waking hour with kindly actions, and by painting-in amongst the clouds of sleep-land the bright tints of love and hope and faith. His own youth the less needed recalling, as it had been, in its happier parts, reproduced in the life of his son, his only son, and that son's only daughter. On this son's youth he often fixed his anxious recollection, and for his granddaughter he cherished much of the same secret, loving fear. To his eye, but perhaps to no other human eye, the recollected boyhood of his son was as a day born amidst clouds-burnished gloriously, it is true, but foreshadowing foul weather. As a thoughtful Christian, he tried to disentangle his fretted mind from the one great sorrow, as a thing which no grief, not even penitence, could in any way change. It was a fact to be forgotten in all but its lessons, and to be left, as it was, in the past—that is, in the hand of God, But the event was precisely of the kind which, to a faithful parent, is most frequently present, and influentially present, in all his deliberations, projects, benedictions, counsels, and prayers on behalf of a child. For many years the shadow had rested on him as a simple fear, wringing from him in the silent wood-depths, and in the solemn night-watch, the frantic cry, "Now, God of Mercy forefend!" "Spare, good Lord, spare thy servant this!" But for full twenty years the influence of this terrible secret had made itself felt through a thousand channels, in a thousand happy souls, who reaped the harvest which he had sown in tears, and the recompense of his generous well-doing had come to him in the assurance he possessed that his very anxiety and fatherly love had led him to adopt the very best possible means of averting the fell curse which hovered above the head of his child; and that such seed-sowing, indirect and for a long time effectless though it was, would sooner or later spring forth and bear fruit, alike on earth and immortally.

So firmly was this assurance established in his mind, that even when there was everything to discourage him, and enough to poison the hope-spring of his soul, he was driven only to redoubled activity in the duties of his conviction and choice. If any one had known his secret and his great wish, and the slight probability existing that such a wish would

ever be fulfilled, it would have looked as though all his selfdevotion and zeal were but proofs that he despaired—had shut out from his heart the hope, and the love too, which had once been his very life. But it was far otherwise with him. He had long ago conceived the rational idea, that all his efforts and sacrifices in the cause of men would tell in the long run to his own darling end-would gather force and volume-till, like the wind-swelled tide, they would break back in overwhelming billows, to sweep away at once, and to swallow up for ever, all obstacles to his long-sought aim. He felt that in the widening circle of his labours for others—for the hapless and fallen-he was gaining experience, confidence, positive skill, hereafter to bear down irresistibly the disease which he mourned to see hanging over and then fixing on his beloved son; much in the same way as the young physician (and the old, too) generously gives his pains, and time, and stores of knowledge, to the poor on beds of charity, but is repaid, even in the very act of benevolence, by the consciousness of wisdom, and nerve, and manual skill, ever growing and becoming strong enough to wrestle with disease at once and successfully among those who can well repay in worldly wealth, or even to save a king's life, and earn the wondering love of nations. And if at any time his confidence as to the one great desire gave way, his sorrow was instantly soothed, as far as such sorrow could be, by the reflection that he had even here extracted sweets and unnumbered blessings for himself and others from the anticipation of the dreadful

curse.

We need not tell the story of Mr. Barton's life just yet. It claims a setting of its own. It is a sad but precious history, and we shall tell it as best we can by-and-by. Here it is enough to state that Mr. Barton was the founder of the Association of the "Friends of Home," and had until within the last year or two continued, amidst growing infirmities, to preside over all its meetings. His noble devotion to its interests had lost none of its first fervour; indeed, it might very truly be said that, as his external power waned, his desire and loving-kindness towards the members of the Society, and the objects of their union, greatly increased. From the com

mencement, his zeal had been animated with highly sanctified parental love; so that, as he drew nearer to the Fountain from which all that stream of holy love had sprung, the stream rose and swelled, and spread its healing waters further through the waste of sin. On this day he had been advised to remain quiet and at home; but as the morning cleared up, and his health was not seriously impaired, he could not overcome the very natural desire to see, and so far to partake, the pleasure of which he was in one sense the author. For he it was who had given the beautiful pleasure-park to the people, and he it was who had taught them to appreciate and enjoy its privileges. As he stood and watched the light-hearted sports of his younger friends, many a strange, sad tale of other years rushed to his memory, while many a heart-felt acknowledgment rose to Heaven for good done in Heaven's name to the fathers and mothers whose children were romping before him. He could not help anxiety with such a spectacle before him. He knew well enough that every hope-inspiring trait or incident on which he thought, had its dark other side. As he asked himself again and again, Had he done all he could to press truth in wisdom, and truth in love, upon those opening minds-he could not fail to reflect most anxiously on the fact that minds so plastic, so open to truth, were at the same time pliable to evil, and open to the deceitfulness of sin. His soliloquy was a prayer: the thoughts of one who is both good and old are almost all PRAYER. His utterance was broken, for it was involuntary, unintentional; his thoughts were hovering midway between heaven and earth: turning from the children here to the Father yonder; bearing to the feet of God the case of the little ones, and bearing to the little ones, in their play, the blessing, the welcome, the promise, from above.

He thought of these jocund, buoyant, careless children, and of all children, but especially of England's hope-so beset, so threatened, so weakened even now by the long reign of sinful habits—and he cried with faltering voice, and with a voice of weeping :-"Oh for my country's children! who will show them any good? Fathers drown the love Thou gavest with the babe, in cursed drink; mothers sell their own flesh and

blood to death and hell. Oh! who will pity, who can save the little ones, when father and mother turn away and mock their shrill cry for bread, for life, for love? They have no father; but Thou wilt take them up, O Lord, the Friend almighty, full of pity, full of grace! Teach them who Thou art; stretch out Thy hand to lead and cover them; constrain them, Lord, to trust Thee-to follow where Thou dost ever lead. Shall these grow up to blast Thy fair world, and curse Thy very name? Oh, train them in Thy saving admonition, gentle Redeemer! Suffer them, bid them, make them, come to Thee. Let the lessons of their daily life engrave upon their hearts the hatefulness of all sin; but chiefly, Lord, that they may shun with hate and fear the cup of devils! Even in their golden visions, let them see dark contrasts to their present peace and innocence. The hut where vice huddles, wastes, dies; the filthy home-bedless, chairless, fireless, foodless; the felon's dock, the down-cast eye, the hung lip; the haggard, sweating brow-all the mute signs of agony :then let them leap forth from the deadly grasp of phantom ills, to bless their freedom and their present good—to raise again the protest and the vow which will make such dreams a lie."-" And for these maidens, Jesus, pardon-hear me. Didst Thou not love such as these in Bethany? Did not their sisters of old time follow Thee to minister, but Thou wouldst not, for that Thou hadst not come to be ministered unto? Did they not hear Thee, see Thee, bow down before Thy Majesty of love, and bless Thee as their Saviour-brother? O pity these! Thou hast pitied even unto death. Save the

sweet sisters of Thy kin and ours, great Lord of earth and heaven! Ah! how happy, how free of care, their budding life! Shall it change to canker? Shall the greedy worm gnaw these sweet flowers? Shall these, who glow with maiden modesty beneath the pleasant burden of their fresh young love, and even now pledging their life away into another's trust-shall they, Lord, ever rend Thy heaven with the cry to bind their swelling bosom and their bleeding brow? Or shall these, too, fall—become the thing they hate? Shall their spring passion lose its primrose beauty, and be changed to nameless, suffocating vice? Or, victims to another's selfish

crime, must they writhe on through life like trodden worms— crawl on in penury, famine, shame, and mighty mother's grief? Shall ever children gather round that fair one's knee, savage with hunger, cruel in reproach, and crying, 'Mother, give us bread!' and she have none to give-Mother, warm us, clothe us!' and she herself be naked, with the chills of death upon her? Ah, God forgive me! how can I hold from asking Thee to smite the sapling? Let not the blossom and the fruit fall beneath the coming blight!"-He stooped as though with all his soul he would strive still to say, "Thy will be done!" He bent with solemn reverence, as might the high priest of old, when he had gone from the people to the place within the veil-had offered for himself and for the people, and was bowing now within the holiest of all.

CHAPTER VIII.

Two of those for whom he had so warmly sought the grace of Heaven-two that loved each other in lowly fashion, but with untold truth and tenderness-drew near, in their slow and halting walk, and, struck with the old man's mien, had listened till they caught his closing words.

"The sapling and the fruitful tree!" said the youth, "what can the old fellow mean? -he does not look like a gardener— leastways, I'm sure he is not one in these parts, and I should know, eh, Polly?"

“Why, Jamie, I'm thinking he meant something else—something, by the bye, not exactly about the trees, you know; you're always thinking about trees a deal more than you think about me, I'm sure."

"Nay, lass, it would be better for the trees and you, too, if I thought more of them than I do; but I can't, for the life of me. No matter what part of the tree I'm working on, it always sets me thinking of you. Why, there's the root, now, it's like our love, and I ram it and jam it to make it fast; then fork it up again, to see if I've hurt it, and then stamp it and tramp it down again with a will.

And then there's the stem, perhaps as straight as a