those who suffer as Alison was suffering. The patient waiting, the ceaseless praying, the never-failing faith in the unseen Helper -these things are the things that move the Divine Heart whose sympathy with humanity is more perfect than we dream of. The same Jesus who talked with Mary and Martha at Bethany, and knew all the joys and sorrows of that humble household, is the great sympathizer still. And nothing, perhaps, is more sacred in His sight than the love which is, with all its earthliness, a faint copy of that unutterable love that laid down life and glory for a ruined world. Graham's letters to Pauline grew less and less frequent as weeks passed on. Laughton and old Bosworth, he wrote, had taken him in again; the promised berth had been found, but the salary was so ridiculously small, and the work so hard, that no sane man could dream of accepting it. However, he had met with some other old friends who | were far more likely to be serviceable than Laughton and his clique. Meanwhile the leaves were blown about the skies, and the year was dying amid sobbing wind and rain. There was every prospect of a wet Christmas. "It is very hard that people should write unpleasant letters at Christmas-time," said Pauline one morning in the middle of December. Her eyes were full of tears as she laid down the packet that the postman had just brought, and began to pour out the coffee. 'Why, mother, who has been writing nasty things to you?" asked Janet, looking up indignantly. "Never mind, dear," answered Mrs. Mon trose. "It's a long while since we heard from Uncle Graham," said Mabel with a little sigh. "Don't you think he'll be here at Christmas, mother?" "I'm afraid not, Mabel," Pauline replied, and the tears came to her eyes again. "I hope it isn't going to be a gloomy Christmas," remarked Janet. "It was very jolly last year. I wonder if there will be another hamper for Miss Cope!" "I think there will be," said Alison cheerfully. "Mr. Nott writes as kindly as ever." Mabel; "but we don't get so much excited about it when it comes the second time. And I know I shan't enjoy the hamper if Uncle Graham isn't here to unpack it for us. Mayn't I write him a little note, mother, and beg him to come? "I don't know where he is at present, dear," Pauline answered sadly. "Not know where he is !" Mabel echoed in dismay. "Oh, mother, I hope he isn't lost!" "We must ask God to find him if he is," said Janet. When the children had finished their breakfast and had gone up to the school-room, Pauline detained Alison. "My unpleasant letter is from Aunt Ade"You have never seen her, laide," she said. Alison, but you have heard of her often enough. You shall hear what she has written. You know she was always very hard upon Graham, and I think she is making the worst of him now." The old lady began her letter by heartily scolding Pauline. She had petted and cosseted her brother when all the rest of the family had kept him at a distance; and if that was not setting herself in opposition to her elders what was it? The dean, in the imbecility of old age, had left his graceless nephew a thousand pounds; but what was Graham doing with the money? He was fulfilling Aunt Adelaide's predictions to the very letter, and wasting his uncle's legacy in riotous living. Aunt Adelaide had never believed that there was a spark of good in Graham, and she hoped that even Pauline was now convinced of his wickedness. She had heard the most shocking accounts of his life in London, and, of course, some rumours of his doings must She trusted have reached Pauline's ears. that her niece had at last learnt the impossibility of reclaiming the family scapegrace. Then followed congratulations upon Pauline's approaching marriage. There really was nothing to be said against Major Templeford; and Aunt Adelaide concluded her epistle with the promise of a wedding present. "I can't tell how she has heard these dreadful things," said Pauline. "But she is a person who has acquaintances everywhere, and they tell her stories that I am not likely to hear. It is strange that Graham hasn't written to me for seven weeks. When he last wrote, he was about to change his lodgings, and I don't know where he is." You “That would do no good, Pauline. cannot reclaim a man against his will. He must be waited for, like the prodigal in the far country, until he comes to himself." Mr. Nott's hamper came again on Christmas Eve, and was unpacked, very quietly this time, by Alison and Fenton. The good things were as numerous as before; but there was no heart's-ease among the holly-berries, and even the sugar fairy, throned upon the cake, waved her silver wand in vain. Out of doors the rain was falling; they could Alone in her own room, Alison prayed for the wanderer, and thought of the many other wanderers that were prayed for that night. She believed, with her whole soul, that God would answer that prayer; but how long would the prodigal tarry in the far country? It is not enough for a friend to take the straying one by the hand, while his heart still clings to the stranger's soil. There must be the working of God's Holy Spirit within his spirit; the desire to depart must burn within his own soul until he can bear his self-chosen exile no longer. A hundred voices may vainly call him home, until his innermost self cries out in the extremity of its need, "I wilk arise and go to my Father, and will say unto Him, Father, I have sinned against heaver and before Thee." UP IN THE MINSTER. P spring, ye arches, to His praise. Sɔ cast on pillars pale and floor Colours of like brilliant dye, Poureth across the sunset sky. Rise, clustered shafts, and high upbear Of these restraining, massy walls : Your clustered leaf and tendrils' maze, Skywards, to where the coloured. height E. GARNETT. ་ SUNDAY EVENINGS WITH THE CHILDREN. HE Bible says, THE "If any man lack wisdom, let him ask of God, who giveth liberally and upbraideth not." This seems to me a little people's text, written to encourage little people to pray. Let me tell you a story that will help you to see how nice a text this is. One day there was much crying in a little cottage in Devonshire, in which there lived a woman and her four little children. The woman had no husband, nor had the children any father, for he had died some time ago. Since he had died they had been very, very poor, for there was now no one to earn the money to pay for what the family wanted only the mother; and, do what she could, poor thing, she could scarcely earn enough to pay for food for their hunger. Well, as I just now said, one day there was much weeping in this poor family. The cottage they lived in was not their own, they had to pay money, called rent, for it a few shillings every week. It belonged to the duke, who was the owner of all the cottages and all the land round about, and who lived in the great house in the beautiful park not far away. Now, the duke employed a man to collect his rents, and this man went round from cottage to cottage once every week and took the money that the people in the cottages gave him to the bank. So, among the rest, he called on this poor woman with her four little children, and she had paid him as long as she could, but one week she had no more money and could pay him no longer. So he called again next week, but she could not pay; for she had still no money. So the man told her she must leave the cottage, and that was why they were all crying, for they had nowhere else to go. The mother cried, and the children cried, they all cried. What could they do? No money, no food, no home, no friends. Harry, the eldest child, was just ten. He was a good boy with a brave heart. With out saying a word to anybody, he made up his mind to go and see the duke himself, and tell him about his mother; for he thought the duke would let his mother stop in the cottage, though she was too poor to pay the rent. So away he trudged. He had never spoken to the duke, but he did not think of anything save his poor mother. For a moment, as he passed through the big park gates, he felt just a little timid, but thoughts of his mother soon made him strong again. When he came up to the door of the great house, and was about to pull the bell, he almost lost heart, but love of his mother triumphed again, and he rang it. The butler who opened the door stood astonished, and almost angry, as he saw a poor lad at the front door of a duke's house; but he could not be altogether angry when he saw the face of the boy. What was the matter with him? "Please, sir, I want to see the duke." · "See the duke!" exclaimed the surprised butler; "what do you want with the duke?" Harry told the butler, and finished up with “Oh, do tell him, sir," in such tones that he could not find in his heart to send the boy away. So the butler went to the duke, and told him that a little boy from the village wanted to see him; and the duke bade him bring the boy in. Now, as the butler and Harry were going along the passage to the duke's room, the butler told Harry that he must not speak to the duke as he would speak to other people. "You must say Your Grace,' "" said the butler. The next moment the boy felt happy, for he was in the duke's room, and there was the kind face of the duke himself. As soon as he saw the duke, almost before the door was shut behind him, Harry stood still, put both his hands up before his face, reverently bent his head, and repeated, "For what we are about to receive the Lord make us truly thankful." As he spoke, Harry's feelings got the better of him, and the last words were almost drowned in sobs. Before the poor lad had finished the kind duke had risen from his chair, and, coming to him, said in an encouraging tone, "What is all this about, my boy?" Then Harry dried his tears, and explained that the man at the door had told him to "say his grace," and how his mother was poor and could not pay the rent, and was to be turned out of her house, and had nowhere else to go. "Go home, my boy," said the duke, much affected by the boy and his statement, and putting his hand on the boy's head, "and tell your mother I'm glad she trains her children to say grace, and she shall not be turned out. I'll see to it, tell her." Now that little boy's prayer to the duke was just the kind of prayer God likes to hear from us, it was very sincere. Harry lacked wisdom. He was very ignorant of the ways of a duke's house. He was altogether wrong in saying his grace, but his ignorance and his blunder were all nothing in the sight of the duke. The duke's heart felt for the boy, and it was a joy to him to feel for him. What did it matter that he ought to have said the very words " your grace," and not what he did say, his grace before meat? What did it matter that the boy seemed embarrassed? Was he angry with the boy's awkwardness and folly? No, my dear child, he was too good a man for that. He was deeply touched with a feeling of the little fellow's infirmities. He felt to love him for his childish simplicity. The heart of the duke understood the heart of the child. now just as He ever did. In olden times, the Bible says, the people God spoke to did not see anything; "they saw no similitude, they only heard a voice." And when God speaks now we do not see anything; there is no form before us, we see no similitude, but only hear a voice-a soft, gentle voice whispering in the heart. Let me tell you about a boy who heard God speak to him, and who bravely did what God told him. Bob Weston-for that was his name-was a poor boy. He went almost every morning to a place where many people used to go across one of the roads in London, and there he used to sweep away the dirt, to make a clean path for the ladies and gentlemen who crossed, and they were very glad of Bob's path, and gave him a copper now and then, But that great man's heart was not equal for which Bob always smiled and made a to the great God's heart. God's heart is polite bow. God's heart is polite bow. But though Bob was a happy greater than the greatest of men's hearts. His and good-natured little fellow, he was very heart always understands our hearts, pray we poor. His father had been dead a long never so foolishly. We need not be afraid while, and his mother was always ill, and of going into our bedrooms, shutting the generally in bed, so that she could not earn door, and telling God what we want, however any money for her children. The only simple, however ignorant, however foolish money that came into their house was what the form of our prayers may be. "If any Bob brought with him from his crossinglack wisdom," says the Bible, never mind sweeping, and all this Bob was glad to give that, "ask of God, who giveth liberally and to his mother every night; then she told him upbraideth not." We may feel too ashamed of what to buy, and Bob went off to the shops, what we are thinking to say it before men, and came home sometimes with bread and we fear they may lecture us; but never mind, tea, sometimes with coal and chips, and says the Bible, God will not lecture you. when his earnings had been very good, he Perhaps if the butler had been in the room would buy one herring for his poor mother, when poor Harry was saying, "For what we and another for himself and the rest of the are about to receive the Lord make us truly children. Bob was only eleven years old, thankful," he would have stopped him, and but he looked and felt a great deal older, been vexed, and have spoken sharply to him for he paid rent, did shopping, and earned for what would have seemed his silly mis- all the little money that kept the home. take. But the duke did not do so. He had One winter's day, after a very wet night, too large a heart for that. And the Bible Bob went to his crossing as usual. Many teaches us that God's heart is too large to be were the passers to whom he that day vexed by our simplicity and ignorance. If we touched his hat and smilingly asked, ask, like Harry, with all our hearts, like the copper, sir! Please a copper, mam!" The kind duke, "He giveth liberally and up-roads everywhere save just where Bob had braideth not." SECOND EVENING. B. WAUGH, Opening Hymn: "Jesus, when He left the sky." Lesson: John x. 1-14. Concluding Hymn: Sun of my soul, thou Saviour dear." You have often heard the Bible speak of "the word of the Lord." It tells us how the Lord spake to this man and to that man, and perhaps you think that God does not speak to people nowadays, and certainly not to boys and girls. But if it is so, you are wrong. God is alive now, and God speaks swept his crossing were ankle-deep in mud. Many a penny and halfpenny did Bob get that day, partly for the sake of his crossing, and partly for the sake of his round bright face and cheerful voice. Now it was the practice of Bob to look at every coin put into his hand, and before putting it into his pocket to give it a smile, as he said, "for luck." The coins were generally halfpennies, sometimes they were pennies, now and then they were silver three-penny pieces, and sometimes, only very, very seldom indeed, the coin was a silver sixpence! But to-day, on opening his hand to smile his usual smile |