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Effie knew there was a time to speak, and a time to be silent;" she knew, too, that, if her father would but go to God, he would find out his mistake much better than she could make him, and so, with one fond kiss, she got off his knee, and, reaching down the little piece of candle which was stuck in an empty ginbottle, she was about to light it, when Brook, rising from his chair, took it from her hand, "No, Effie," he said, "I don't want a light to-night;" and putting it back upon the shelf, he retired behind the ragged screen which divided his sleeping-place from the rest of the room.

Effie's night toilet was soon made, and, throwing herself on her knees by the side of her wretched pallet, she thanked God fervently, and besought that her father might yet be led like a little child to his heavenly Father's feet, and prove another example of redeeming love.

As she knelt there, with the moonlight streaming over her, her eyes raised to heaven, and her face bathed with tears, she heard a step behind her, two hands were tenderly laid upon her cheeks, and her head raised gently back, a kiss was pressed upon her forehead, and a tear fell and mingled with her own. Effie did not speak nor move; she knew it was her father.

Soon after, she was on her pillow, wrapt in happy sleep; but, had she been waking, she would have heard behind the ragged screen the sobs and sighs of a contrite heart, and caught the murmur of that all-conquering prayer, "God be merciful to me a sinner."

Next morning Effie laid the breakfast with especial care; the flowers were treated to fresh water, and the jug was placed on the table as a centre ornament; not a word was said of what had taken place over-night, only her father kissed her tenderly before he sat down.

The meal was a happy one, though they spoke little; but after

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Effie had washed up and tidied the place, and found that her father did not take down his pipe, nor show any intention of sauntering into the streets, she said, timidly, "Father, please will you hear me read? There is to be a prize for reading next examination, and Miss Merton thinks I may win it if I try.'

Brook smiled, and so Effie, taking out her little Testament, sat down on a low stool at his feet, and, nestling one hand into his, read the fifteenth chapter of St. Luke.

The day passed on, and it grew time for Sunday-school; and when she returned, hand in hand with her teacher (which she usually did, as their homes lay in the same direction), Miss Merton accompanied her up the creaky staircase.

This time her father did not, as usual, slink away, but with something of his old politeness bade her welcome, and thanked her for the interest she had taken in his little daughter; and Effie actually found courage to ask her to take a cup of tea. She knew the fare was poor and the tea-things cracked, but she had taken good care that they were clean, and Miss Merton had had too much of a Christian lady's experience in poor and sinful homes to be shocked at the repast.

"It is a poor place, madam, for such as you," said Brook.

"It is not too poor for our Lord to visit," replied Miss Merton; "and I am tired, and shall be thankful for a little refreshment."

The evening bells began before tea was over, and Effie quietly slipped away to church; but Miss Merton gave up her evening service that night to do her Master's work in a garret. She was a true Christian; and, without anything like "preaching," she found means to unlock the heart of Edward Brook, and give comfort to a soul that was struggling to find its way to God and happiness and heaven.

Above all did she try to raise him from the waters of despair;

and, instead of letting him look too much upon himself, and his own sins, she taught him to look upon the "Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the world," "who was dead and is alive again;" and when Effie returned there was a light in her father's eyes that told her he had learned to hope again. Not once during that month did his foot cross the threshold of the alehouse: he worked hard and well, as he could do if he liked, and, to strengthen his good resolutions, he was told one Saturday that the foreman had given notice, and that he might have his place so long as he kept sober.

The following Sunday morning Brook appeared in church, leading Effie by the hand; and she said it was as if Christ Himself came to meet him, for the sermon was preached from that verse, "Him that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out."

From that time Edward Brook set out on the hard upward path in right good earnest. He became once more a trustworthy and respected workman; and soon Nag's Rents, and all its foul associations, became a memory of the past.

66

"S

A NARROW ESCAPE.

ANDON! Sandon !" cried out a porter, as the train drew up at a small station on one of our great lines of railway. "That's a comfort at last!" exclaimed a young man, as he put his hand under the seat and drew out a small black leather bag, which contained all his luggage.

Not waiting till the carriage-door was opened for him, he opened it for himself, and the train had scarcely stopped when he sprang out upon the platform.

The train was a slow one-indeed only slow trains stopped at Sandon; and that night, for some reason or other, it was half an hour behind its time. As it had crept along, calling at every station, Edward Bowmer had fretted very impatiently. "What weary work!" he said, again and again. "Shall we ever be there to-night?"

Edward Bowmer had accepted an invitation from Mr. Carwood, who was an old friend and a distant relation of his father, to spend with him New Year's day, and as long afterwards as he might find convenient. Mr. Carwood lived in the country, about two miles from the Sandon station.

It was New Year's eve, and Mr. Carwood had earnestly desired Edward to go, if possible, on that evening, and had also promised to meet him on his arrival. In reply, Edward had told his friend that he feared he would be unable to reach Bamgill before New Year's morning. He was a clerk in a large bank, and the close of the year was one of their busiest times, as they prepared to make up the yearly balance. He promised, however, to write if he found that he could get away earlier. Unexpectedly he found that he could do so, and he had written to Mr. Carwood accordingly.

Of course Edward expected to find Mr. Carwood waiting for him; but he was not there, nor was there any one in his stead. He waited till everybody had left the platform save a solitary porter, who, observing his perplexity, went up to him very civilly and said,

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May be, sir, you are expecting somebody to meet you?" "Thank you," Edward replied; "I am-I was, rather, for I think I may give it up, especially as the train is so much behind its time. They would have been here before now, I think, if they had been coming at all."

"If I may be so bold, sir," said the man, "may I ask where you want to go?"

"I want to get to Bamgill—to Mr. Carwood's," replied Edward. "If it's Mr. Carwood you are expecting, sir," said the porter, "I'm almost certain there is some mistake: he's always so punctual when he expects anybody."

"Well," said Edward, "I must just do the best way I can, and find my way by myself. I suppose it is only about two miles?"

"I don't think it's more than that, sir, the near way," replied the porter; "and that's the way Mr. Carwood always comes; but it's an awkward sort of road, sir, and I would hardly recommend you to take it as you're a stranger, and it's dark. You had perhaps better go by the road."

"How much farther is it by the road?" asked Edward. "Well, sir," replied the man, "it's a good three miles."

"That means, I suppose, nearly four," said Edward. "I think I'll take the near way, as you call it. I've spent such a dreary time on my journey already, that I don't feel disposed to spend a bit longer on the way than I can help; and I have good eyes and a tolerably sure foot. Will you be kind enough to tell me which is the way?"

The man gave Edward the desired information, and Edward thought he understood it perfectly, and set off.

At first he got on very well; but as he proceeded, a thick mist gathered, and he could scarcely see more than a yard or two before him. At length he lost the path, which was little better than a track across a patch of moorland. He wandered about for a little time in complete bewilderment, till by-and-by he came to a dead stand. Just then he heard the sound of voices: and in a few moments more he saw a glimmering light. life had light or human voice been so welcome. he cried immediately, with all his might.

Never in all his "Hallo! Hallo!"

"Hallo! Hallo!" was the reply. "Whoever you are, as you