state is very dismal; it is "outer darkness."-Darkness is uncomfortable and frightful; it was one of the plagues of Egypt. In hell there are chains of darkness. (2 Pet. ii. 4.) In the dark no man can work, a fit punishment for a slothful servant. It is outer darkness; out from the light of heaven, out from the joy of the Lord, into which the faithful servants were admitted; out from the feast. Again, it is very doleful. There is a weeping, which speaks great sorrow, and gnashing of teeth, which speaks great vexation and indignation.

"A SCENE IN A CITY OF THE EAST."

It is a long time ago-it may be even more than eighteen hundred years since there was deep sorrow in a certain house, in a great city of the East.

If you had been passing through the busy street of that eastern city, and had paused at that house, surely your own heart would have shared the sorrow of the inmates of that house, and you might have waited, as many did wait there, to see if it was indeed the will of the Most High God that the hand of death should fall on the head which, as yet, it only overshadowed.

I should like you to pause awhile with me at this house of sorrow, and try to realize the distress which was felt there. The lesson to be learnt there will be a pleasant and a precious one, in spite of its present sadness. It will be a new scene also to some of my poorer readers, for the land is afar off, and the houses there are not built like the cottages and houses of England. The manners of the people; the climate; the country, too, are very different from ours. There the sun rises almost as hot as it is with us at noontide; and all the summer-day pours down a flood of light and heat such as we never see, or feel. So the streets of a city in the east are narrow, the better to

shade the passers-by; and the roofs of the houses are flat, so that the people may walk there, and be refreshed by the cool evening breeze; or sleep there, as they often do, in sultry summer nights. These houses are very large, built in a square form, having a verandah round the inner court, with a gallery above it, which leads from room to

room.

In the house of which I now speak, the staircase opened at the entrance of the court, and led up to the gallery, where many eastern women were walking to and fro, whispering together, with sad looks turned towards an open window: the elder women were gathered together, and shook their heads, as if they had little hope left them ; and some sat down beside a chamber door, and moaning in a low voice, seemed to watch for a fast-coming death.

Within a spacious chamber, richly adorned with carved and painted ornaments, and hung with velvet curtains, looped with gold, lay a beautiful and darling child, sick, -sick unto death. Her bed was at the upper end of the chamber, on a raised floor, canopied or overhung with costly furniture; and the room was full of sweet odours, and many servants waited to perform whatever the sick child needed; for the owner of that house was a ruler amongst his people, and this was his only child.

Alas! alas! in the hour of sickness and of death, these costly adornments, this pride of life are of very little worth. The riches which men gather with so much toil, and grasp with so tight a hand-little can they profit or pleasure us at the parting hour. It is true, they can purchase luxuries; but who cares for them, when the appetite is gone, and loathes all dainties? they can buy raiment, fine and beautiful; but who desires it, when the aching body cannot bear the weight of its apparel, and tosses in pain upon a fevered bed? Riches can buy medicine, and purchase the physician's aid: ah! these are sometimes very precious; but there comes a time, when, even as

beside that only child, the physician stands powerless, and the hope from medicine fails.

The father of the young girl sat beside her, with one wasted hand in his; and the mother was sitting on the bed, resting the burning head of her child on her own sad bosom. A fever was raging in its might, and the strength of the little sufferer was sinking rapidly. She had been talking fast and wildly; but now was silent through exhaustion, and all was silent around. The father looked at the physician, and the aged man, after feeling the quick weak pulse, answered only by a look which gave no hope-no hope!

Still there was silence: the mother's tears fell silently; the father's heart wept secretly, and he only bent down his eyes upon the Book which lay upon his knees, to hide, perhaps, his sorrow, and lift that heart in prayer.

The Book was a holy one, and thus, therein, spake a prophet of his God: "Behold, your God shall come and save you. Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf shall he unstopped; then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall sing."

Oh! what was it that then made the father start? what was it that made his eyes glisten, and a ray of hope come back to his heart? why did he hastily but quietly rise up, and lay down the little hand he was clasping so tenderly; bend once more to kiss the sweet pale face of his child, and then with an anxious, and yet hopeful countenance, leave the room, and leave the house?

This city of the East-the city where this sorrowful ruler dwelt, was called Capernaum. It was a sea-side town, beautifully situated on the lake or sea of Galilee. To and fro upon the bright waters passed the ship of the trader, and the fisherman's boat; busy people thronged the shore, and happy people wandered about in the pleasant gardens which bordered the lake; but one sorrowful man

took no heed of the beautiful scenery, or of the busy people; he walked quickly on, and anxiously.

At length he stopped at one house not far from the sea side, the house of a rich man, but a publican; and there was a feast held there—a holy feast in honour of Him whom the father sought. There were many reasons why he should hesitate before he entered the publican's house, that ruler of the synagogue; for many reasons sorrow loves not the house of mirth; but affection for his dying child, and a faith new-born in his heart, made him press on, unmindful of these reasons. He pushed through the crowded door: no one questioned him, for all were listening with deep attention to a solemn voice; and pressing more forward still, he fell low at the feet of Him who spoke, beseeching him greatly that He would come and heal his child-"his little daughter, who lay at the point of death."

It was the prophet of Galilee, whom the father of the sick child sought, and he was at a feast given by one who honoured and believed on him as more than a prophet. He was, although at a feast, teaching a multitude in such words of wisdom as never man spake, when this father came before him in his importunate distress.

What right had he to break in upon that feast, and interrupt that teaching? None! none whatever; and yet, scarcely are his entreaties uttered, than up rose that Holy Prophet, kindly, and graciously, as if he felt in his own heart the father's sorrowing haste, and fast as the thronging crowd would let them, they left the feast, and threaded the streets of the city, towards the ruler's house. They had not proceeded far, when they were stopped by another sufferer, who sought relief. The delay was short, but it seemed long, very long to the trembling father. A moment to him was worth more than gold-one moment to his dying child, was of unspeakable value. And now his eager eye catches sight of one of his own servants breath

lessly forcing his way throogh the crowd: he comes with the woeful tidings-"Trouble not the Master; thy daughter is even now dead."

Hardly are the words spoken-hardly had the terrible news reached the tingling ears of the poor father, when the gracious face of the Prophet is turned to him again, and His kind voice soothes him with-" Be not afraid, only believe."

They reach the ruler's house at last. The first sound they hear is that of the mournful music with which eastern people are wont to lament death-The child is dead.

The crowd pauses at the gate, and the father, the Prophet, and three of his chosen friends ascend the staircase. In the gallery are the mourners playing funereal music, and uttering from time, low cries of sorrow; but as the Prophet passes by, he bids them cease, and be still. There are louder cries of woe in the room where the departed child is laid, weeping, and a mother's heavy grief. The Prophet enters, and again he bids them be still, and cease their weeping; for, he adds, kindly, the child is not dead; she sleepeth.

How they laughed him to scorn, those hired menials and officious friends: they knew better; they had seen death before to-day, and the child was dead. Nevertheless he answered not, but put them out of the room, and with only the parents and his three friends, he stood beside the dead child's couch. How calmly she lay in death the fever-flush had faded from her cheek-the restless eyes were closed-the little hands folded, stiff, and almost cold-the dark unbound hair in disorder on the pillow.

There was a silence, as once before when they watched in sorrow beside her, when yet living; but the mother knelt down, and the father gazed now upon the Holy One their Helper, in the deep silence of hope. Presently, the Prophet took the little one's hand in his: it was a gentle

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