I thought I should have died. I believe I shall die if this goes on much longer. I would sooner die than give up. Oh! William, how is all this to end? What will become of me ? Must I be only a burden upon those I love?"

"God forbid, my dear brother! Mark how he has given you this unlooked-for rest, just when you so much needed it. He will continue to take care of you. All will yet be well. Remember what Job says-Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.'"

"And so will I," was my fervent response. "William, you must write this fresh instance of his watchful love in your journal, together with the history of the note, and poor Charley's grapes. I feel that I could not have gone on working many days longer. I shall be better, perhaps, after a little rest; and the weather will be getting cooler. It is the heat that tries me. I often think of that sweet promise in the book of Revelation, "There shall be no more heat.' But about this journal; I have not seen it very lately. Are there any additions to it?"

"Several. The book is half full. But they appear such little things to relate to others."

"I do not believe," said I, "that there are any little things with God."

"I have often thought so too," replied my brother; "and the thought made me feel very happy."

"Yes; it is sweet to believe that nothing is beneath the notice of our heavenly Father."

"Do you recollect," continued William, "how our blessed Saviour himself says, 'Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall to the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows

"What is that passage about our not taking thought for the morrow ?" asked I. "Oh, if I could help doing that-if I could be still and leave it to God!"

At that moment my sister came into the garden to remind me that the dew was fast falling, and scolded me, with a little matronly air, for remaining out so long. At any other time I should have laughed, but just then we were in no laughing mood. We followed her in silence to the house; and then my brother

* Matthew x. 29-31.

opened the large family Bible, and read aloud the concluding verses of the 6th chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel: "Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed? (for after all these things do the Gentiles seek :) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things. But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you. Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."

My father came in soon afterwards, and told us that he feared Uncle Jabez was seriously ill.

"What a comfort it is," said William, "that he sent for my mother at last!"

"A comfort for him," replied I. "There never was such a nurse as my mother. But I hope she will not have too much of it, and get knocked up again, as she did the last time he was ill; and no thanks for it, after all."

"We must endeavour to do our duty, John, without expecting to be thanked for it."

"Yes, father, I know. But still it seems only

natural to be grateful to those who have nursed and waited upon us."

"All natures are not alike," said William.

"I am sure," exclaimed Alice, "I should be sorry to be like Uncle Jabez."

"Nevertheless," said my father, "we must always remember to bear in mind that it is God's grace alone which makes us to differ."

This night, my father prayed long and earnestly for Uncle Jabez. We little thought that it was the last time that he would ever need our prayers.

CHAPTER XIX.

DEATH OF UNCLE JA BEZ.

Ir was not until long afterwards that we heard all the particulars of my mother's visit to Uncle Jabez. How she went smiling, and holding out her hand to the bedside, and was shocked and startled by the death-look upon his wan and colourless face; how the old man tried to speak to her, and could not; how by a strong effort she recovered her composure, and endeavoured to cheer and soothe him, but he only sighed, and shook his head.

"Oh! uncle," exclaimed she, seeing how ill he was, "why did you not send for me before? My poor uncle!" And she kissed his thin white face, so like her own dear mother's on her deathbed. "You will be better soon, I hope. Will he not?" asked she, turning to the medical man, who had moved away at her entrance.

Dr. H― shook his head. He was a Chris