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was about to begin for him. When he told his wife she was almost delirious with delight. Undoubtedly the uppermost sensation was genuine gladness that she would not again be exposed to the vicissitudes of a lonely life in London; but she made a mental reservation that she would not, could not, go with him to the mission. She had nourished that unreasonable dislike of hers to the mission people until it was something not far removed from hatred, and the fact that it was unreasonable, that it had no basis whatever, was, I dare say, one cause of its fierceness.

Saul soon settled down to shore life, for sailors are the most adaptable of men. His help, now regularly given at the mission, was a most blessed boon to them. Thrice on a Sunday and twice in the week he gave up an hour or so to the work of God among them, and all the rest of his time he spent at home when not at work. Also out of his wages, which averaged forty-five shillings weekly, he set aside five shillings for the mission. They were now indeed a stalwart band, doing a splendid work in the midst of their own people, a work that certainly could not have been done so well by any other organization whatever. And any one of the principal workers was a host in himself.

Jemmy, mellowing from day to day under the sunny atmosphere of his transformed home life, was noticeably less insistent upon the eternal damnation of literal fire awaiting those who did not come to Jesus while here below. He gave his loving humanity a chance, and began dimly to recognize the great fact of the pre-eminence of love over fear. This reacted healthily also upon his treatment of those Christians who differed from him on minor points of doctrine, softened the asperities that often disfigure the character of the most godly men when discussing the things that do not matter. Brother and Sister Salmon remained, as they always had been, the peaceful light-shedders of the little band, looked up to and most tenderly loved by all the rest.

But Maylie, Paterson, and Harrop were the wonders of the place. Their gifts were so very remarkable, their power over the people among whom they lived and worked so great, that it was no wonder overtures were again and again made to them to get them away into larger spheres of work. Again and again they were told that they were burying their talent in

the earth, that they were wasting golden opportunities, and so forth. No such arguments moved them one jot.

Maylie, especially, although he was rising steadily to the head of affairs in the great firm where he earned his bread, and was now in a position that would have made him a decided acquisition to the roll of officers of any great church, treated any suggestion that he should go up higher in the world of Christian work as a joke. He would quietly say to any of his friends outside when they in all seriousness remonstrated with him for still remaining in such a company:

"It's not of the slightest use talking to me. I could not be happy anywhere else. I believe that the work God has given me to do here is exactly what I'm fit for. I feel as if nobody could do it better than I can. And I feel, too, that it is a good thing in Christian work to keep low down. I'll stick to the old mission until God himself shifts me out of it."

Pug and Jack Maskery still maintained their free-lance connection with the mission, Pug being exceptionally happy and contented there, especially as the boy whom he had rescued from the prison-gate had turned out all right, and a great comfort to him in his fast-increasing decrepitude. He had got the lad into a large shop close by the court in which they had lived, where he was always handy, where his hours were good, and he was greatly esteemed. And poor old Pug was never tired of quoting that sublime line : "At eventide it shall be light."

Woody, whose withered old frame seemed to have in it something of the gnarled and knotted fibre of the oak logs sawn from broken-up ships that he sold, still went on his way rejoicing. Never a member of the mission -that is to say, inscribed on its books-he nevertheless came and went freely and much more frequently than anywhere else. He was always most heartily welcome, for he always brought with him a sense of power that lifted whatever was being done at the time on to a still higher plane.

I have before mentioned that Saul, at the cost of very much home trouble, persisted manfully in his connection with the mission, giving up to it a percentage of his time as he did of his money. That proportion, however, could certainly not with any reason be called a large one-say, one hour on Sunday morning for prayer-meeting, two hours for breaking of bread,

four hours for Sunday-evening work in summer and two in winter, two hours on Thursday, and one on Saturday. Ten hours weekly as a maximum. It must be remembered, too, that to get his wife to come with him to all these meetings, Saul would have cheerfully made great sacrifices. That, however, she would not only not do, but by every artifice that cunning could devise or fearless unscrupulousness carry out, she tried to prevent him from going. Occasionally she would burst into such a whirlwind of passion just as he was setting out for the meeting that he felt it unwise to go and leave her, and he had the miserable alternative of sitting at home listening to her railing at all the people at the mission, himself principally.

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He was in evil case, for he could not go anywhere out of her way. weak man would have thrown up the struggle and gone to sea, or thrown up the mission and gone to the public-house. Saul did neither. Оссаsionally, invited by a friend, he went to spend a quiet hour at some happier home than his own, but his circle of friends was very limited, and after his wife had come and, in vulgar parlance, kicked up a row once or twice, his friends fought shy of his company at home for fear of the consequences. Yet he stayed with her and tried to read while she railed upon him by the hour, using every taunt, every unkind and untrue accusation that her fertile imagination suggested to her. Yet all this only served to harden his moral fibre, to stiffen his back, as it were, while his tenderness and open-heartedness remained as before. What his poor wife suffered herself will never be known.

At length, in a time of severe illness, she reached a saner condition of mind. In an agony of contrition she flung herself at his feet and implored his forgiveness for the way she had been treating him, promising vehemently that she would never, never behave so again, acknowledging that in his behaviour to her he was far, far too good to her, and so

on.

Putting both his arms round her neck, he said: "My poor, helpless darlin', of course I forgive you." Then peaceful, happy tears rolled down her wan face, and holding her hand in his she slept. The danger passed away, and, the happy mother of a beautiful boy, she was soon about again, a veritable sunbeam in the house. Very beautiful, very touching was her devotion to her husband. Occasionally she would forget and break out into sharp words; occasionally she would allow herself to speak uncharitably of those about whose motives and of whose services she could not know very much. But that is only saying that she was, like all the rest of us, not yet made perfect.

Years have passed away, but Saul and his wife, hand in hand, are still treading the way of righteousness. Here we must leave them, still plodding along peacefully and patiently in the work of the mission, still doing that which they believe to be the will of God, in a quiet and unostentatious manner; poor as regards what the world values, but rich in the love and ever-growing esteem each has for the other. A family is growing up around them, youngsters whom they fondly hope will in God's own good time take their places, and take up their work as another generation of the Apostles of the South-East.

THE END.

SEA IN AUTUMN.

I know how all the hollows of the land

Are bright with harvest; how with every breeze
Her largesse autumn scatters from the trees,

And how the sheaves are piled on every hand.

Basks the brown earth; her toil hath brought her ease. Here is the lesson, plain to understand;

Yet there remaineth somewhat-pace the strand,

And watch awhile the vast, the infertile seas.

Deeper than earth's their calm; from marge to marge
Wide stretched they lie, untroubled by the need
Of any fruitage; barren and content,

They know the secret of a hope more large
Than earth has guessed at; them a richer meed
Than toil can win th'inscrutable heavens have sent.
-C. A. Price.

I

YON STOUT MAN.*

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SANDY SCOTT'S BIBLE CLASS."

REMEMBER one night when Jamie Stewart (for he was a surly character) literally growled

out:

"I dinna haud wi thae 'vangelistic meetings."

"Na, lad?" said Sandy. "What ails ye at them ?" "What ails me at them ? A'thing ails me at them. Gin folk maun hae 'vangelistic meetings they should keep to Bible ways wi' them." Nae mistak' but they should keep to Bible ways. Ye've a right to complain, Jim, gin they dinna keep to Bible ways. But we might hae a look at what ye would ca' a 'vangelistic meeting in the Scriptur', and syne we'll ken how to do.

"In the fifth chapter o' Luke, near half-roads through the chapter, we hae a sight o' a great muckle 'vangelistic meeting. It's no like ane o' thae meetings at Inchraig, but an awfu' crowd o' folk, and a' the big folk at it. Pharisees and Doctors o' the Law sitting by frae ilka town far and near. The streets is black wi' folk, gentry and lairds and lawyers and a heap o' ministers forbye.

"And here's a man in a gey awkward fix. He's down wi' the palsy, and isna fit to stir; it's plain he canna get to the meeting. But it's no easy making things plain to some folk, for some o' his friends they've determined to carry him down. Four o' them's bargained to gie him a lift, so after their work's through they mak' themsel's snod, and gang up-bye to his house. And the wife she comes to the door, and she doesna ken what to think. She's used wi' them coming ane or maybe twa at a time to speir after her man and gie him the news, but when she sees the four a' at aince she's some put about, for there isna nae mair

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than the twa chairs in the ben room. They might hae let her ken their errand aforehand, but they didna, for whiles when folk ken things aforehand they're ready to raise objections. But the wife she sees a kind o' twinkle in their een, and says she, 'What's ado the night?'

"And ane o' the men, he would be a short, stout man, says he, We've been scheming to tak' James down to the Master.'

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James' cries the wife. The doctor tell'd me it would be the death o' James to shift him off o' his bed.'

"Likely enough,' says the stout man; but it would be the life o' James to hae him down to the Master, and we was thinking to tak' bed and a', and to hap him weel up.'

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"Bed and a'!' says the wife, 'you're no blate.' But after she thinks owre it a wee, says she, Na, it'll no do, for it's no the best bed he's on, and I wouldna like to be put to shame afore folk.'

"So the stout man cries to the tither three, We'll awa hame then, lads. It doesna do for folk to be put to shame afore folk.'

"But they hadna gone nae distance when the wife she cries to them to halt, and says she, 'It's maybe mair shame to let James bide. I hae a right fancy cover that would set that bed fine, and if ye would pay partic'lar attention to keep it aye well happit, the bed wouldna be muckle noticed. And see and no let the cover draggle in the mud.'

"Oh,' says the stout man, but we'll pay attention to that, and we'll study a'thing.'

Says the wife, 'But James is a' to be redd up yet, it's a pity ye hadna tell'd us at dinner-time.'

"Says the stout man, 'We're no in nae hurry. Mak' ye a'thing snod, and we'll bide or you're through.' And says he to the tithers, The meeting doesna commence or half-eight, so we hae plenty time. Ye hae aye to mak' allowance for women folk.

"And after maybe a twenty minutes the wife comes out and bids them come ben for she has a'thing in order. And the stout man he tak's the west

side o' the head o' the bed, and a slimmer man the east side, and the tither twa's at the foot. And although the Scriptur' doesna mention it, I wouldna be surprised but that the wife hersel' put on her things and took the road ahint them, for she maun be down to hear the upshot. "But when thae four men gets near-hand the town they're terrible disappointed, for the streets is throng. Says ane o' the four, A rat couldna squeeze through that, let alone a bed,' and he sets his end o' the bed down wi' an ill-tempered jerk.

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"Canny, lad, canny!' cries the stout man, and they shift corners, and the stout man gangs to the front.

"It's no an easy job, but the stout man has a kind o' a way wi' him that tak's folk's fancy, and where ither folk couldna win bye themsel's he wins bye wi' the bed. And syne they win up to the door, but the meeting's fu'.

The polis has orders no to allow nae mair to come ben, and the polis maun aye be respec'it. The stout man, he's considering what's to be done, when the lad that gied the jerk cries out, 'A' our labour for naethin', that's the end o' it.'

"It's no the end o' it,' says the stout man, for gin we dinna get James to the Master we be to carry him hame again.'

"But the stout man he makes the acquaintance o' ane o' the polis, and speirs is there no nae possibeelity to win in. And the polis he says, 'Ye might try by the close off the nether gate.' And so they're off wi' their bed again, and when they get round to the tither side the crowd slackens, and there's no nae folk in the close.

"We'll try the roof,' says the stout man, and up they gang. But when he has a' his plans laid he minds on his promise to the wife no to let the bed be seen, so he tak's some pieces o' cord and binds the braw cover fair owre it. Syne he tak's thought o' how the meeting'll be arranged, and whereabouts the Master Himsel' would be. And when he's considered it a', says he to the tithers, We'll lift the tiles canny off here, and syne we'll set James down fair in front o' the Master.'

And ane o' the tithers would say, 'We'll hae to gang down wi him and explain the natur' o' his complaint. But the stout man says, 'Na, we're no fit to explain the natur' o' his complaint, and we might mak' a mistak'. There's mair the matter wi'

folk than folk ken, but the Master kens the natur' o' a' complaints. We're safe to trust James wi' Him.'

"But gin we're to hae a right sight o' it a', we maun leave thae folk on the roof and gang round by the door and win ben inside, polis or no. And as we win in, the folk's a' looking to see what's ado wi' the roof, and after maybe a minute or twa here's James let down on his bed! The folk dinna ken what to think, but the Master kens, for the Master kent he was coming. And when He looks up to the four keeking down frae the roof, and sees their satisfied look, as though they would say, 'James'll be a' right now,' He sees they had confidence in Him, and to them that hae that He aye comes up to their expectations. A'body's looking, and ilka ane says to himsel','Pay attention now for it's gaun to be a miracle.' But na, it's an awfu' disappointment, it's no nae miracle ava', for the Master just says to the man, Thy sins be forgiven thee.' It's an awfu' disappointment; it wasna for that they carried him a' the road. But the man wi' the palsy he doesna look nane disappointed, it's miracle to him. Ye would think he would be like to greet that he's no to get healed after a', and ye would think his face would

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be black wi' shame to hear his sins spoke about afore folk. Ye would think he would cry to his friends on the roof, Haul awa' up, lads, for I'm no to lie here and hae my sins cracked about.'

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Ay,

But patience, patience a wee, for we haena gotten a right look. Yon's him lying wi' a face like to laugh, and so far frae being shamefaced he's like as he had something to be proud o'-' glorying in his shame' as ye would say. But na, that's no the right sight o' him yet. He's lying yonder and he's like to laugh, and he doesna heed wha sees or hears; he's like as he had been left a fortun'. that's the truth o' it, he has been left a fortun', for he's gotten the receipted accounts o' a' he was due, and nae wonder he canna look glum. A' the time he's been ill he's been sair troubled about his sins. When he hadna naething to think upon, they were aye there forcing themsel's forrit to his mind, whether he be willing or no. It's an awfu' job to lie on your bed gin your sins bena forgiven, ye canna escape the thought o' them. Gin ye be weel ye mayna tak' time for thought, and Satan aye keeps his folk at the trot for fear they get sight o'

their sins. But set ye a man that hasna got his sins forgiven, set ye him for an hour or twa where he canna work, and canna read, and canna crack, and bid him think about himsel'; he would gie a' he possessed to win out, for there's naething mair fearsome to folk than themsel's. Them that ken what it is, ken what yon palsied man felt when he heard his sins was forgiven. It was a'thing to him and muckle mair than a'thing. It would tak' him a' his time no to sing out in the midst o' them a'. He would aye keep running owre to himsel', 'Thy sins be forgiven thee !

Thy sins be forgiven thee!' It's the brawest news he's heard yet, for the Master's settled up a' that was due, and He mak's owre the dischairged accounts. A body can haud his head gey high when he has the dischairged accounts."

"It was grand," said Dave Pater

son.

"Nae mistak' but it was grand, and gin I had been yon palsied man I would hae been like to cry to them on the roof, 'Haul awa up now, I can thole the palsy now.' But he had mair patience than me, and it was just as weel. You're never wise to hurry awa when you're near-hand the Master, for ye never ken how muckle mair's to come. So syne he gets healed o' the palsy as weel, for the Master has power to do onything and a'thing. It aye pays to gang to the Master."

"I would hae liked fine to hae been yon stout man," said Tom Duff.

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'But ane canna redeem his brither," said Dave Paterson.

"Na, ane canna redeem his brither, but maist o' folk can gie their brither a lift gin they're fair determined on it. Ye mind the impotent man lay thirty-and-eight year afore he got onybody to gie him a lift, and that was a gey disgrace to folk. He didna need nae mair than a lift to the pool, but naebody offered it. There's whiles a scarcity o' lifters. It's astonishing how a body can help a body."

"But folk arena aye very willing to tak' help, and it's no an easy job to compel them," said Dave.

"An easy job!" said Sandy, "I'm sair mista'en gin yon stout man had

an easy job, for gin ever a body had the door slamm'd fair in their face it was yon stout man. He might hae said it wasna the will o' providence for James to get to the Master, and he might hae said it ten times owre, for naebody would conterdic'; but folk dinna aye read providence right. And gin ye want easy jobs ye've ta'en the wrong trade, Dave; but I ken ye better than ye ken yoursel', for ye're no the lad to stick at a stiff job."

"A body would hae mair heart til it, gin it was intellec'ual difeeculties they was ca'd upon to help. That lifting o' folk's mair machine work. Onybody can do it."

"Onybody canna do it, and what's mair, onybody doesna do it. And gin we're to pick and choose, folk'll be like to speir 'Wha's master ?'

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"A body would do their endeavour to get folk down to meetings or ony place where the Master was, gin they kent it would do ony good, but there's heaps o' folk gang to kirks and meetings, and yet they're no nane the better."

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Man, Dave, it's a pity ye hadna been yonder to tell a' that to yon stout man. Ye would hae saved him his labour."

"Na, ye ken fine, Sandy, I would be the first to do it gin I thought it would do ony good."

"I ken that weel, but the fau'ts wi' ye in no thinking it would do good. Yon stout man was positeeve it would do good gin he aince had James to the Master. Be ye positeeve that it will do good, gin ye get folk to the Master, and wha kens but ye may hae as braw returns as yon stout man himsel' ? Dinna be blate to let the Master ken ye're there, and that ye've somebody wi' ye. And there's this, yon stout man hadna nae notion that James was troubled about his sins. There's folk ye ken, and ye think they've never thought about their sins, but tak' ye them down to the Master and ye'll mak' this discovery, that a' their thoughts was about them. Ye think they're heedless, but they're no, for there's twa kind o' hypocrites. There's them that profess to heed about their soul's concerns when they dinna, that's the ae kind, and there's them that professes no to heed when they do, that's the tither kind, and it's no the kind there's fewest o'. Mak' ye up your mind, Dave, that a' 'ill be weel wi' your friends gin they aince come in contac' wi' the Master. Mak' ye it

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