nights certainly had been occasionally interrupted; my mind, of course, had been occupied; but true Sabbath rest and relief would have soothed both mind and body, as I might have known, if I had listened to conscience. As to nursing, I am sorry to say my services were very trifling, and rendered so burdensome by my discontented face and peevish temper, that my wife looked much relieved when I said after breakfast that I meant to go to church.

Did the minister-who was a stranger-see anything in my air, manner, or expression that let him into my private history? As his sermon advanced, it seemed to me that he was describing my case, as it advanced, I say; for I had gone off into the subject of the loss of my situation during the beginning of it.

"A man," he said, "is plunged into trial,--a Christian man. Wave follows wave, and he is confounded; he cries out, with Job, Show me wherefore Thou contendest with me;' he says, with Jonah, I do well to be angry' over the withered gourd." "Very true," I thought. "No wonder!-I am that man." And very

sorry I was for myself.

After a little more of graphic portraiture of this kind, he went on to show how the Christian could stem these waves, and how, if they overbore him, it was his own fault. I found out the text as the sermon went on. It was, "I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." And I blushed as I listened to another description of myself.

He showed the weak heart that stood well when no blast of trial came against it, but that fell before temptation. He showed how Paul bore and did all things: it was not in his own strength, but through Christ. On he went (telling my story), how this poor weak heart, having never sought for help, became a rebel, and accused his God of denying it to him; how, having never taken his afflictions believingly to Him, he was angry, and declared

himself cruelly dealt with, in that they were not removed. I allowed conscience to cry "Guilty, guilty," without checking it, as I had often done of late. Had I taken my griefs to God, and looked for strength from Christ to be able to bear them, if His will was not to remove them? Not I! Conscience, having liberty, stood boldly up and helped the preacher. "You have neglected the means of grace, prayer, your Bible, family worship, God's sanctuary, and the table of the Lord. The least excuse has prevailed with you to keep away from God; and the more you kept from Him, the louder you have cried that He kept from you!" I was much confounded. I threw down my arms,—I saw the truth,—I abhorred myself. I was now in a state to receive the comfort that followed. Paul's experience was shown and promised to every-the humblest Christian. "Not one there," said the preacher, "but might do all things, however painful or difficult, through Christ. Trial might be heaped on trial, till a mountain rose that hid heaven and hope from sight. Never mind, the Christian might cry, 'Who art thou, O great mountain? Before Zerubbabel thou shalt become a plain !'"

Down went my mountain! Of course the trials remained; but I had the secret of bearing them. How was it that I had been such a traitor to myself, such a rebel against a gracious God?

"Had a good sermon, my dear?" my wife asked, looking with some surprise at my animated face when I returned home. I said yes, and inquired if she felt able to come down to family prayer that night. She assented, remarking she was glad we were going to recommence it; for nothing seemed to go well when it was neglected.

The next morning, having prayed over the promises of God, I went to my office with a light heart and a calm face.

The clerks, before the morning was over, saw that I was much more agreeable and easy to deal with, and became tractable and

obliging in consequence. So far, so good,-that part of the mountain had fallen. I called on my friend the lawyer about my liability. "Well," he cried, cheerfully, "you may safely resist the claim. I have looked thoroughly into it, and they have not the remotest right of demand upon you." Down went that part of the mountain. To sum up, my wife and my children, whom I laid believingly, though with imperfect faith, in the Lord's hands, got well in time; the house was restored to order and comfort; and although I had to pinch to meet the year's expenses, I did meet them, and I never heard any more of the change which was to cost me my place. Two months from the day when I cried out, "What is to be done?" there was nothing to do but to praise Zerubbabel, before whom my great mountain had fallen.

M

MARY PULLEN.

A RECOLLECTION OF ST. CLEMENT DANES.

ARY PULLEN was a nice little girl about twelve, that I knew a few summers ago. I used to call on her widowed

mother in my district visits, clambering up the old stairway of one of the most shaky of the tumble-down houses in Bruin Buildings, to get to the little slant-roofed garret where they all lived. For there was a well-grown baby in the family, and mother and daughter managed to get about ten shillings a week for the three to subsist on. There was a detestable little dog too, I may say, that always made a point of snapping at me; and poor Mary, whose favourite it was, generally had to quiet it, and this she laughingly did by hugging its nose against her bosom until the little cur was nearly stifled. I protest I should have been singularly resigned to its fate if she had done so altogether.

Several times in the week-as often as her mother could spare her-Mary was sent to the Ragged School in Clare Market. I used to question the child as to what she learnt there, and generally got intelligent answers, for which now and then she was rewarded with a penny. There was a certain dreaminess, I used to fancy, about the girl. Fond of play, like other children, you might have seen her in the long summer evenings romping with her playmates in the court, but oftentimes a kind of far-off look came into her eyes that set me musing. Sometimes, however, they would kindle up, and her sweet pale face turn all rosy with delight at something that was said to her. Unfortunately, I saw much less of the child than I should like to have done.

Toward the close of the summer I was absent in the country for some weeks; when autumn came, however, I renewed my visits in Bruin Buildings. One afternoon I climbed the old creaky stair, patting a tabby puss on the way up an old friend of mine, who belonged to the second floor, and always affected to lodge in one particular corner of the landing. Puss arched her back, set up her tail perpendicularly, and stretched herself, in token of courteous recognition. "Well, she knows me again, at any rate," I said to myself as I walked on and put my hand on the latch of Mrs. Pullen's door. I found the widow sitting solitary over a cup of tea, the baby being asleep on the bed, an arm's length off. But the poor woman burst into tears before I could close the door or say a word. "Why, where is Mary ?" I asked, half apprehensive of her being ill.

66

Oh, sir," she stammered out, "my precious, precious little darling is gone, sir! she's gone! she spoke of you, too, so often before she died."

And then, in a voice broken down with sobs, the widow told me her sad tale, while I, fearful of trusting myself to say a word, sat down in a broken chair, and listened silently.

It appeared that Mary had somehow taken the scarlet fever, lingering more than a fortnight with it before she died.

"She was so patient through it all, sir," said Mrs. Pullen, "and talked of Jesus so sweetly, I wished I was going along with her, I did. Before the end, when she got very weak, she made me prop her up in bed every evening, so as she might look out o' window, and see the sun as it set. She was always longing to look out at the sky."

This window, I may say, was a sort of lattice cut into the slant of the roof, opening on to the coping of some eaves, where aforetime I had noticed a few gay flowers, Mary's favourites, ranged in pots. You could see from it right over the gables and chimneys of Clare Market into the western sky-not an interesting landscape truly-but the best Bruin Buildings could boast.

6

"She used to say," continued Mrs. Pullen, " as she watched the clouds a-drifting into the sunset, Mother, those beautiful things are going to heaven, and I am going there too, mother, for Jesus has forgiven me.' Sorry for her faults? Yes, sir, that she wur: though, for my mind, I don't see as she had many faults to be sorry for, pretty dear. 'Somever, she made my heart bleed one day, she did, by the way she confessed a fault to me: I will tell you all about it.

"You must know, sir, I once found her in bed with twopence in her hand, hiding it away. 'Mary,' I says to her, waking her up, 'Mary, you have stole that twopence.' 'No, mother,' says she, 'I did not.' Then where did you get it?' says I. Mrs. Digby gave it me,' says she, 'for going errands.'

"With that, sir, I went and asked Mrs. Digby-she's a neighbour of ours, you know. Well, she denied it altogether. And so then I came back and beat my Mary, and said as how she was a storyteller and a thief.

"Well, sir, afore she died, she says to me, soft like, 'Mother,'