of the tale was made to pass; and after vainly attempting for a quarter of an hour to become interested in the story, she at last threw down the book in disgust, and again rose and looked out of the window.

In a few minutes Mrs. Norton came into the room, looking pale and weary, and as if she needed sympathy and kindness. Sophia kissed her mother, and in a few hurried words expressed a hope that she would soon be better; but she rendered no kind attentions or assistance, and after the first greeting was over, took no more notice of her invalid parent.

In the afternoon the rain ceased, and there was a faint gleam of sunshine. Tired of idleness, and weary with sitting still for so long a time unemployed, Sophia made up her mind to take a short walk. Mr. Norton's house was situated in one of the fashionable squares in London, not very far from Regent-street, to which place Sophia directed her steps; for the glittering and well-filled shops had more attractions for her than the purer air of the Parks. She paced slowly through the principal streets, every now and then looking in at the shop windows when anything particularly attractive met her eye; and after an hour thus passed, turned homewards.

When, on her return, she had dressed for dinner, she found that her father had just returned from the city. "There is a concert at Exeter Hall to-night," he said, as she entered the room, "and as I thought you would like to go, Sophy, I have purchased tickets for all of us; but I fear, my dear," turning to his wife, "that you will be unable to go, as you are suffering so much from your head."

"Oh, yes! I must quite give it up," answered Mrs. Norton; "but, Sophia dear, your cousin Ellen will be delighted to accompany you, and you could set out a little earlier, and call for her on the way."

"That will be just the thing," said Sophia, brightening up, and looking more alive than she had yet done throughout the day

After dinner Sophia played at chess with her father, who was particularly fond of the game; and so the evening passed till it was time to prepare for the concert. To that we need not conduct our readers.

When the concert was concluded, which was at rather a late hour, they returned home. Mrs. Norton had already retired to rest; and after partaking of some slight refreshment, Sophia and her father also withdrew for the night. The former soon dismissed her maid, and after a hasty and careless prayer, uttered without any thought of its meaning, she laid down to sleep. So passed the day, unimproved, wasted, and thoughtlessly thrown away as worthless-a murdered portion of an invaluable talent, to be accounted for to God the Giver, at the great time of reckoning.

We will now turn to a more pleasing narrative-of a day passed in quiet unpretending usefulness.

Mary Gray rented a small room in a one-storied house, which was situated in the suburbs of London, and about a mile from Mr. Norton's. Green trees and flowers were not quite so rare in the neighbourhood as

in the more crowded parts of the city. There was not much furniture in Mary's little room; but what there was, though plain, was good of its kind, and well kept.

Mary earned from six to ten shillings a week by taking in needlework of different kinds, with which she was well supplied, and for which she was well paid by the ladies in the neighbourhood; among whom she was respected and valued, not only on account of her uniform steadiness and good conduct, but also on account of her beautiful needlework.

"I do like Mary Gray's work," said Mrs. Liston to her sister, after she had been carefully examining some baby linen which had just been brought home; "besides being very neatly done, it is always kept so clean that it hardly looks soiled at all."

At the time of which we are writing, Mary had a set of night-gowns to make for Sophia Norton, which were to be sent home as soon as possible. She awoke early in the morning, rose quickly, dressed herself, and after a short but fervent prayer for God's blessing and guidance through the day, proceeded to sweep her little room, light the fire, and set on her little copper teakettle to boil, while she carefully dusted and arranged the room and furniture.

By the time all these duties were concluded, it was eight o'clock, and she began to feel in want of her breakfast. When the water boiled, she made a cup of tea, and after toasting a slice of bread (for she was rather short of money that week, and could not afford butter), thankfully sat down to her frugal meal. When it was over, she washed the few things she had used, put them away in the cupboard, and took down her Bible from the shelf; for this portion of the day was always devoted to reading the Word of God, to prayer and meditation. At nine o'clock she sat down to her needlework, and at the end of two hours had made considerable progress with one of the night-gowns; for constant practice had made her very expert with her needle.

Soon after eleven there was a low tap at the door, and an elderly woman walked in. She looked pale and careworn, but in answer to Mary's inquiries, said she was pretty well.

"And how is poor John?" asked Mary.

"Oh! very bad, very bad," replied the woman; "he's wasting away slowly but surely, and his appetite's quite gone; the only thing he relishes is a little broth, but then, alas! I can't afford to buy meat to make it, though it goes to my heart to see him longing for what I am not able to give him, and he such a good son as he is: why, he's been everything to me, since his poor father died."

"Well," replied Mary, soothingly, "don't be cast down; you know where to go for help. God is able to supply all your wants, and I am sure He will do so, if you trust Him.”

"I must not stay," the woman said; "I was going past, and I thought I'd just look in, for somehow a word with you always does me good.”

"Stay a minute," said Mary, rising and going to the cupboard, from which she took out a plate containing

forgetfulness of God; and now she saw in her son's. death the punishment of her sin, and thought that the prophet was God's instrument for punishing her. Better (so she seems to say), better to have gone on as before, with no thought of my sin, but with my boy safe! Better even to have died together of want, better never to have seen the prophet, than now, when life had been saved and comfort restored, and all seemed wellnow to have all so suddenly interrupted, and her son torn from her arms! Thus she complained to the prophet, not denying her sin, and yet laying her misfortune

this unfailing supply had been the support of her and her son and the prophet.

But now came a change. The meal and the oil indeed still held out; but he for whose sake the widow chiefly cared for them fell sick. The sickness, as is usual in Eastern countries, made rapid progress. Soon it " was so sore, that there was no breath left in him." He died. The mother, still believing in Elijah as a "man of God," but forgetting, as it seems, in the unreasonableness of her passionate grief, the blessing his presence had brought her, flew to him at once, complaining and expostulating. Some past sin came to her mind, or she thought perhaps of her whole former life, passed in

at his door.

So unreasonable is unrestrained sorrow! So often does faith fail under a sudden blow.

Elijah felt the blow too. Probably he knew nothing of the boy's illness, till the mother came to reproach him with his death. It was a great blow to him, and these unjust reproaches must have tried his spirit; yet he made no reply but this-"Give me thy son." Then he took him up to his own little room, and laid him on his bed, and poured out his soul to God.

How bold are his words! He almost echoes the widow's reproaches against himself; he ventures to question, to expostulate with, the Lord Himself. He represents to the Almighty that this woman was a widow; that it was her son, her only son, who had

died; and that he himself was sojourning with her, and so had his share in the stroke; and, moreover, that the stroke seemed to have come in some sort through his sojourning there; so, at least, the mother thought, and perhaps others would think the same; and thus would it not seem that he had brought a curse, and not a blessing; and would not men therefore turn away from him and his words, and would not the cause of God suffer?

In such a tone did Elijah venture to address God. Was he not too bold? Was not this a presumptuous challenging of God's dealings? We find no sign that his words were so regarded by God. He who bids us lay all our wants and troubles before Him allows us great liberty of speech in doing so. True, we should never pray but with deep reverence, and full submission of will; but every thought and feeling, every wish, every fear, every grief, we are to tell to God without reserve; and, when the mind is overwhelmed by some sudden stroke, the reason of which is not made plain to us, God is not offended by our speaking to Him freely of our perplexity.

Bold as Elijah's language was, his prayer was the prayer of faith. Whatever it had pleased God to do, nothing was too hard for Him; He could even now restore the life which He had taken. Three times did the prophet stretch himself upon the child as he lay on the bed, and three times, as it seems, did he cry unto the Lord, "and said, O Lord my God, I pray Thee let this child's soul come into him again!" The cry was heard, the prayer was granted. "The soul of the child came into him again, and he revived."

How happy was Elijah when he gave him once more into his mother's arms with the words, "See, thy son liveth!" How happy was the mother, how full of thankfulness and of faith! "Now by this I know," said she, "that thou art a man of God, and that the Word of the Lord in thy mouth is truth."

Will God always thus answer prayer? Will He in every case restore a lost blessing, or even spare us from a threatened stroke? The prayer of faith will never be unheard. In our deepest distress or anxiety we may go to the throne of grace, and pour out our hearts before God through Jesus Christ, not fearing to speak all our mind; and, for the sake of our great High Priest, our Redeemer, our Advocate, we shall most certainly be heard. Not a feeling will be disregarded, not a tear uncared for, not a desire unnoticed. But the answer which God will give to our prayers will be such as He sees to be best. Often it will be, not a blessing restored, but another blessing given instead; not a stroke withheld, but abundant comfort bestowed; not a change of circumstances, or anything outward whatever, but an increase of peace, a growth in grace, the heart brought into loving contentment with the will of God; in short, those "peaceable fruits of righteousness" which are the proper effect of God's fatherly chastening, when blest by His Spirit.

Let us call nothing evil that works such an effect as this. It was seeming evil that God brought upon

the widow when He slew her son; yet God caused good to come out of the evil. Her son was restored, her faith was confirmed and increased, and God was glorified. The Lord's hand is not shortened; He still brings good out of evil. Then the evil becomes not evil, but only seeming evil, a blessing in disguise, the channel by which He sends His gifts of grace.

THE OLD BROWN SILK DRESS.

M

RS. SMITH at such a grand wedding, and in her old brown silk dress! She has had it for the last six years."

"I know it. The idea of a person as well off as she is, keeping a dress that length of time! But she looked well. The dress was altered to suit the present fashion."

"But such meanness! I do not call it economy, but meanness. I am tired of seeing her wear that dress. If she were not able to get a new silk, it would be different. I wish I had the money she has, I would show people how to dress."

"Girls," said grandma, "I am afraid that you are not cultivating very charitable dispositions. As the brown silk dress seems to interest you, let me tell you a little affair connected with it.

"About two weeks ago Mrs. Smith called on me. I had just prepared to go out to do some shopping. She proposed to accompany me. On our way she informed me that she intended to purchase a new dress. While we were in the store examining some rich silks, Mrs. Winslow came in. Seeing Mrs. Smith, she informed her of the destitute condition of a family she had just visited. The father had been sick and unable to work. The mother had been toiling to support her family. She was now sick, and three of her children. One was lying dead in the house. They were so poor that they had not a sufficiency of either fuel or food. Their rent should have been paid in advance, but on account of sickness the father had been unable to do The landlord had consented to wait until the end of the month. The father was still unable to pay, and the family were threatened with being turned into the street that very day.

SO.

"Mrs. Smith asked if they were worthy people. Mrs. Winslow assured her they were, and giving their address, she urged Mrs. Smith to visit them. Mrs. Smith had just decided to purchase a dress from a costly piece of silk. I will not purchase the dress now,' she said to the shopman. And turning to me, she remarked: 'I feel it my duty to visit these poor people and supply their necessities before purchasing anything for myself. Will you accompany me?'

"I did so. We found the family in great distress. They were Christian people, and had been praying to God to send them help. Mrs. Smith immediately paid the rent then due, and another month in advance, besides ordering fuel and food. She has since sent

them many little articles of comfort. I feel better,' she said, 'than if I had bought a new dress. I will remake my old one and will wear it to the wedding.' "And this is why Mrs. Smith wore that old brown silk dress.' She is not mean, but a noble, self-denying Christian woman. And I can safely say there is no one that I am acquainted with who gives so freely as she does."

"I had never heard of her being benevolent before." "She gives quietly, not noising it abroad. There are many families who owe the necessaries and comforts of life to her bounty."

"I am glad you told us, grandma. The old brown silk dress will look beautiful to me hereafter. And it

will preach me a lesson of charity-charity in judgment, and charity, which is love, towards the poor."

ensue.

DEATH-BED REPENTANCE.

HIS is an expression often used. Many live in sin and neglect of religion, who hope that, when death approaches they may repent and be fitted for heaven.

་་་

Many years ago, I was called to visit a man who had, by mistake swallowed a quantity of a very poisonous drug. He was in great distress, and it was evident that a fatal result might On being informed that recovery was doubtful the patient, although in most terrible agony, began to express fear as to his future state, should death result. No man ever manifested greater concern, or confessed with more apparent sincerity his guilt and need of a Saviour.

A clergyman was sent for, who talked and prayed with the sufferer. For a day and a night there was alternate sinking and reviving. At times life seemed almost extinct, and as he revived, then recurred the deep anxiety about the salvation of his soul. The minister and others prayed, conversed, and sung with him. All who came in were extremely solicitous about his case. The apprehensions of its probable fatal effects, together with the hopes and fears in regard to his preparation for death, caused deep-felt anxiety.

During an interval of comparative relief from pain, after a long day of indescribable agony, the man began to say that he believed the Lord had forgiven his sins. He could rejoice in pardoning love, and every one seemed to rejoice with him.

Before morning another paroxysm of depression was anticipated, in which it was probable he would die. In view of this, the sufferer bade farewell to all about him, and earnestly expressed his gratitude to the clergyman for his kind attentions and counsel. In a few hours he began to sink, and death seemed inevitable. All were thankful that, if he must die under such distressing circumstances, he could give so clear evidence of having passed from death unto life.

This seemed to be one instance in which a person might repent on a death-bed.

Morning dawned, and with its light was an improvement in the symptoms. Convalescence commenced, and from day to day for a week he conversed freely upon religious subjects.

In a month he was well; but with returning health less and less interest was manifested in a religious life. He was not disposed to make a public profession of religion, and after a few months was as indifferent as ever, and within a year he was openly wicked and reckless in his conduct.

If this man had died, all would have thought he was prepared to leave the world. But during years of observation I remember no such case which could be considered undoubted. The pain and mental anxiety attendant upon disease sufficiently severe to prove fatal are not favourable to a clear grasping of the subject of repentance and faith. Let no one delay a moment so important a duty.

THERE'S ONLY ONE.

By a Physician.

HERE'S only One on whose dear arm We safely lay our thoughts to rest; There's only One who knows the depth Of sorrow in each stricken breast. There's only One who knows the truth

Amid this world's deceit and lies;
There's only One who views each case

With just, unselfish, candid eyes.
There's only One who marks the wish,
Nor cruelly, severely blames;
There's only One too full of love

To put aside the weakest claims.
There's only One whose pity falls

Like dew upon the wounded heart; There's only One who never leaves, Though enemy and friend depart. There's only One, when none are by, To wipe away the falling tear; There's only One to heal the wound,

And stay the weak one's timid fear.
There's only One who's never harsh,

But tenderness itself to all;
There's only One who knows each heart,
And listens to its faintest call.

There's only One who understands

And enters into all we feel;
There's only One who views each spring,
And each perplexing wheel in wheel.
There's only One who can support,
And who sufficient grace can give
To bear up under every grief,

And spotless in this world to live.

There's only One who will abide

When loved ones in the grave are cold; There's only One who'll go with me When this long painful journey's told.