was very ill. In great distress old George made his way to town. Arriving in the narrow street where the home of the Carters now was, after ascending two flights of steps, he entered a small room.

There sat Mrs. Carter, with her youngest child upon her knee. Sadly changed were the once plump and rosy children who surrounded her. Upon a small bed lay Betsy, evidently very ill. Suffering and sorrow were written upon her pale, thin face, which nevertheless lighted up with a bright smile as, opening her large eyes, she perceived her old friend George.

"My poor child!" exclaimed he, going up to her, and taking her outstretched hand, "I fear you are very ill." "I am," was her reply; "but God has been so good to

me."

Mournful and yet pleasant were the few hours passed by old George beside this sick bed, he perceiving with great thankfulness the unmistakable change which was taking place in Mrs. Carter. She had learned to prize the Saviour; and, though tears came at the memories George's presence awoke, she was resigned. "And oh, George," said she, Ben is at work: he has taken the pledge, and never drinks now."

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"Thank God!" was the reply, as the door opened and Ben entered, whose surprise was great to perceive old George.

"See," cried he, "what I have done; but, God helping me, I will never drink again. I made this resolve some time ago-first in my own strength, and failed; but now in the strength of Him who has so supported my wife and child."

"It is a painful subject, and one I seldom like to open. Still it may help you," replied George, "if I give you the outline of my history before you knew me; and may the God who helped me be now your strength.

"Years ago now, my father occupied a small farm. My mother was a true Christian. I had one brother, who, upon our father's death, held on the farm, and supported my mother until her death. Not being inclined to settle in the country, I went to Nottingham, where I learned my trade. My earnings soon became considerable, and I married. My wife, an industrious, quiet woman, tried to bring up our three children in respectability and comfort. Alas! she suffered much, for I became a drunkard. Sorrow

and care shortened her days, and her death first awoke my soul from the slumber of sin. Oh, Ben! terrible was the remorse I then endured, aggravated by finding how utterly unable I was to supply her place to the children she had left. Two of them died soon afterwards in a fever which prevailed, and only one was left to me; and then, in my deep grief, the Saviour spoke to me by his Spirit, bringing to mind all that I had forgotten in my contact with sin and evil. He spoke peace to my soul; and, oh, have I not reason to love him much, for he has forgiven much?

"As my son grew up he caused me great sorrow; and one night, in a fit of intoxication, he was persuaded to enlist as a soldier; and then I removed to the little room where I have since lived. I have suffered much, but far less than I deserve, and the goodness of God has always far surpassed my trials; and now, to crown my mercies, I am not without hope that my son is beginning to seek the Lord."

Old George departed, but the memory of his pleasant visit remained. Betsy recovered in course of time; and Ben, now steady and industrious, obtained plenty of work. His sons soon became able to work also; and so, as years passed on, comforts were again restored to this once unhappy family.

*

Six, seven years passed by, and Ben's cottage was again to let, and very soon the pleasant news spread that his family were returning. Upon a pleasant July evening they took a second possession of their old home.

Again Mrs. Carter bustled about her clean and cheerful kitchen; a quieter expression was on her face-the struggle had subdued her spirit, sorrow had led her to Jesus. His peace was manifest in the expression of her countenance as she welcomed old George to her cheerful home again.

Very old and very feeble he was now; but a strong arm was supporting him. His son led him in. In addition to a small pension, this son was earning good wages as a porter upon a railway, near to which he had taken a pretty cottage.

There the old man now dwelt. He had not been able to look upon the face of his son, for he had become blind; but with great joy he listened to his voice, as he spoke of the wondrous love shown in the conversion of his soul to God. The dark cloud had indeed passed by, the sunshine

behind was now seen and felt by all, as Ben Carter, kneeling down for evening prayer, thanked God from a full heart for the grace which had enabled him to give up his besetting sin, and for the goodness which had restored to them their country home again.

Old George remained a little while amongst them, and then went home to his Father's house-not, however, before his favourite Betsy, his child in the faith, had indeed become his daughter, the wife of his only son.

AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF DAVID SAUNDERS. ON the breezy Downs of Wiltshire, not far from the northern escarpment of Salisbury Plain, and near the line of the old Roman road which led from Salisbury to Bath, may be seen the remains of a shepherd's hut, which had been built of more durable materials than most of its neighbours. That deserted hut has a pleasant story connected with it. Booths were wont to be constructed and tenanted during the lambing season, which, when the shepherd needed to be in the midst of his flock night and day, afforded shelter during the short intervals of repose which nature demanded, and the fatiguing duties of his calling allowed. As they were sometimes pitched in an unsuitable place, they were deserted after a few seasons, and fell into decay. Similar in their frail structure, their temporary use, and early ruin, were those of Bible times and countries. Job likens the fleeting prosperity of the wicked to "the booth which the keeper maketh," and Hezekiah mourns that his age is removed from him "like a shepherd's tent." Their place is now supplied by huts made of wood and set on wheels, which thus can be moved from place to place to suit the convenience of the shepherd and his flock. These huts, when seen in the dull grey light of early spring, the shepherd standing near, crook in hand, with his wideawake hat and long rough tippetted coat over the white smock, relieve the monotony of the plain, which, in its pastoral districts, where the obtrusive plough has not yet been, presents an aspect of sameness to the stranger's eye.

At the time referred to, nearly a hundred years ago, it was reported in the neighbouring village by some who had passed over the Down in the dusk of evening, that strange sounds were heard to issue from the shepherd's hut. If it was the voice of praise, it was of the very rudest min

strelsy; and if followed by the voice of prayer, the language had in it more of fervour than gracefulness. It was the shepherd at his evening devotions. For though separated from his family for a month or two, and all alone in his solitary abode, he conducted his family worship in the same form, and with the same regularity, as if all his children were about him; reading from his Bible with its short comment upon the chapter, singing the evening hymn, and engaging in audible prayer. At that time these signs of Divine grace were strange things to the inhabitants of a village and district in which ignorance, superstition, and profanity prevailed, and where the gospel was almost unknown.

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The report of the shepherd's devotions, while it excited the superstitious awe of some, drew forth the ridicule of others; and two young men, partly from curiosity, partly from the love of sport, agreed to secrete themselves behind the hut, that having overheard the good man's prayers, they might annoy him with their rude jests. There they lay, and distinctly heard a portion of the word of God reverently read, a hymn read out and sung, and prayer poured forth in simple style, not only for himself and family, but for his ungodly neighbours round. Their hearts were touched, and if they came to scoff," they "remained to pray." Exchanging looks, they read in each other's face the change of feeling they had undergone, and agreed, in a whisper, to confess their design to the shepherd, ask his forgiveness, and seek his counsel. Affected and overjoyed, the good man not only forgave but prayed both for and with them, and invited them to join him in his worship as often as their time allowed.. Sometimes of an evening, but duly every Lord's day morning, very early, they were found in the solitary booth receiving such instructions as the shepherd could give, and soon were able to unite with him in heart as well as in voice at a throne of grace.

Fearing, in turn, to become the objects of ridicule to their fellow villagers, they kept secret the purpose of their absence from home on these occasions; and it might have remained unknown for some time longer, had not the jealousy of their young wives been aroused by the strange and to them unaccountable absence of their husbands at such hours. Failing to draw from them the secret, they agreed together to follow them some evening unobserved,

to their haunt. They saw them enter the shepherd's hut, and though that dissipated their worst fears, female curiosity induced them to approach the place, and listen to what was passing within. They heard prayer for their own conversion. This produced an effect on their minds similar to what their husbands' had experienced on a like occasion; it disarmed them of opposition to Divine truth, and made them willing to unite in the worship at that lonely place where prayer was now wont to be made.

Soon after, the shepherd encouraged his young converts to display more boldness, and to have worship in their own cottages in the village, with such neighbours as might be induced to attend. Encouraged by his promise to help them as far as duty permitted, they began their family worship with open doors, and conducted it in a form something like our modern prayer meetings.

As long as religion confined itself to a solitary booth on the Downs it met with only a passing sneer; but to come into a place where "the strong man armed" had so long "kept his goods in peace," was not to be endured. The cottage in which the service was held was soon beset by a crowd, mostly of young fellows, encouraged by their elders, who not only assailed with rude jests every one who wished to enter, but, as soon as prayer began, commenced making a hideous noise by beating pots, pans, and copper kettles, rendering the human voice inaudible. But those within were not to be discouraged. As soon as the brass band without overpowered the voice of prayer, they unitedly raised the voice of praise, and soon wore out the opposition.

Conspicuous among the persecutors was the son of the village blacksmith, who had received a good education, and ought to have known better, but whose reckless misconduct threatened not only to disappoint the hopes, but to effect the ruin, of his indulgent father. This youth having found his efforts to put down the cottage worship vain, was induced to venture in and hear what was

passing there. The pious few looked on his presence with suspicion, but it did not prevent them from praying the more earnestly for those who despitefully used them. The youth became serious, and the neighbours warned the old man that his son was in danger of being converted if he did not put a stop to his visits to the