"

The children, who had forgotten so much of the past and felt no fear of this quiet, gentle man, clustered round him, while baby Rose very soon held out her arms, and claimed the place of honour.

It was just as well that the little ones were so ready to talk, for their parents found their hearts too full to say very much at present, and each was longing to hear the story the other had to tell, but as yet there was no opportunity.

For some months, Mary had made it a custom to gather her children round her after the evening meal, and read and pray with them.

As the time drew near, she began to wonder what she should do. She felt too shy to pray before her husband, and yet she could not be quite sure that he would be willing to take her place if she asked him.

Reuben solved the problem. It was always his part to fetch his mother the Bible; this evening, he hesitated a moment, and then handing it to his father, said, "Will you read to-night, father?"

Mark Dayál took the book with a look of surprise and pleasure, and after turning over the leaves, began to read Psalm ciii.

Then they knelt down, and as Mary heard her husband pray, she knew without the shadow of a doubt that her own prayer had been answered. These were not the words of one going his own way and seeking to do his own will, but rather the reconciled and forgiven son telling out the gratitude of his heart to the loving Father who had so wonderfully cared for and guided His children.

As Mark's prayer ended, Mary's heart was too full to remain silent, and she added her petition and thanksgiving to that of her husband, and so it came to pass that each learnt of the change in the other, and of the blessing received, as they knelt at the feet of Him who had done so much for them.

As they rose from their knees, Maggie whispered, "Sometimes we sing a hymn; would you like to hear us, father?"

A ready consent was given, and after a little discussion, "mother's most favourite one" was chosen. And so the first message which Mark Dayál heard from his children's lips was the one which had gone home with such power to the heart of his wife. As they heard together the words—

"Oh, dearly, dearly, has He loved,
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood,
And try His works to do—"

each determined afresh that, because of that great redeeming love which had done so much for them, they would, with all their hearts, and to their life's end, "try His works to do."

LOOKING FOR FATHER'S BOAT.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"COME along, Hans!" said his sister, pushing back the bowl which had held his porridge. "What a time you have been!"

Hans looked rather discomfited. He glanced at his spoon, and then at the empty bowl, taken so far away, and finally deciding that it was very unpleasant to be spoken to so roughly, he began to cry.

"Hullo!" exclaimed his sister sharply. "What's that for? You leave off, or you'll get a slap, I tell you!"

She paused abruptly, for slowly and painfully their invalid mother was making her way into the kitchen, and Minette had not intended her to hear such talk as that.

The mother bent over her little boy, and kissed his forehead, and then stood smoothing his hair with her thin white fingers. Minette often thought how white they were for a working woman.

She did not speak, but her presence soothed both her children—the eldest and the youngest. Hans left off his sobs, and Minette busied herself in finding her bonnet and a fish basket, preparatory to going down to meet her father's boat.

"Run outside, Hans," said their mother's gentle voice, "and Minette will come in a minute."

The girl moved towards the door, but a gesture from her mother stopped her.

The child ran out, and their mother sat down by the fire and beckoned her daughter to her side.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, raising her eyes anxiously to the clouded face above her.

"Nothing," answered Minette, abruptly.

"Nothing, when you treat your good little brother so?" asked her mother. "What if I were not here, Minette?"

Minette felt a great inward pang, but she replied gruffly, "You're always fancying things, mother! One can't be sweet all the time—at least, I can't—and Hans has been half an hour over his porridge, and you said he must not go till it was done."

"Well?" asked her mother, gently.

"Well! I wanted to go quickly," said Minette, frowning, "and Hans always spoils everything. You're so faddy with him, mother! It would not have hurt him to go a little short for once—"

"I think he would often go short if it were left to you, dear," said her mother, patiently. She ceased to look up, for her eyes were filling, and she could not.

"May I go?" asked Minette, edging towards the door.

"Yes, dear," answered her mother. "Someday, you will understand how patient we have to be with the little ones—"

And then Minette took Hans by the hand, and they went to the shore, while the wind blew in their faces and moaned round the boats.

The fishing boats were long in coming, and Minette had time to think over her mother's words. Surely "she" had had patience shown her all those twenty years she had lived in that little cottage! Could she not bear with her little brother?

"Poor mother," she thought, with fresh tenderness, "poor, dear, mother! How hard it must be to be so ill, and to know that she'll have to leave little Hans to—such as me! But when I go back, I will kiss her and tell her I'm sorry, and that I'll never behave so again—never!"

Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate.

Under the Lych Gate.

THERE were voices in the doctor's hall, and Eileen Lanyon sprang from her seat and opened the drawing-room door to peep out. Was it her father at last?
But no! A tall, awkward boy stood there facing the old housekeeper. There was a pitiful ring in his voice, though it was angry too.
"I tell you it'll be too late!" he said. "Can't ye tell me where I'll find the doctor? My mother's dying! The doctor might save her."
"I don't know!" said the housekeeper's voice. "I can't say what I don't know, I s'pose."

"Then it will be too late!" The boy turned away, and the housekeeper went back to her kitchen grumbling. "It's all nonsense about dying," she muttered; "it's all dying if their little finger aches. They'll kill the doctor between 'em."

Eileen shut the drawing-room door and pondered. Where was her father? Why, he had said he would finish putting up the Christmas motto in the church at five o'clock! Like a flash, she was across the hall and had flung open the front door. But the boy was gone. Nothing but the white snow and the dark, bare trees lay between her and the road. It was getting dark, and only the red sunset still lingered in the west, but Eileen's resolution was taken. She would go down to the church herself and tell her father. She could still hear Dick Donovan's despairing "Too late!"

In three minutes, Eileen was dressed and on her way. Such a little girl to be out alone on that snowy Christmas Eve! However, the loneliness did not daunt Eileen.

But the church was still and dark. Evidently her father had not come yet. Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate. How lonely it was! How still! Eileen's heart seemed to stand still as the trees creaked in the breeze. Once she turned to rush home, but then the thought of Mrs. Donovan checked her, and she looked up into the quiet sky. After all, Christ, whose birthday they would celebrate to-morrow, was near her. No harm could happen to her, and He could keep Mrs. Donovan alive till her father could come.

So busy was she with this thought that she did not hear her father's step till he spoke her name: "Why Eileen!"

She sprang into his arms and poured out her story, and the doctor went at once.

Late that night, when the Christmas bells were pealing joyfully, the doctor bent over Eileen's bed.

"Mrs. Donovan is saved," he whispered. "Half an hour later and I should have been too late."

Eileen stood and waited under the lych gate.

"ME TOO."

THE glory of the setting sun streamed across the wide sea, and one long ray crept through a port-hole in a ship and lit up a tiny cabin.

In the narrow berth, a young seaman lay dying, and he spoke to the sailor who knelt beside him.

"The sun's setting," he said. "I'd have liked to die at home, but it doesn't matter now—I'm nearly home, John. Ask Sandy Miller to see me before I go."

John rose obediently and passed out of the little cabin, but he felt it was on a fruitless errand, and he wished George had been satisfied to die without asking for Sandy. George had been no favourite with the elderly Scotchman, and if Sandy had an enemy—well, the enemy was apt to have an unpleasant time, and George had had no peace since the day when he had openly confessed before the men that he was a Christian.

And now George was dying—they had hoped to reach England before the end came, but the disease had come with a gallop, and he would not see home again. He had always been John's "protégé," but John was astonished now to see how the other sailors rallied round George. They nursed him, watched by him, read his little Bible to him, and vied with each other in serving him; and yet he was the youngest and most insignificant on board, and he had dared to speak to each of his Saviour.

Sandy alone never visited the lad, Sandy alone never asked of his welfare, and now George had begged for him to be fetched.

Sandy leant on a rail watching the setting sun. He started as John touched him.

"What do you want?" Sandy growled.

"George is dying, and he wants to see you," said John briefly.

Sandy's face turned to a dull red. "Let him die," he shouted hoarsely. "How dare you come to me with his messages? Let him die, and the sooner the better; there'll be one less to ask if you're saved. Saved, indeed! I wish I had thrown him overboard before he asked me."

He flung off John's hand and turned his back.

Well might he wish that he had thrown George overboard before the lad spoke about his soul's salvation, for not one minute's peace had Sandy had since.

John went away, and Sandy leaned on his rail and watched the sinking sun. A sort of hush came over the ship, and he knew that George was dead. And if he were, where was he gone, and what made him happy to go into that unknown world?

Sandy shivered as his eyes followed the pathway of crimson that stretched away to the far-off sun. What a long way away heaven was! And how could one be sure of going there?

Then like a whisper of the sea wind came back to his memory the words George had said that day he spoke to Sandy: "This Man receiveth sinners."

And Sandy's proud heart bowed itself.

"Me too, Lord," he whispered. "I have been a sinner and a rebel all these many years, but if I'm not too bad, take me and make me clean."

And somehow a sweet assurance that Christ Jesus had accepted him came to his heart.

Sandy did not keep his change of heart to himself. That very night, he told his mates that he was a Christian like George now. And when he had done speaking, one by one his mates rose up and shook his rough hand.

"George has done us all good," they said.

"MASTER, REBUKE THY DISCIPLES."

WHEN the time was getting very close for the Lord Jesus to be crucified—that He might die for our sins instead of us—He went up to Jerusalem, willingly going among the Jews who, He knew, would take Him and kill Him. He did all this because He loved us so very much.

As He got near to the city, He sent on two of His disciples to find a colt for Him to ride on.

Jesus knew everything beforehand, and He told them just where the colt was tied and what they should say to the man to whom it belonged.

This man must have loved Jesus, for directly the disciples said "The Lord hath need of him," he let the colt go at once.

No one had ever ridden that colt before, but Jesus, the Lord of Glory, did not have any trouble with him. They put their garments on him for a saddle, and Jesus sat on him, and so they went along towards the city.

The people who had been healed, and who had seen some of the wonderful things Jesus had done, began to rejoice very much as they saw Him riding there so gentle and lowly, and with such tender compassion in His face.

They ran before Him, casting down their clothes for Him to ride over. Others cut down branches of trees and strewed them along the path; while even the children ran along by His side shouting, "Hosanna! Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord."

And the whole multitude, as they went down the hill from the Mount of Olives, began to praise God with a loud voice for all the mighty works which they had seen.

But some of the Jews were very displeased indeed, and they asked Jesus to stop His disciples.

But Jesus told them that if the disciples were to hold their peace the very stones would cry out for joy.

And why do you think that was? Because He was coming to save us.

       "He knew how wicked men had been;  | So out of pity Jesus said
        He knew that God must punish sin; | He'd bear the punishment instead."

Do you feel, children, that you wish you were good, or that you are sorry that you did something that was naughty, perhaps to-day, or yesterday, or a long time ago?

Well then, think of His love in dying for you, and be comforted.

You can say to yourself: "Jesus came to save even me. He lived on this earth for thirty-three years, and at last died on the cross that I might be forgiven and made God's happy, holy child."

There is a very short little prayer that you can pray every day:

"Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."

That little prayer has made little children, and old people too, so happy. For if we ask God from our hearts to wash us in our Saviour's precious blood, we shall be whiter than snow, and we "shall" be ready to go and be with Him in heaven.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XVII.—ANOTHER PRODIGAL SON.

WHEN the children, in spite of the excitement of the day, had at last fallen asleep—all except Reuben, who had his lessons to prepare for the next day—Mark Dayál proposed to his wife that they should go and sit on the roof, where they could talk together without disturbing anyone, or being overheard, and Mary was only too glad to comply.

The first question to be settled was, which was to be the first to relate the story of the past year.

The wife insisted that Mark must have his turn first, because, she said, "You can see that we are all quite well and have not suffered, but when I look at you, I know that you must have gone through much trouble and distress, and I long to hear all about it."

Mark could not deny his wife's words, and consented to tell his story first, which shall be related as he told it.

"I expect you soon guessed why it was that I went away—that once more I had lost my employment and felt ashamed to come home and confess it.

"I was angry with my master, and spoke rudely to him, so he dismissed me at once, saying that he already had had no intention of keeping me.

"I felt still more angry then, and I thought, What would be the use of going home to be scolded by you and hear the children crying for food? You had had trouble enough with me, now I would see how you would get on without me. So I determined to go away. I had no intention of staying away so long, or of sending no news. I thought I should soon find work elsewhere, and then I would send you word where I was and what I was doing.

"But the time never seemed to come when I could give a good report of myself. If I found work, I lost it again sooner than ever. I just lived from hand to mouth, and every day my condition seemed to get worse.

"I could not write and tell you this, so I thought I had better not write at all. Then I began to think it would be better if I never wrote. It was much better that you should have no husband than a bad one, and that the children should have no father than such a one as I was.

"I knew that you had good friends in Harnáth Singh and his brother, and that they would never let you starve; indeed, they would find it far easier to help you when I was out of the way.

"So the time passed on, and more and more I became weary of my life and weary of myself. I did not always stay at the same place; again and again I persuaded some kind person to pay my fare to another town, on the plea that if I could only get there, I was sure of obtaining work. But it was not often that my hopes were realised.

"In this way month after month passed by, till at last I felt as I think one must do who has fallen into some deep pit.

"I was sinking, sinking lower and lower; below me was ever dense darkness and above me appeared no gleam of light.

"I little thought that my very depth of need was to bring me deliverance.

"During all those days of want and misery, I had very seldom been inside a church.

"At first, I did not care whether I went or not, for I had hard thoughts against God, and considered that He had favoured me less than others, and less than I deserved.

"Later on, if I had wanted to go, I should have felt ashamed. My clothes were so old and ragged, and, as you know, I had always liked to 'look' tidy and respectable, whatever I might be.

"That particular Sunday I was going to tell you about, I felt more than usually wretched and miserable. I was really ill, although I did not know it, and if I was ill in body, I was still more so in mind.

"Then I heard the church bells begin to ring, and suddenly it came into my mind, 'I will go into the church to-day.' I know now that it was God who sent that thought to me.

"I never considered how I looked, I had got past caring about that; besides, no one would know me. So I started in the direction the sound of the bells seemed to come from, for this was a strange place to me, and I had never seen the church. When I tried to walk, I found how weak I was, but though I had to stop and rest every now and then, still I kept on—something seemed to say that I 'must' get to that church.

"At last I arrived, but the service had begun, so I just slipped into a seat at the back, where I thought no one would see me. At first I was too tired to take much notice of anything, and though someone was kind enough to offer me a prayer-book, I felt too weak to stand up and join in the service. Suddenly I found my attention drawn to what was going on; before that I had only been thinking about myself and my own misery.

"A young man from the congregation was reading the Second Lesson, and as he read, I could not help listening, every word sounded so real. It was not that he was reading any thing new and strange; it was only the story of the Prodigal Son, of which I had learnt every word by heart when I was a boy at school.

"But somehow as I listened that Sunday morning, it seemed as if I was hearing my own story, as if I was that very prodigal son myself.

"I could just see that poor fellow in his rags and hunger, having come to the end of everything, and he was a perfect picture of myself. As I heard the words, 'Father, I have sinned against Heaven and in thy sight,' I just caught another sight of myself which I had never seen before. I was no longer the poor, unfortunate, ill-used man, to be pitied and helped, but I was a guilty sinner before God, bearing a name which I had no right to, and bringing dishonour on Him whom it ought to have been my greatest delight to honour and obey.

"My life, so full of sin and failure, passed before me, and in my shame and sorrow of heart, I forgot to think of my physical weakness and misery. Surely it was God who drew me to that church that Sunday morning and then met me there.

"It would have been well for me if I had said then and there, 'I will arise and go to my Father'; but though I heard the words, I did not make them my own. Surely I was the son in the far-off country, but I had no strength to turn my steps towards the Father's house.

"I don't remember anything of the rest of the service; I had heard my message, and nothing else mattered to me.

"The closing hymn had been sung, the last prayer read; then the congregation began to disperse, but still I sat on. I seemed to have no strength left to get up and go away.

"By-and-by, someone came and touched my arm and said, 'Brother, I fear you are ill. Can I do anything to help you?'

"I lifted my head and saw that it was the young man who had read the Second Lesson, which had so much impressed me, who was standing by my side.

"'Yes, I am ill,' I answered with some difficulty; and then I could say no more, I was too faint and dizzy.

"I hardly know what happened next; I heard voices which seemed to me far away in the distance, then I felt a strong arm put round me, and I was led out of the church. After that came a perfect blank, of which I can tell nothing.

"One day I came back to life and found myself lying on a bed in a strange house. At first I thought I was quite alone. But after a while, I heard a sound as of someone moving about, and presently a man came in sight.

"I was still more puzzled, for I knew I had never seen him before, and had no idea as to who he was. He did not notice that I was watching him till he came to my side with a cup of soup, then he looked very pleased and surprised.

"I drank the soup without a word, for I felt too weak to talk, though I longed to ask where I was and what had happened.

"Then I fell asleep, and was awaked by the sound of voices. And when I opened my eyes, I saw standing by my bedside, not only the man who had given me the soup, but also the young man who had read the lesson in church.

"I soon found that he must be a doctor, for he felt my pulse and asked many questions about me. He evidently thought me much better and seemed very pleased. Then, turning to the other man, he said, 'You will be willing for him to go to the hospital now? He is so much better that it will be quite easy.'

"'Why should he go to the hospital,' was the answer, 'now that he is getting well? In a few days, there will be nothing wrong with him.'

"'You are an obstinate man, Sath Guru Dàs,' said the young doctor, 'and evidently determined to have your own way, so I suppose I must let you keep your patient. You have done a good deal towards saving his life, so it is only right you should.'

"I said nothing, but I wondered more than ever what it could all mean.

"When the doctor had left, I called the other man, whose name I found was Sath Guru Dàs, to my side and asked him to tell me what it all meant, and how I came to be there.

"Then he said, 'When you came into church last Sunday, I saw you, and I thought to myself, "That is some brother in trouble." I watched you all through the service, and felt sure that you must be very ill and weak. When the congregation left and you still sat on in your place, I asked the young doctor who was here just now to come and speak to you. He said you were very ill, and as my house was close by, we brought you here, and here you have stayed.'

"'Why did you not take me to the hospital?' I asked.

"After a pause my new friend answered, 'That I can hardly tell myself, only I think the Lord must have put it into my heart to bring you here and care for you myself. Perhaps some day we may understand why it was.'

"Then I said, 'If you had known what a worthless fellow I am, you would never have taken me in.'

"There was a tone of rebuke in his voice as he said, 'Brother, you are worth so much that the dear Lord came down from heaven and gave His life on the cross for you; that which cost Him so much can never be worthless to His followers.'"

SUNDAY LESSONS.

Gladys is the little teacher.

           IT is peaceful Sunday morning,   |  'Tis the story of the shepherd,
             Stillness in the air,          |     Who his lambs doth guide,
           Only all the birds are making    |  In the pastures green and happy
             Music everywhere.              |     By the waterside.
                                            |
           In the nursery too are voices,   |  Gladys is the little teacher,
             Earnest, low and sweet,        |     Bob the scholar small,
           As the children to each other    |  And the Shepherd is the Saviour,
             Holy words repeat.             |     Who has loved us all.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XVIII.—THE FATHER'S HOUSE.

"AFTER that I did not answer, but I lay and thought. Of course I knew all about the life and death of Christ; indeed, I know it so well that it had become like an old story to me. I had never doubted that Christ gave His life to save the world, but this man seemed to single me out as if it had been only for me that the great sacrifice was made.
"Then there came back to me the words I had heard read in the church, and how I had felt myself to be the prodigal son who had wandered far away from the Father's house.
"I was too weak to think it all out, but this much I knew and understood, that I had sinned against Heaven and in God's sight; and now here was another great fact, heard from the lips of the man who had taken me, a needy stranger, into his own house: 'The dear Lord came down from heaven and gave His life on the cross for you.' If it was true I was a great sinner, it was true also that there was a great Saviour.

"From that day, I began to improve rapidly. The young doctor came to see me regularly, and Sath Guru Dàs never seemed to weary of attending to me.

"I used to look at that man and wonder what made him so different to other men. I could see that he had not had much education, for it was with difficulty that he could spell out the words of his Bible, which he seemed to love to read. Another thing I noticed was that he seemed to do nothing without praying about it first; I got to know that when he went away and left me, as he did sometimes quite suddenly, it was that he might go into a little room alone and pray. And so I began to understand that this man, who in himself was neither clever, nor great, nor better than others, possessed a wonderful power, because he lived his life with God and in constant touch with Him.

"One day I overheard him as he was praying say,—

"'O Lord, reveal Thyself unto this poor, sad heart, that he may know what a Saviour he has in Thee, and let him go away from here to live a new life in Thy strength.'

"I cannot tell you how it touched me to hear this stranger praying for me so earnestly, and my own heart said,—

"'O Lord, reveal Thyself to me.'

"I believe that was the first time I had ever 'really' prayed.

"I found that my new friend was a colporteur, and as soon as I was well enough to be left, he began to go his rounds with his books to sell.

"One evening he said to me, 'Brother, do you feel well enough to read a little? I am but a poor reader myself, but I love to be read to.'

"Of course I said I was quite willing, and asked what I should read.

"He brought me a New Testament in Hindi, and pointing to Luke xv. said, 'Will you read that, brother?'

"I felt quite startled when I saw what it was. It seemed almost as if he must have known what had been in my mind during those days.

"I began to read, but as I read on, it became more and more difficult. The words almost seemed to choke me, and my voice trembled again and again.

"As I read the sentence 'He arose and came to his father,' Sath Guru Dàs suddenly put his hand on mine, and said in a voice almost of entreaty, 'Brother, will you?'

"I was wholly taken by surprise. What did this stranger know about me, that he should understand that I was like the son in the far-off country? It was true that 'I' knew, but how should 'he?'

"I determined then that I would hide nothing from this true friend, who had done so much to save my life, and was now praying for my salvation. So I said, 'Brother, I will tell you all, and you shall judge whether I am fit to be received into the Father's house.'

"He answered, 'Brother, it is not a question of your fitness, but of the Father's love; but tell me all.'

"Then I told him the story of my life, and you may be sure that I did not try to make myself out any better than I was.

"When I finished, he said, 'Brother, one thing I am quite sure of—that you are just the very one the Lord Jesus spoke of when He said, "The Son of Man is come to seek and to find that which was lost." You are so altogether lost that none but He "could" find you. He has followed you into the "far country," and now, don't you hear His voice calling you home to the Father's house?'

"I could not deny his words. Surely it was nothing less than a divine hand which had been leading me on step by step till I stood at the very threshold of God's kingdom.

"I could not turn back, and so I arose and came to my Father.

"I need not tell you that I was not turned away; that, as I had seen I was like the son in the parable, so I found that the loving, forgiving father who ran and fell on his son's neck and kissed him was a picture of God Himself.

"I found, too, that the son wandering in the far-off country, ragged and hungry and weary, was just a new man altogether when he came into the father's house and was clothed and fed and loved. It was indeed true 'old things had passed away, and all things had become new.'"

"Thank God!" said Mary earnestly as she listened to her husband's words. And then, after a pause, she asked, "And did you find out who your friend was, and why he had been so good to you, a stranger?"

"There was not much to find out," was the answer. "He was only a poor ignorant man, as this world would call him, who had only been a Christian for a few years, but I feel sure he is a prince in God's kingdom, and will have a seat very near his Master in the coming glory. It was for the love of that same Master, he took me in and served me so faithfully. And when I expressed my wonder at his goodness to me, he only said, 'Brother, it was for the dear Lord's sake. What am I here in this world for unless it be to do His work? It is what He himself would have done, only far more; and what right have we to be called by His name if we do not follow in His steps?'

"The next day he said to me, 'Brother, what are you going to do now?'

"I had not made any plans or thought what I would do; indeed, my heart was so full of joy and thanksgiving that my sins had been forgiven and I received by the Father, that I had not thought much of earthly things. But my friend's words made me think, and of course I knew that I could not continue where and as I was.

"So we talked things over, and as I shrank from coming back to be a burden to you, we decided that I should wait a few days and gain a little more strength, for I was still very weak. What astonished me very much was to see the joy of both Sath Guru Dàs and the young doctor over the change which had been wrought in me. If their own brother had been raised from the dead, I do not think they could have been more glad.

"But I must not tell you any more, for mine has been a long story; and now tell me yours."

So Mary told what had befallen her, which we already know. And as she finished, her husband exclaimed, "Now I see it all as plain as daylight; you were praying hard, in the dark, as it were, not even knowing whether I was dead or alive, and God was listening and answering, and leading me step by step on the path which was to bring me home to Himself."

Then together the husband and wife afresh prayed for forgiveness for all the sins of the past, especially for the great sin of forgetting Him who had so manifested His love for them. Together they gave thanks for the great salvation which had become theirs, and gave themselves anew to be His for ever who had endured the cross for their sakes.

Jesus Looked round about upon all Things.

AFTER the Lord had been brought in triumph into Jerusalem, and after the multitudes had done crying out, "Hosanna to the Son of David!" Jesus entered into the Temple. And it tells us in the Gospel of Mark that "He looked round about upon all things."

Now it seems to me, children, that this is what we should think the Lord Jesus is doing now.

He comes into the temple of our hearts, or He comes into our homes, into every room that we live in, and He looks round about upon all things.

What does He see?

Here in this picture of the Temple of God, when He was upon earth, He saw many things which He did not like at all.

The people who had offerings to bring to God, had got careless about the holiness of God's House, and they began to buy and sell the offerings within the Temple. The people bargained and cheated, and bought and sold, without thinking that God was dwelling there, and that His House was not to be made into a market.

Then some people wanted their money changed, and so tables were set up where the money was spread out, and those who were buying went to them to get change to pay for their purchases.

At length, things got to such a pass that the Jews even kept their oxen and sheep inside the Temple to be ready to be bought by those who wished to make God an offering for their sins.

Think what confusion, and dirt, and disorder must have been all about.

So the Lord Jesus was very grieved, and the next day, He came and turned them all out, and told the Jews that God's Temple was meant to be a House of Prayer, but that they had made it a den of thieves.

Now, before we finish this little story, I want us to look into our hearts and just think what the Lord Jesus sees there, when He comes and looks round about upon all things.

What does He see? Does He see a heart with lots of naughty things in it? A heart which does not mind telling an untruth? A heart that would not mind cheating in a game? A heart which does not mind thinking a naughty thought, or doing a naughty act?

Oh, if He can see any of those things in the temple of our hearts, let us ask Him to turn them all out, and make it clean and fit for Him to visit and stay in.

Perhaps, instead of that sad list of things, Jesus can see a heart that loves Him.

Perhaps He can see a heart that goes, every time it gets soiled by sin, to His precious cleansing blood to be washed white.

If He does, then Jesus is glad to look into that loving, washed heart, and He says, "I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a humble and contrite heart, to revive the heart of the contrite ones, and to revive the spirit of the humble."

This is what Jesus will do for you, and for me.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XIX.—SUKHIYA'S FALL.

IT was one day, a few weeks after Mark Dayál's return to his family, that Sukhiya was sitting in her house alone.

It was a hot, sultry evening, and there seemed to be no air to breathe in the tiny courtyard and still smaller verandah of her poor abode.

The evening meal had been cooked and put on one side for when it was wanted, and, having nothing more to do, Sukhiya decided that she would go on the roof, where it might be a little cooler than it was below.

It was a poor, rickety ladder to climb, but that was nothing to one who was accustomed to have most things broken and rickety. The roof, too, looked anything but safe, but Sukhiya never gave that a thought, for had she not sat on that same roof many and many a time during the past years and nothing had ever befallen her? So she sat and fanned herself, and gradually the sun went down and darkness gathered round her.

Suddenly she heard a sound below. Maybe her husband had come back and wanted his evening meal, or worse still, it might be one of the many monkeys of the neighbourhood, who had come to help himself to some of her bread. Anyway, she must not sit fanning herself any longer, but go quickly to see what was happening.

Alas, poor Sukhiya! She tried to go too quickly, and in her haste and the darkness, she never saw how near her foot was to the sloping edge of the roof. There was a cry of distress, a heavy thud, and a motionless figure lay in the middle of the small courtyard below.

Happily it was not a monkey, but Sukhiya's husband, whose coming in had disturbed her and brought about this catastrophe.

He was a poor, helpless old man at the best of times, and as he saw his wife lying at his feet unable to move or lift herself up, he was very perplexed.

Gradually it occurred to him that if he could do nothing himself, at least he could call someone who could.

When it was once started, it did not take long for the news to spread. And in a very short time, the small courtyard was crowded. They lifted the injured woman, regardless of her groans, on to a bedstead, and felt her limbs to see what bones were broken.

Each one had some different remedy to suggest, and some of the wiser ones advised taking her to the hospital, but as others protested against it, nothing was done.

Presently Sukhiya left off groaning for a minute, and with some difficulty gasped out, "Bring Hira—I want to see Hira."

Then there followed a discussion as to where Hira was to be found, and an old woman, who said she knew the house, volunteered to go and bring her.

"Tell her," gasped the injured woman, "that Sukhiya is dying; then she will surely come."

So the old woman started on her errand. She had some distance to go and she could not walk very fast, for her back was bent nearly double, and it was only with the help of a stick that she could walk at all.

When at last she reached the house, it was some time before she succeeded in making anyone hear. Rámpál Singh and his daughter were not at home, Anandi was ill, and Hira was absorbed in her book, which Shushila was teaching her to read with her fingers.

When the old woman came in, she was so tired with her long walk that she had to wait a little to recover herself. Then she explained, "Sukhiya the ghi-seller sent me; she has fallen off the roof. She says she is dying, and wants the blind girl who lives here to come and see her."

Hira needed no persuading, and was ready to go at once, but Anandi was not so sure. What would her master and mistress say if they returned and found that the blind girl had gone out alone with a stranger who was quite unfit to protect her? If she could have gone herself, it would have been quite easy, but that was impossible, for she had no strength to walk so far.

In the meantime, Hira had thrown a large shawl round her, and was ready to start. What could Anandi say? So she let her go, but with many misgivings and entreaties to return as soon as she possibly could.

When the old woman and her charge arrived, the crowd was still there, indeed it had increased, for as they looked at the face of the suffering woman, they knew that what she said was true; she was indeed dying.

They had tried their best to help her; one had brought oil to rub her with, but she groaned so when she was touched that not much could be done in that way. Another, who said he knew how to set bones, tried to show his skill, but Sukhiya's screams soon put an end to his attempts. A doctor was brought and ordered some medicine for her to drink, which someone was busy preparing.

In the midst of it all, Hira arrived, and the crowd divided to let her pass. The past year had wrought a great change in the blind girl's appearance. She had grown so much taller, and instead of being unwashed and uncared-for, as in the days of old, everything betokened the touch of loving hands. In her spotless sari, she formed a great contrast to the dirty, squalid group into the midst of which she came.

There was no need for anyone to lead her to the spot where Sukhiya lay. The groans of the dying woman were a quite sufficient guide.

Sukhiya tried to raise herself as she saw the girl coming to her side, but only fell back with a heavier groan, as she moaned, "All my bones are broken; that terrible fall has killed me, but I had to see you once more. Come close, for my eyes are getting dim and I can hardly see you."

Hira stretched out her hands to find a place by her old friend's side, and then sat down on the edge of the bedstead. She could not see the look of death creeping over the face she had never seen, and knowing how little the expression, "I am killed," often means, she wondered whether the case was really quite so hopeless.

How she wished that Shushila, or even Anandi, had been there with her!

She too had heard of the hospital and what wonders were sometimes accomplished there, so she also thought that if only the sufferer could be carried there, even if her bones were broken, she might live and not die.

But as soon as Sukhiya heard the word "hospital" she only groaned again and said, "What is the use of a hospital when I am all broken to pieces? I tell you, child, I am killed, and now that I have seen you I am quite ready to die and escape from this pain and misery."

At the words "I am quite ready to die," Hira started. Supposing it was true that her old friend's life was ending, was she ready to die, still more, was she ready to meet God? If there was nothing to be done to restore her to life, at least she might try to prepare her for death; for she knew that of all the crowd assembled there she alone knew that secret.

Bending over the stricken form beside her, she said softly, "Sukhiya, you say you are ready to die, but are you quite sure? We must get rid of sin before we can meet God."

"Child," gasped the woman, "what do I know about sin? I have always told you I have no understanding for such things. And now I can only think of this awful pain, and long to get out of it."

Poor Hira, it seemed so easy and simple to her that the dying woman should stretch out her hand to the One mighty to save, and find life as she met death. But what could she say when the one for whose salvation she so longed seemed to care nothing about it herself?

"Shall I sing you a hymn?" she asked, thinking of nothing else to say or do, and Sukhiya always liked to hear her sing.

"Yes, child, sing," said the voice, growing feebler every moment.

A hush fell on the crowd, and not a sound was heard as the blind girl sang in a clear, sweet voice the same words that had first told her of Jesus Christ and His great salvation.

Sukhiya had left off groaning; she had hardly strength even for that. But the eyes, which were fast closing to the things of earth, rested lovingly on the face of the blind girl.

"You are never hungry now, little one, and no one ever beats you or makes you cry," she whispered.

"Oh, no, Sukhiya dear; everybody is so good to me, and I am always happy," answered Hira, wondering what she meant.

"I would have taken care of you and kept you, but what could I do? I could not even keep my own children; they all went one by one. Now I am going too." Slowly came the words, and then Sukhiya lay still.

Hira bent fondly over her. "Sukhiya, Jesus Christ is here; take hold of Him, and He will save you."

"Jesus Christ, save my soul!" The words were so low that only Hira could catch them, but surely there was One standing by whom they saw not, whose ear can catch the faintest whisper, and who never fails to see the least spark of faith.

There was silence for a few seconds, then someone said, "She is dead," and straightway rose a wail of grief and mourning.

OUR JACK-A-NAPES.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

## CHAPTER I.

THAT morning, as Sailor Jem had been busy on the shore preparing for his fishing expedition, his son Jack had come sauntering along the sands with his baskets of fish.
"Ain't you sold any more than that?" asked his father in surprise.
Jack hated to be blamed (who does not?), and he answered rather roughly, "I've sold all I could; it ain't my fault that the folks won't buy."

"Have you been up to the Vicarage?" asked his father.

"No; the baskets was that heavy I couldn't get as far. I thought when I had sold some, they'd be a bit lighter."

"And they will have been looking out for you all the morning!" said his father vexedly. "The cook always likes some fresh fish for lunch, and you'll be too late! Run off as fast as you can!"

"I'm not agoin' to run," grumbled Jack beneath his breath. "It's a mile if it's a inch, and it'll take me a good hour, and all for nothing, perhaps."

"Go at once!" thundered his father. And then he turned to his boat and went on splicing a rope, his face grave and his heart as heavy as a piece of lead.

"Ain't you sold any more than that?" asked his father.

When Jack was at length out of sight, an old man, who had been watching them both, turned to Jem with a quiet sympathy in his look as he said, "'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord—' We mustn't get too disheartened, my son!"

"No—no!" said Jem. "But sometimes one gets so disappointed, father! The youngster ain't doin' quite as I like. He's lazy, he is. You may work for 'em night and day, and after all, if it don't go exactly as they consider it should, then they go and think you're hard on 'em! That's what I find."

"Yes, Jem, that's so; but I got to learn, as I grew older, that it's a good thing as the Lord's patience don't run out as soon as ours, for if it did the rope wouldn't be long enough to pull us to shore!"

"I'll think of that, father." And then he went home to his dinner, and to wish his wife good-bye.

————————————

## CHAPTER II.

"YOU'LL get that net done, I reckon, before I come home again, Minnie?"

"That depends how long ye're gone," his wife answered with a smile, which in her young days had caught her James's fancy more than anything else about her.

He laughed now in a good-humoured sort of way, as he turned over the net and measured it with his eyes.

"And see to that young Jack-a-Napes of yours, and make him a good boy."

His wife put down her netting needle and looked at him. "Do you really mean that?" she asked gently.

"Of course I do! One can't get a bit of peace with him, first this, then that—you make him mind, wife! That's what I mean."

"I can make him mind," she said very seriously, "but as to making him good—"

He stooped and kissed her good-bye. Perhaps he did not guess what a pang of pain he had given her.

"I'm off," he said cheerily.

But she detained him by an earnest gesture. "Jem," she said, "he's your 'Jack-a-Napes' as much as mine! We must both pray for him that God may make him all we would have him—it's only He can."

The father nodded, and then, the last moment having come, he made a bolt for it, and went clattering down the little steps to the shore, while she stood watching till she saw him get into his boat and start with the others for his two or three days' fishing.

She did not know why her husband's mind had been specially full of young "Jack-a-Napes" as he had called their only boy, but she wished he had not spoken of it at the moment of their parting.

Jack made his way slowly back from the Vicarage. He had been too late, after all. When he sauntered into the cottage, his baskets were heavier than he liked, and his pockets were lighter.

"Why, Jack!" said his mother peeping into the basket.

For answer, Jack sat down and burst into tears.

"Aren't you well?" asked his mother.

Jack shook his head, and then sobbed out that father was cross, and he wasn't going to sell fish any more if people wouldn't buy, and if he was to be scolded when he did his best.

His mother looked at him for a few moments without speaking, and then she placed his food near him, and went on with her netting.

Jack wiped his eyes and ate his dinner in silence. He could not quite make his mother out.

"Jack," she said, when he had finished, "take one of those baskets and go out again and see what you can do. 'If a man will not work, neither shall he eat,' is the Bible rule. And I'm not going to have you idle all the morning, and then think you'll play and eat as usual."

Jack slowly went forth again, but he found most people supplied, and he had hard work to get even some of his fish sold.

Meanwhile, his mother prayed over her netting. She had been young and troublesome herself, she knew; and every day, even now, she saw how much patience God had with her!

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## CHAPTER III.

SO when Jack brought his empty basket at last, and laid the money down on the table, she kissed him, and said a cheery word or two.

"Jack, I see you have done your best to make up for this morning! Now, have your tea, and then you may go down to see the boats in. There's a high sea on, and they'll have a job to beach them. I'm glad in that way that your father won't be in to-night. He's safer out there."

Jack lifted his face to give her a kiss.

"Thank you, mother," he said, more gratefully than was his wont.

And he was off like a shot to the only landing place where, in rough weather, the boats could be brought up, and there he stood among the men, ready to catch the rope that was thrown, or to do any little service with all his might.

"I hope it won't be like this when father lands to-morrow," said Jack to himself. "Poor father! I wish I hadn't been so rough to him to-day. But I never can hold my tongue! Perhaps some day, when I get older—"

And then some of his grandfather's words had come back to him—"Jack-a-Napes, there's nothing like serving Christ for getting rid of the devil! That's the best way, my boy!"

The next day, however, the wind had risen to a gale, and the waves dashed against the cliff with the noise of thunder.

Jack did not say much. But he started out bright and early with the remainder of his fish, and often he cast a glance over the sea and at the scudding clouds, longing that the wind might abate before the other fishing boats were expected.

Perhaps he had never spent such an unhappy day. He remembered how he had wished in his anger yesterday that father never would come back; and the thought seemed to burn into him like fire.

The moment he could get off, he ran down to the beach, and there he stood for many long hours, sheltering from the wind behind a big rock, and watching the sea line with large anxious eyes. What if father never came back?

It began to grow dusk, but still he watched. Suddenly in his despair, he thought of praying! He dropped on his knees behind the great rock, and though his voice was drowned by the thunder of the waves, he felt sure God heard his broken words.

"Please, heavenly Father, forgive me, and make me a good boy to father, and bring him safe home, for Jesus' sake."

He rose feeling wonderfully comforted, and then he saw a stir among the sailors, and on the crest of a wave fast coming in was his father's boat!

"Thank the Lord!" said grandfather's voice close to him. "For hearing our prayers and bringing him home, Jack-a-Napes!"

"PUNCHINELLO."

A TRUE STORY.

GWENDOLINE hugged her doll rapturously, and, looking up in her mother's face, exclaimed, "I love Punchinello better than 'anything' in the world!"

So saying, she put him down to go and learn her evening text.

To-night it was, "Little children, keep yourselves from idols."

"What does 'idols' mean, mother?"

"Anything in our hearts that we put in the place God ought to have; or anything that we love more than we do Him," said her mother softly.

In her own mind, she was learning the text too, and as she gazed at her little daughter afresh, she was asking that she might love her heavenly Father more—much more—and her fatherless little girl next.

Gwendoline, unconscious of her mother's thoughts, learned her text, and then went to bed, returning only for her good-night kiss.

"Mother," said she, as she lay in her arms for her "cuddle," as she called it, "mother, is God sad if we have an idol?"

"Why, yes, Gwenny, He is, for He loved us so much as to give His Son to die for us."

"Then—" with a slight sob—"I mustn't love Punchinello 'best' any more."

"No, darling; and He loves you so much, it will not be hard to love Him."

"I will, I do," said the child softly. "And, mother, please may I give Punchinello to the little lame Mary, and that will 'help' me not to love him too much."

So next day, Gwendoline took her dear Punchinello to little lame Mary, and added a great brightness and joy to the life of the sick child.

As she put the doll into Mary's hand, Gwendoline whispered, "It is because Jesus loves me I give you that, and also to help me remember to love 'Him' best; so you'll remember too, won't you?"

Mary did remember, every time she played with her dear dolly.

And little Gwenny went home and remembered too.

So years passed on, and Gwendoline learned to love Jesus Christ and God much best, and was content to leave her nice home and go and teach the heathen of His great love.

And her mother had her prayer answered, and she too learned to love God best, and was willing to spare her child to do God's great work.

And so their prayer was answered.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XX.—BEHÁRI LÁL.

DURING the time Rita was singing, a boy who was passing down the lane had been attracted by the unusual sound. And then, seeing the crowd gathered, had joined in, and standing on the outskirts listened to the hymn being sung. At first, he could not see the singer, but by gradually forcing his way, he at last came in sight of her.

If anyone had been watching him, they would have seen him give a violent start. He might have seen a ghost, and indeed he thought he had, for as he looked at the scene before him he felt quite certain that the blind girl, arrayed in her clean white sari, sitting by the side of the dying woman, was none other than his cousin Hira, who had died a year ago.

Had he not been present when Sukhiya had come in and announced her death, with bitter cries and reproaches?

Anyway, she was sitting there before him—whether in real flesh and blood or not, he could not tell. He had heard of strange things happening at the time of death, and even he could see that the woman lying there was dying, so maybe the girl who had been so loved by her, though by no one else, had appeared to comfort her at that hour.

Still, being a plain, matter-of-fact boy, he hardly thought this likely, and was much more inclined to believe that Hira really had never died; so he determined to wait and see what would happen next.

As soon as Hira knew that her old friend was dead, she began to think of returning home, for she remembered Anandi's parting injunction not to stay a minute longer than she could possibly help.

Then the difficulty arose—how was she to get back? The old woman, whose legs were still aching, did not volunteer to take another walk, and there was no one else who knew the house.

Here Behári Lál (Hira's cousin) saw his opportunity, and determined to have a little fun out of the strange event. So coming forward, he offered the girl to see her safely home.

To Hira's quick ear, the voice had a familiar sound, but when or where she had heard it, she could not remember. And being only too glad to find anyone who was willing to be her escort, she was quite ready to trust herself to the boy's guidance.

But Behári Lál had no intention of taking his cousin to Rámpál Singh's house. If he had told the truth, he had not the least idea where it was; rather he meant to take her to his own home, and give those there a good fright by showing them a ghost. What fun it would be to see their consternation!

So the two started on their way. Hira's mind was too full of the scene she had just left, to think of which way she was going, so she the more easily fell into the trap laid for her.

The boy thought it best to keep silent, lest his voice should betray him. So nothing was said till they reached the house, and Behári Lál knocked with the chain on the door.

"Where are the steps?" asked Hira in a bewildered voice, as she felt for the familiar entrance and did not find it.

"Just wait a minute till they bring a light; it is so dark I can hardly see where we are," answered the boy. "Perhaps I have brought you to the wrong door. Don't be troubled; I will see you safely home."

After a further knocking and waiting, the door was opened.

Behári Lál had taken care to have a good grasp of Hira's arm. And before she had time to think, she was inside the courtyard. Then followed a scene of great confusion.

"I have brought someone to see you," said the boy.

And his mother, catching sight of the blind girl, whom she had thought of as dead for more than a year, uttered a loud scream.

By this time, she knew that she had been led astray, that she had not been brought to Rámpál Singh's house, but to some strange place.

Then, as she began to distinguish the voices, it flashed upon her what it all meant; the familiar voice was that of her cousin, and he had brought her to her uncle's house. But why her appearance should have caused such consternation she could not imagine. Now her heart sank within her! Suppose they should refuse to let her go, and she had to go back to the old life of poverty and misery? Gradually the clamour of voices grew less, and she was able to make herself heard.

"Why have you been so cruel as to bring me here," she asked, "where no one wants me? You promised to take me home, and this is my home no longer. I am a Christian and live with Christians. Take me back to them; they will all be looking for me."

"Tell us first," answered the aunt angrily, "who made up all that fine story that we had turned you out into the storm and you had died of cold and wet? Fine Christians those who have taught you to lie like that, though certainly you did not need much teaching."

Then Hira began to get angry too, for she understood nothing of the story of her death. "I never said I was dead," she said in a shrill, excited voice. "I never said you turned me out; I never said anything about you, and it was you who taught me to lie. Now I am a Christian, I know better, and I never tell lies. But take me home—do take me home; they will all be wondering where I am."

"And where is your home but here, where your father left you? And what will he say when he comes back and hears that you have become a Christian? Far better that he should hear that you are dead, as we all thought."

"But I 'won't' stay here," cried Hira, stamping her feet angrily; "if you try to keep me, I will run away again; you cannot make me stay if I don't want to. How can a Christian live with Hindus? Oh, do let me go!"

"How do 'we' know where your Christian friends live?" asked Behári Lál. "So how can we take you there? They are no friends of ours, these new friends of yours, who steal other people's children."

Hearing this, Hira became more angry than ever, and uttered many bitter words of anger and scorn. If it had not been for her tall figure and clean, tidy clothes, it might have been the very same child who had disappeared a year ago.

"A fine Christian you are!" said her aunt contemptuously. "And nice friends those must be who have taught you to come back and abuse your relations like this. We have heard quite enough of you for now, so you had better be quiet and go to sleep."

Hira's only answer was to sit down on the ground and weep bitterly.

No one took any more notice of her, and when she was exhausted with crying, she lay down where she was, but no sleep came to her.

Gradually the rest of the household left off talking, and settled themselves for the night. And in the silence that followed, Hira had a good opportunity for thinking over what had passed and what was likely to happen next.

Her anger had begun to subside, and in its place a feeling of shame begets to steal over her. Again, she seemed to hear the words of her aunt, "A fine Christian you are, and nice friends those must be."

How often she had been told that it was useless to bear the name of Christ unless she also had His spirit and did as He would do! Now she had proved to her heathen relations that the so-called Christian Hira was no different to, no better than, the Hindu Hira.

Again she wept bitterly, but this time they were not tears of rage and bitterness, but of shame and sorrow.

She felt so lonely and desolate, for she was not only separated from her earthly friends, but how could she believe that her heavenly Friend could be near her when she had so sinned against Him?

"Please, Lord Jesus, forgive me for being so naughty and keep me from getting angry any more. And oh, do take me home again," she whispered.

And so from that heathen home went up the first prayer which had ever been offered in it.

We may be quite sure that it was answered, and in spite of her sorrow and loneliness, a sense of quietness and peace stole into the child's heart. She knew she was alone no longer, that there was One beside her able to take care of her under all circumstances, and to save her from the greatest dangers.

Then she began to wonder what she could do to atone for the wrong she had done. And finally made up her mind that as soon as her aunt woke, she would ask her to forgive her. Then, she thought, she will see that if Christians do naughty things, they are sorry for it afterwards. After that, with a mind at rest, she fell asleep.

The next morning she woke with a start, roused by the sound of voices. For a moment, she could not think where she was. How did she come to be lying on the hard ground? And who were those people who were talking so loudly around her?

Then it all came back to her: Sukhiya's death, her being brought to her uncle's house, the stormy scene which had followed, her prayer for forgiveness, and her determination to confess her fault to her aunt.

Again from her heart went up a cry for divine help.

"Please, Lord Jesus, keep me good and tell me what to say."

Then she listened to what was being said, and found that Behári Lál was being scolded for bringing her there. Suddenly the voices became more subdued and she could only just catch the mention of rupees, and understood nothing of what it meant.

As soon as the discussion had come to an end, she got up from the place where she had been lying, and groping her way along, called her aunt by name.

The response she received was not encouraging. But Hira never lacked courage, and she said bravely, "Please, aunt, forgive me for being so angry last night; I know it was very naughty. And please send me home."

A sudden silence fell on the group, for all were surprised to hear the fiery Hira speaking words of such gentleness. It was probably the first time in their lives that they had ever heard anyone confess themselves in the wrong, or ask for forgiveness.

The aunt hardly knew how to grant it, never having done so before, so she only looked at the blind girl with astonishment. And, after a pause, said, "Let you go home! Why shouldn't we? We have no money to buy you fine clothes like those; and what would you say to our food now, I wonder? Besides, how can Hindus and Christians live together?"

"Then you will send me back?" cried Hira joyfully.

"And where are we to send you?" asked the uncle, who was standing by. "'You' cannot find the way, and 'we' don't know it."

Here was a difficulty Hira had not thought of. She shrank from being entrusted to Behári Lál's care, but what else could be done? So she said, "Let Behári Lál go with me, and we will ask and ask until we find the house. Everyone knows Rámpál Singh and his daughter, because they are so good."

But Behári Lál thought differently. "No indeed," he exclaimed on hearing the proposal; "I was abused enough last night for bringing you here; I am not going to take you anywhere else."

It was difficult for Hira not to give an angry and reproachful answer. But, remembering her late repentance, she held back the words which were so ready to come, and said nothing.

In the meantime, her uncle and aunt whispered together, after which the latter said quite kindly, "Wait patiently a little while, and all will be settled rightly. Your uncle is going out, and will, maybe, find out where these people live."

So Hira had to be as patient as she knew how. In a little while, the men of the household went out, and she and her aunt were left alone. Then she was glad she had not gone away at once when she wanted to, for in the talk which followed, she was able to tell all which had befallen her.

And for the first time in her life, the one who had never heard the good news of salvation, listened to the sweet story as it was told by her blind niece.

She listened attentively, and at the end said, with a sigh, "Your words are very good, Hira, and as I listen, I forget everything else and feel glad; but they are not for me. It is a good thing for you that you have become a Christian, for by doing so you have got food to eat and good clothes to wear; but what can I do? I must just go on as I am."

"But it was not to get clothes and food that I became a Christian," cried the girl eagerly; "it was to get my sins put away and be ready to meet God; and the Lord Jesus will do just the same for you if you ask Him."

"No, no, child," was the answer. "What time have I to learn these new things? All my time goes in thinking of food and pice. I will go the same way as my forefathers have gone, and what I don't know, God does."

Hira was sorely disappointed with this indifferent answer, and wondered that anyone should hear such good news without being glad.

Just then a woman came in with flour to sell, so there was no more opportunity for talking. The new-comer was full of the story of Sukhiya's accident and death, which Hira, so taken up with her own experiences, had forgotten to mention. She too expressed her astonishment at the appearance of the blind girl, whom all had thought to be dead.

This led to Hira's asking for an explanation. And she heard of the false story which her old friend had invented on her behalf, and how she had thought and planned for her good.

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

WHEN the chief priests of the Jews had determined to kill the Lord Jesus, after examining Him for many hours on that dreadful night in which He had been betrayed by Judas and forsaken by His disciples, as they did not like to put Him to death themselves, they took Him when the morning dawned to Pilate, the Roman governor, for they thought he would do what they wished.

The Jews and the high priest had asked the Lord Jesus whether He really was the Christ, the Son of God; and Jesus, to leave them without excuse, told them plainly that He was, and that hereafter they would see Him sitting in heaven and coming back to earth in the clouds.

At this, they were fearfully angry, and tore their clothes, and led Him away to Pilate, in the hopes that Pilate would at once order Him to be put to death.

So Pilate examined Jesus and put to Him many questions. But the dear Lord, who could have asked His Father to send thousands of angels to be with Him, stood before Pilate and answered nothing.

Pilate was very much afraid to do anything to the Lord Jesus. His wife sent to him when he was sitting on the judgment-seat, telling him of a dream she had had, and begging him to have nothing to do with Jesus, because He had done nothing wrong.

But the Jews kept on clamouring that Jesus should be crucified, and Pilate was more afraid of the Jews than he was of displeasing God. So at last, he ordered the dear Lord to be scourged, and then told the soldiers they could take Him away to be crucified.

So they led Him into a great hall, and there they gathered together all the rest of the soldiers, and began to mock at the dear Lord whom we love so much.

They clothed Him with a purple robe and plaited a crown of long sharp thorns and put it on His loving head, and then they began to bow to Him and call Him in mockery the King of the Jews.

Jesus did not mind being called the King of the Jews, because He came to be their King; He was only sorry they would not love Him or have Him for their King.

But oh, how it must have cut Him to the heart in all His pain to have them mock Him, and beat Him on the head, and spit upon Him, and pretend to worship Him!

If our hearts are filled with grief that He could have suffered so much, should it not make us love Him more than ever, and hate the sins which He died on purpose to put away?

       We may not know, we cannot tell,    |  There was no other good enough
         What pains He had to bear,        |    To pay the price of sin,
       But we believe it was for us        |  He only could unlock the gate
         He hung and suffered there.       |    Of heaven, and let us in.
                                           |
       He died that we might be forgiven,  |  Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
         He died to make us good,          |    And we must love Him too,
       That we might go at last to heaven, |  And trust in His redeeming blood,
         Saved by His precious blood.      |    And try His works to do.

GRAND-DAD'S ADVICE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

ROLLO had said only that morning that he wished Clare's brat were at the bottom of the sea!

And he had wished it just then, for all night long Clare had been walking up and down her room, while the baby had moaned and cried ceaselessly.

But now here was Clare coming down over the beach, with white face and eyes heavy with unshed tears; and surely she looked as if something were the matter as she came up and showed the babe to grandfather.

Rollo's heart smote him; beneath his rough boyish exterior he had a tender spot, and that was for his sister Clare who had brought him up since he was a toddling child.

"What is it, my dear?" asked grandfather in his sympathetic, cheery tones, looking in the little face as he spoke.

"I can't think," said Clare despairingly. "The neighbours say I shall lose him. There was a white dove flew against the window this morning—"

"I wouldn't trouble over that," he said gently, "but think what's best to be done for the little 'un. I should take him indoors, and give him a warm bath and keep him wrapped up a bit. And then—"

"Then?" asked Clare, raising her heavy eyes.

"Then I should tell the Lord all about it, and ask Him to bless what you've done, and make the little 'un better in His own time."

"I wish I could trust Him like you do, grand-dad," she said tearfully, as she turned and made her way back to the cottage with her treasure.

Rollo stood looking on.

What if his cruel thought that morning were to deprive Clare of her baby?

"Grand-dad," he said, moving closer, "if you was to wish a wrong thing in your heart and then be ever so sorry you had, what would you do?"

"I'd run quick and ask the Lord to forgive it; and I'd make what amends I could, if so be I'd hurt anyone."

Rollo ran after his sister.

"Clare," he said, "I'm ever so sorry I was nasty about the baby—and indeed, I've asked God to forgive me, and to make him better—"

"Dear old Rollo!" she said, but she felt comforted.

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XXI.—BROUGHT HOME.

WHEN Rámpál Singh and his daughter returned home on the night of Sukhiya's death, they heard, with some consternation, that Hira had gone out alone with a strange old woman.
They had no heart to reproach Anandi for letting her go, for the old servant was so distressed herself that they could not add to her grief.
As no one had the least idea where the ghi-seller lived, it was impossible to go in search of the missing girl, so they could only wait and pray, hoping that she would soon return.

As night closed in and still she did not come, Rámpál Singh started out in hopes of hearing some news. But as he took the opposite direction and went away from, instead of towards, Sukhiya's home, he naturally heard nothing, and returned as much in the dark as ever.

The night was passed by the whole household in great anxiety, for who could tell that the story was a true one? It was more than possible that Sukhiya's accident had been invented as a means of enticing the blind girl away from her Christian friends.

As soon as morning dawned, the search was begun in good earnest. In spite of her weakness, Anandi persisted in taking her part, for she bitterly reproached herself for having let the girl go, and longed to do all in her power to bring her back.

On her way, she met Reuben Dayál, who was more than ready to help those who had been such good friends to his family in time of need.

"I know Sukhiya quite well," he said cheerily, "and will soon find out whether she really fell off the roof or not. If she did, everybody will know it."

The boy was not at all sure of the house, but he went in the right direction. And the first person he met told him that it was quite true that the ghi-seller had fallen off the roof, that she had died soon after, and even now preparations were being made for her funeral.

Reuben was delighted to think that he was to be the one to restore Hira to her friends, and hurried on to the house, which had been pointed out to him.

Here a new difficulty arose. There were several amongst those gathered to take part in the funeral who bore witness to the fact that a blind girl had been there the night before, but none could tell what had become of her. All they knew was that a boy in the crowd had offered to see her home, and she had left with him.

Reuben was sorely disappointed that he was again thrown off the track. Still, he determined not to give up, for it was plain that Hira could not be very far-off.

As he was standing outside, wondering where he should go next, a man and boy passed him; they were talking very earnestly, and he thought he caught the name of Rámpál Singh. This might be a clue, so he followed them, and as they turned a corner, he caught them up and asked eagerly, "Have you heard anything of a blind girl who was here last night, in the ghi-seller's house?"

Reuben was a sharp boy, and he knew from the look of warning which the man gave to his son that he did know something, whether he said so or not.

"What blind girl are you asking after? And what should we know about her?" was the evasive answer given.

"Tell us what she is like," said Behári Lál, "for there are many blind girls, and we might tell you of the wrong one."

Reuben gave a few particulars of Hira's appearance, which the father and son gravely listened to.

And at the end, the man asked, "And who may 'you' be, that you should be looking for this girl? Perhaps you are her brother?"

"Oh, no, I am not," answered Reuben; "I am no relation at all. But Rámpál Singh and his daughter have been very kind to my mother, and as they are in great trouble about this lost girl, I am trying to find her."

"And who is Rámpál Singh? And where does he live?" asked the man carelessly.

Reuben was delighted at the opportunity, and eagerly exclaimed, "Shall I take you to his house? Then you can tell him all you know."

"What do I know about this girl?" was the answer. "But you can show me the house; it will do no harm."

So Reuben led the way while the others followed.

When they arrived, Rámpál Singh had just returned after another vain search.

Reuben introduced his two companions by saying, "I think this man knows something about Hira, so I have brought him to you."

Behári Lál was ready to contradict this statement, but his father stopped him.

Then began a conversation, from which Rámpál Singh gathered, with some difficulty, for he could get no direct answer, that the man "could" give some information, but he was determined to gain something for himself by doing so. It was quite evident that if a sufficient reward was offered, Hira would very soon be produced.

This was a perplexing turn for things to take, for, anxious as Rámpál Singh was to rescue the blind girl and bring her home again, he hesitated at taking such means. Besides, if it should be proved that the man was any relation, and so had a claim on the girl, having once obtained money on this account, he might try to do so again and again.

Before there had been time to settle this knotty point, suddenly Shushila and Anandi appeared in sight, bringing Hira with them.

The man's face fell, and Behári Lál gave an exclamation of surprise. But neither of them revealed the fact that this was the blind girl of whom they could have given some information if they had chosen.

Rámpál Singh said gravely, "I see my daughter has found the missing child, so we need not trouble you any more."

And the father and son quietly walked away.

TO-DAY.

"THERE!" cried Mrs. Rosendale, stopping short in her walk. "I have never given poor Mrs. Lee that money after all! How stupid of me!"

"You gave her the parcel," said Beatrice; "won't that do for to-day?"

Mrs. Rosendale sighed. She was very, very tired—almost too tired to contemplate another twenty minutes' walk through the snow, and yet the money she had taken for Mrs. Lee was urgently needed.

She hesitated still, and Beatrice fidgeted her hoop backwards and forwards. She knew her mother was weary and that she might offer to go by herself, but it was dull to go alone.

"Can't they wait till to-morrow?" she said grudgingly. "You are always doing things for them."

"He that 'seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?'" said Mrs. Rosendale thoughtfully. "We know their need, Beatrice. Yes, I must go." She turned round resolutely and set off at a brisk pace.

"I 'spose I can go," said Beatrice, lagging a step or so behind. "You go home, mother. Mrs. Lee ought to be very grateful to you, wearing yourself out like this."

"I shouldn't like you to go grudgingly, dear," said Mrs. Rosendale, pausing and looking into the clouded little face, "for to help these poor ones is to serve the Lord Jesus."

"I said I'd go," repeated Beatrice.

She could not quite conjure up a smile, it did seem such an unnecessary bother to go back, but she held out her hand for the money, and strolled slowly away.

She had not intended to do more than pop the money into Mrs. Lee's hand and return at once; but such a mite of a boy opened the door and told her to come to mother 'cause baby was a-dying that she felt obliged to step inside. And once in, she stood fascinated.

Such a poor bare room, such a tiny fire, such a pale, sorrowful mother, such a tiny, pinched baby lying with closed eyes on her lap.

"Mother sent you this," said Beatrice in a whisper.

Mrs. Lee's eyes brightened. "The doctor has just been, miss, and he said as how we might still save the baby with proper nourishment. Will you tell your dear mother, and say I can't thank her enough? The money's just come in time, please God."

Beatrice went home to find warm shoes and hot cocoa awaiting her, and she delivered her message, but she said little of all she had seen.

The next day, thought snow was falling fast, she volunteered to go again and see how the baby did. And an hour later, she came flying into her mother's room.

"Mother, it's better! It's got its eyes open and smiled at me!" Then she flung her arms round her mother's neck, and her eyes filled with sudden tears. "Oh, mother darling, if you hadn't persisted in going yesterday, it might have been dead."

"I thought 'you' went, my child."

"Yes," said Beatrice slowly, "but I hated going. Now I am so very, very glad. Mrs. Lee said God must have sent us just at the right minute."

HIRA'S QUEST.

## CHAPTER XXII.—"SHE ONLY TOUCHED THE HEM OF HIS GARMENT."

HIRA had much to tell of all which had befallen her from the time when she left her home under the protection of the old woman.

The child had a natural gift for telling stories, and as she related her adventures, the whole household listened with the keenest interest.

As she described Sukhiya's death, she felt as if she were living through the scene, and what had been for a time banished from her mind by other things, now came back with intense reality.

"I never knew she loved me so much," said the girl tearfully, "but I see it all now, and that she told that lie—that believing me to be dead, no one might try to get me back again. If only she had believed on the Lord Jesus and had been made ready to meet God, I would not mind, because then I would have been sure of seeing her again; but now she has gone, and I will never see her any more. Poor Sukhiya!"

"But how do you know that she did not trust the Lord Jesus, and that He did not make her ready to meet God?" asked Rámpál Singh.

The girl's face brightened. "Oh! Do you think He did? She did not seem to care, and there was such a little while."

"And how long did it take the Lord Jesus to cleanse the man who was full of leprosy, or to heal the woman who touched the hem of His garment? Sukhiya said, 'Lord Jesus, save my soul,' but that woman did not say one word, and yet she was healed. It takes us a long time to do a very little thing, but the Lord can do a great work in a very little time."

"Then you really think," said Hira joyfully, "that I shall see my dear old Sukhiya again, and be able to tell her that I did really love her?"

"I know this," was the answer, "that the love of our Lord is just as tender and forgiving and His power is just as great as it was before He died on the cross, and if Sukhiya asked Him from her heart to save her, that He never said her nay."

"Then I 'will' believe that Sukhiya has gone to be with God, and that I shall meet her there. And I am very glad now that I got lost again, though I was so frightened at the time."

As she continued her story, she told how, after her uncle and cousin had gone out, and her aunt was bargaining with the flour-seller, she went and sat close by the door and began to sing, because, she said, "I knew I could not see if anyone I knew passed by, and my aunt would have been angry if I had sat with the door open, or on the doorstep, so that I could be seen. But I thought, 'If I sit and sing, someone who is looking for me may hear my voice and know that I am here.'"

"It must have been God who put that thought into your heart," said Shushila, "for that is just how we found you. We did not know where to go and look for you, but all at once, I heard the sound of singing, and when I came a little nearer, I said, 'It is surely Hira's voice.' And when I pushed the door open, there you were."

"And was your aunt willing to let you go?" asked Rámpál Singh.

"No, indeed she was not," said Shushila. "She said Hira must wait till her uncle returned, to say what was to be done. I think she really wanted to let her go, but was afraid what her husband would say."

Then Hira spoke. "So I said I was very hungry, and I asked her to give me something to eat. She said quite angrily, 'Do you think I am going to feed a Christian?'

"So I asked, 'How can I live here if you will not feed me?'

"Then we came away and she did not try to stop us, only we heard her talking very loud as we walked away down the lane. Oh, I am glad that I have come back, for I was so afraid they would keep me, and that I should get angry again."

There was no need for Shushila and her father to say that they were very glad too. But there was fear mixed with their joy, for now that Hira's relatives had discovered where she lived, and were evidently anxious to make something out of her, it was hardly likely that they would be left in peace.

However, as the days passed by and nothing more was heard or seen of Behári Lál and his father, the fear was soon forgotten, and except for the remembrance of Sukhiya and the closing scene of her life, Hira's adventure passed from the minds of all.

It was only a few days later that Mary Dayál came to Rámpál Singh's house to ask for some advice from her friend.

Shushila and her father were not at home, but Hira, recognising the voice, cried eagerly, "Please don't go away. I am here, and I want you to listen to something."

Mary, who always had a warm place in her heart for the blind child, was quite willing to spend a little time with her.

When she had been seated, Hira said, "You must not try to 'see' anything, you must only listen."

Then a voice began to read, rather slowly and hesitatingly, but quite clearly, "'In My Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.'"

It was difficult not to look round and see the reader, but Mary obeyed her orders. After several verses had been read, Hira came to her friend's side, and with a beaming face asked,—

"Do you know who was reading? It was I, but you didn't know that blind people could read before, did you?"

Mary expressed quite enough surprise and pleasure to satisfy the delighted child, who was then quite willing to fetch her book and show its wonders.

Suddenly she exclaimed, "And, oh, I want to tell you something I never knew before. Shushila says that when the Lord Jesus said those words, 'I will come again, and receive you unto Myself,' He meant just exactly what He said, and that He is really and truly coming back again, perhaps very soon. Are you not glad?"

There was a thrill of joy in Mary's voice as she answered, "Yes, indeed, child. Why should we not be glad to see our dear Lord whom we love so much?"

"But it will be best of all for me," cried the child again, "because when Jesus comes, I shall have my new eyes and not be blind any more. And shan't I be just like that blind man? Because the first person he ever saw was the Lord Jesus, and so He will be the first that I shall see. It used to make me angry that I did not have my new eyes all at once, but now I think I am rather glad, because it makes me want the Lord Jesus to come all the more, and Shushila says it must make Him sad if we do not want Him to come."

"I am afraid," said Mary sadly, "there are a great many who do not care about His coming."

Then said Hira thoughtfully, "That must be either because they do not know and love Him, or else, that they are not ready to meet Him. Shushila says we cannot be glad unless we are ready, and now I know what she meant when she said the Lord Jesus would give me something better than new eyes. He has given me a new heart, and some day I shall have the new eyes too."

There was silence, and then Mary spoke again. "When I first heard that the Lord Jesus was coming back, I felt very glad, but sometimes I feel afraid, because I think I shall be ashamed that I am not more fit to meet Him."

Neither of the two speakers had noticed that Shushila and her father had come in, and they started as Rámpál Singh said earnestly, "We know that when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. There will be no need to be ashamed when we are like our own blessed Lord."

No one spoke till Shushila said joyously, "Oh, how happy and how good we ought to be, for whether we have much or little in this world, we have 'everything' in Jesus Christ our Lord; and when we look forward to what we are going to 'be' and to 'have,' no words seem enough to thank and praise God for all His wonderful love and goodness."

"And," responded her father, "the very least we can do is to seek to walk worthily of this high calling, and so to be to the praise of His glory."

Thus, we leave them. The father and daughter seeking to raise others to the same height of spiritual life and happiness to which they have themselves been brought.

The husband and wife starting life afresh, with an almighty hand to uphold them as they run together the heavenly race. And Hira, the blind child, whose eyes had been opened already to see the things "which are unseen and eternal," looks forward with joy to the time when in the day of perfect vision she will see "the King in His beauty."

SUNSET FOR JAMIE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

"WHAT'S father doing now?" asked a little invalid, raising his head ever so slightly from his pillow.

"I don't rightly know, Jamie; but I see it's near sundown, and he and the sheep will be making their way home."

The little boy's eyes brightened. "I'm glad of that," he said, with a weary little sigh. "I'm always glad when sunset comes, and then again I'm always glad when sunrise comes. Isn't that funny?"

"Not that I know of," said the busy mother, darning in and out over a big hole in her eldest boy's stocking. She thought she was glad too when the sunset came, and the day's work was nearly over; and then when the light came once more, she was glad that the new day was there, with its new duties and new strength to do them.

Perhaps something else in her thought was reflected in the child's eyes; for she put down her work and stroked his hair tenderly.

"There's the same Shepherd to lead His little lamb towards Home at sunset as there is to lead him to the pastures at sunrise, Jamie. He loves you, and will not give you more to bear than He will give you strength for."

Jamie's eyes watered in sympathy with hers. He knew that his mother had learned the lesson herself, or she would not have said it.

"And what is father doing 'now?'" he asked, when she took up her darning again.

"He is getting near home, I should think; and the sheep and lambs are hurrying a little to reach the fold before nightfall. And father is thinking of his Jamie, and praying that his pain may be better—"

Jamie nodded ever so little; he was sure of all that too.

"You can tell him that I think it is—a little," he whispered; "that will make him eat his supper better—"

Then there was a stir in the yard, and the sheep-dog came barking up the path. And in a moment, a kind, weather-beaten face peeped in, and a cheery voice, which was music to Jamie's heart, said—

"And how's my little laddie to-night? Here's father come back, and all the sheep are in the fold, Jamie!"

END.