The Project Gutenberg eBook of Look on the sunny side

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Title: Look on the sunny side

and other sketches

Author: Ruth Lamb

Release date: January 1, 2025 [eBook #75017]

Language: English

Original publication: London: R. T. S, 1883

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

BE CAREFUL FOR NOTHING; BUT IN EVERYTHING BY PRAYER AND

SUPPLICATION WITH THANKSGIVING LET YOUR REQUESTS BE MADE KNOWN UNTO GOD.

AND THE PEACE OF GOD, WHICH PASSETH ALL UNDERSTANDING,

SHALL KEEP YOUR HEARTS AND MINDS THROUGH CHRIST JESUS.

Look on the Sunny Side,

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

BY

RUTH LAMB

Author of "Thoughtful Joe," "Katie Brightside," etc.

LONDON:

[THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY]

56, PATERNOSTER ROW; 65, ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD;

AND 164, PICCADILLY.

CONTENTS.

LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE

MARTHA'S CHOICE

AS A LITTLE CHILD

A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH

WHICH PAYS BEST

BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS BOX

TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE

A WORD IN SEASON

A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED

BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS

WIDOW HENDERSON; OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED

Look on the Sunny Side,

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE.

IT was drawing towards evening, when a woman, carrying a large bundle of work, entered a room on the ground floor of a ready-made clothes warehouse. She was bringing back a pile of finished shirts made by machine at her own home.

There were a number of girls and women at work in the room as she entered, some employed in fixing for the machinists, or finishing off their garments by making button-holes or putting on buttons. Others were cutting out, or making up parcels of garments to give to the out-door workers. All looked tired, for the day had been hot and close, and many glances were cast towards the clock, for this last working hour seemed longest of all to the weary women.

The new-comer, however, entered with a smiling face, though any one might tell that she, too, was tired, by the great drops of perspiration which she wiped from her hot face, and the look of relief with which she placed her heavy bundle on the counter, that its contents might be examined by the forewoman.

"Eh, Mrs. Duncan," said the latter, "here you come again with a heap of work! How do you get through so much this hot weather? I'm sure it seems to take all the strength out of me. It doesn't do to give in when I have to keep the whole room going," she added, dropping her voice; "but I've been as bad for looking at the clock this afternoon as the youngest learner amongst them. I never felt time go so slowly in my life, I think."

"And there's just the difference between you and me, Miss Evans. I've been looking at the clock, too, but it was because the time was going all too fast for me, and I was sadly afraid I should not finish before closing time; but I have managed it, I am thankful to say. You wonder how it is I get through so much; but you see I have seven little drivers and a big one to keep me going!"

The girls glanced at each other as they heard Mrs. Duncan's words, and many a kindly look was turned towards her. They knew that her husband, a skilled mechanic, had recently met with a serious accident, which had quite unfitted him for work. A painful operation had been necessary, and though he was recovering, it would most likely be months before he would be strong enough to earn anything.

There was a small weekly allowance from a club, the eldest of the eight children, a boy, was just earning enough to repay the cost of his food, and, for the rest, nothing but what the hard-working mother could earn by her constant labours with the sewing machine.

And yet the toil-worn mother never came into the warehouse to receive her hard-earned wages without bringing, as it seemed, a ray of sunshine along with her. No cross looks, no murmuring words; no railing at the rich because they were rich, or grumbling because her own lot was one of almost incessant labour, and her pay small at the very best.

"I must look over your work for form's sake, Mrs. Duncan," said the forewoman; "but it is always right, and amongst the best done of all that comes into this place. I wish everybody gave me as little trouble as you do." And the forewoman, having glanced at the work, put it aside, and wrote out an order for the money, which Mrs. Duncan must receive at the pay-desk on her way out.

"How is your husband getting on?" she asked, as she handed the ticket to Mrs. Duncan.

"As well as one can expect, Miss Evans, thank you. And he's very patient, considering that it is harder work for a man like him to be quiet than it is for some. He was always on the move, you see, when he was able to work, and to a willing man, the worst job you can give him is to lie still."

"That's true enough; but I didn't know your husband was one of that sort. I thought—" and then the forewoman hesitated, for she did not like to say to the self-devoting wife and mother what she had heard about John Duncan. How he spent in drink a large share of the money he had worked hard to win, and how the poor wife was often afraid to leave her tidy home, especially on a Sunday, lest she should return to find her crockery broken and the little ones frightened out of the house by the harsh words, perhaps even blows of the intoxicated father. And yet she had also heard that, when sober, John Duncan was a kind man enough and very proud of his comely wife and fine healthy children.

A flush crossed Mrs. Duncan's face as she heard the "I thought" of the forewoman. She guessed what was passing in her mind, and what had prevented her from giving utterance to it in words. "There's no harder-working man than John, when he can work, Miss Evans; but he has sometimes given the neighbours reason to talk, poor fellow! Still, if they do talk, it's not my place to help them by finding them materials. I'm in hopes that there's a better time coming to us, for all we may seem to be under a cloud now," said Mrs. Duncan, as she hastily whisked away a tear that was going to run down her cheek.

"You're just a wonder to me, Mrs. Duncan. I do not know how you keep up. Work, work, work, from early morning till nobody but yourself knows how late at night; with all those children to think about and care for; cooking, mending, nursing—for you've two little better than babies—and your husband as he is! It's enough to break down half-a-dozen women. And here you come with a smile and a pleasant word for everybody."

"Why, now, Miss Evans, we'll look at the other side, and see what a lot of things I have to keep me up. I've wonderful health, and feel strong and hearty. I'm willing to work, and you find me as much work as I can do. There's a real houseful of children but, then, those that are too little to work can run errands and amuse those that are less still. They're all very good, considering I cannot look after them so well as I should like. Then there's John! Ailing, to be sure, but living and likely to live, though he was in the very grip of death, as one may say, a month ago. Now haven't I something to be cheerful about, Miss Evans?"

"You are determined to look at the best side of everything, Mrs. Duncan; but I doubt there are not many of us that would bear up as you do, if we were in your place."

"Well, to say the truth, I don't bear up at all. It is just Christ that bears me up and my trouble too. He says, 'Cast thy burden upon the Lord,' and He does not tell me to do that without a plain promise that He will sustain me. He tells me to call upon Him in the day of trouble, and He will deliver me. So I lift up my heart to Him all the time I am treadling away at the machine, and my feet go faster and my heart feels lighter when I think that I've told Him all about it. Not but what He knew before. Still He has said He will be inquired of to do all these things that we want, and if we can receive for asking, surely it should not be too much trouble to speak. The wonder is that God is willing to answer such as I am."

"And do you really think God does answer you, Mrs. Duncan?" asked a pale-faced eager-looking girl, who had been listening attentively to the conversation between her and the forewoman.

"Do I believe God answers? To be sure I do, my dear. I don't mind telling you something about that, for I know we are so apt to get doubtful, in spite of all the promises, and the experience that a poor woman like me has had of God's faithfulness may help to strengthen some one else. You would hardly believe it now, but my poor John's sad accident has brought an answer to my prayer of years and years."

"Why, you don't mean to say you asked for that, Mrs. Duncan?"

"No, my dear. God forbid that I should ever desire pain and suffering for anybody, much less my husband. I wouldn't hurt a hair of his head. But you're not married, and you don't know what it is to walk one way and your husband another. For some time after I was John's wife, it did not matter to me that he never went down on his knees at home, or taught our first children anything about God, or entered a place of worship.

"We were both alike. We cared for none of these things. But the time came when God was pleased to show me what a poor helpless sinner I was, and to let me see that I could never save myself. I could not tell you now how it came about, it would take too long; but I think nobody in this world was ever more rejoiced after having been shown myself, to have a sight of my Saviour and realise what He had done for me.

"How thankful I was for my share in His salvation! And, oh, how I longed for John to feel like me! I prayed and prayed for him. I talked to him, begged of him to go with me to church, told him how happy I Was in thinking that I had a heavenly Friend that would never forsake me if I put my trust in Him. I sent the two eldest children to Sunday-school, and I wanted to a place of worship. But it was no use. John could not see any good in it. He did not hinder the children going on Sundays, he said the house was quieter without them; but he would neither go himself to the house of God nor let me. I have often been near giving up, but I was kept from that, though when one knew that one was praying for a right thing, it seemed hard to pray so long without getting an answer. I got almost desperate, I was so anxious for John, and I really did pray that he might be brought to Jesus, no matter how rough the way might be, or at whatever cost of hard work to me.

"Then this accident happened: poor John lay helpless and senseless, sometimes still enough, sometimes talking all sorts of wild talk, but knowing nobody. And then I wondered whether it could be that this was to be the end, and I was to get no answer to the prayers of all these years.

"One night the children were all gone to rest but baby, and I was just getting her to sleep to put her in the cradle beside her father's bed. I don't know how it happened, but I was praying aloud as I rocked her backwards and forwards, when all at once I heard poor John's voice from the bed. So weak and low it was, but it rung through me, like the loudest trumpet, for it brought the answer to my prayer.

"'Mary,' he said, 'I heard what you were asking God for me. I'm a poor good-for-naught, and I'm not worth all your praying and thought for me; but you're a good wife, and I can't bear you to keep asking and asking, and all for nothing. We've been sixteen years married, and I've never gone on my knees to God in all that time. I cannot kneel now, and I don't know how to pray, but if you'll come beside the bed and teach me what to say, I'll try.'

"I got up and reached him his medicine and gave him a drink, and then, with the little one in my arms, I dropped on my knees and prayed as well as I could for tears and sobs. But they were not sorrowful tears, for my heart was full of joy. At last I begun the Lord's Prayer, and John said it after me bit by bit, with his voice all trembling, like a little child learning from its mother.

"And when I got up, he said, 'Kiss me, Mary. I've never deserved to have you; but I hope, if I live, I shall be helped to behave better to you than I have done.'

"That was the beginning of better days for us, I am sure. John cannot be happy without daily prayer now, and I do believe he is a changed man, and that our latter days will be more blessed than our beginning.

"Now you understand how John's accident has been made the means of answering my prayer, and how it is that I can thank God even for what, at first look, seemed a sore trial."

There was a murmur of sympathy amongst the young folks in that busy room. The tired workers had forgotten their own weariness as they listened to Mrs. Duncan's story, and more than one amongst them told her that it made them ashamed of a complaining spirit when they saw the cheerful way in which she met her troubles and shouldered her burden, and that story was long remembered among them.

By this time, the new parcel of work was ready, and Mrs. Duncan bade Miss Evans and the young work-women "Good day," and went on her homeward way with a rejoicing and thankful heart. She had long been sowing in tears. She had been instant in prayer, despite long waiting and many discouragements, and her Heavenly Father had sent her a gracious answer, though it was indeed, after many days.

MARTHA'S CHOICE.

MANY years ago, when I was comparatively new to family joys and cares, we had two servants, sisters, who had both lived some time in the family. One was older by ten years than the other, but each had won our good will and esteem by her steadiness and faithful service. Moreover, each had what is called a "follower," though not without my knowledge.

We profess to take an interest in all the members of our household, and we are accustomed to be treated with confidence by them, and are often consulted about their affairs, especially in matters of importance. I was not, therefore, surprised when Martha, the elder sister, asked for a few minutes' conversation; but I quite expected it would convey news of an approaching wedding, and terminate in the usual month's notice to leave.

Martha said, "I was wishing to ask your advice, ma'am, about my young man. You know what he is, and that most people would think he is rather above me, only I have saved a bit of money," added she, with pardonable satisfaction.

"You have earned your money well, and used it prudently," I interposed, by way of encouragement.

"And I did think how nicely it would come in to furnish a home; but I am not satisfied that George is the man to make one happy. He professes to go to church with me, and to be religious when we are together; but he never enters a place of worship when I am not with him, though he has all his Sundays to spend as he likes. Now, I think, if he really loved going to God's house, he would go all the same when it is my turn to stay in. Then he can go to theatres and such like places quite comfortably without me, for he knows it would be no use asking me to join him. So I have come to think that he attends theatres because he likes them, and church because he likes me. I don't deny that it would be a trial to break with George," she added, her trembling voice showing how much she was pained at the thought of a separation.

"Have you spoken to George about these things?" I asked.

"Yes, ma'am, and he just laughed at me, said I was a great deal too particular, and it was likely when a man had no settled home and no wife to make him comfortable, that he would want a little amusement. He 'was sowing his few wild oats now, and after he was married—.' When he spoke like this, I put in my word, and said a few grains often brought a large crop, and I did not want to have the reaping of it in sorrow; but he just laughed again, and told me to give notice, and then we would be married at the month's end."

"And is that what you have decided to do, Martha?"

"No, ma'am. I opened God's Word, for somehow it has a message for everybody and every time, and I read this verse, 'Can two walk together except they be agreed?' And I said—'No,' out loud, just as if I were answering a question that some person had asked me; for I had never noticed that verse before, and I did feel it was for me. I had not gone down on my knees to ask for guidance, but I did wish to see what was the right thing to do; and I know when my Lord and Master was here on earth, He used to answer people's thoughts. And now, ma'am, will you read this letter before I send it, and tell me what you think? Have I done right?"

"Certainly, Martha," I said, "and I rejoice to find that you go to the best of all sources, the Bible, for guidance."

I read the letter which Martha had written to George, and in which she announced her intention of remaining in her situation and of setting him free from his engagement. Poor girl! I knew what the writing of that letter must have cost her. How I sympathised with the brave heart, the Christian firmness, which made her resolve to give up her affianced husband—not because she did not love him, but because he did not love God.

"Martha," I said, "if George is worthy of your affections, your letter will not be long unanswered."

"I can leave myself in God's hands," she said; "but I have another trouble. My sister is young and pretty, and she is taken up with one who is far worse than George, for he makes game of people who even profess to be religious, and he is neither steady nor temperate. Will you try to persuade her to give him up? She is almost like a daughter as well as sister to me, for mother died when she was only five, and I took care of her for years till father married again."

I promised Martha to use my influence with Jessie, and I did all in my power, but in vain. Pretty foolish Jessie married a worthless, idle spendthrift, in defiance of tears, entreaties, and advice. And,—alas!—still reaps the fruit of her self-will in the companionship of a drunkard, amid poverty and perpetual domestic strife.

George did not answer Martha's letter. His family had always been against his marriage with her, because she was a servant and they were small tradespeople. So they encouraged him when he expressed his determination not to eat humble pie, and told him "there were as good fish left in the sea as any that had been taken out."

We were all sorry for Martha's trial, for such it was, but thankful that she never for a moment wavered in her resolution. She served us well for some years more, and then became the wife of a man like-minded with herself, and able to maintain her in comfort.

After sixteen years of married life, Martha's husband volunteered this testimony: "She has been a good wife and a good mother. She has brought up her children in the fear of the Lord, both by precept and practice, and has been a real help to me in everything. She has often told me about giving up the man she was to have married, but she always says, 'I thought it was a trouble at the time, though it was all for the best. It would have been no use to ask God's guidance, and then take one's own way.'"

A pleasant testimony this, after many days. Truly, "A woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised."

AS A LITTLE CHILD.

A MOTHER and a little child of six years were together one afternoon, the former busily plying her needle, the latter building a wonderful castle with a box of jointed bricks. They were almost constant companions, for all the elders of the flock were at school, whilst Nellie was still her mother's pupil. A bright, merry, intelligent young creature was the little scholar. She needed neither coaxing nor driving; but loved to learn as the mother loved to teach.

As she laboured away at her building on that summer afternoon, the small architect reminded one of a bird by her ceaseless motion. She flitted about, piling brick upon brick; sometimes talking, sometimes singing, as she drew back now and again to observe the effect of her work.

And, childlike, she chattered for a time, hardly noticing how brief were her mother's answers, or that, very often, there was no reply at all to her many questions. But this state of things was so contrary to custom that it attracted Nellie's attention, and, turning towards her mother, she saw that her hands were lying idle in her lap, and that her eyes were filling with tears.

In a moment the bricks were on the ground and the castle a mere wreck. The child darted to her mother, exclaiming, "Mamma, mamma! What is the matter? Are you ill? Do tell me what you are crying for?" And at the same time, she softly wiped the tear from Mrs. Matthews' cheek, and followed this act by a loving kiss.

The mother lifted the child on her knee, and clasping her arms round her, wept quietly for a few moments. Then, as soon as she could speak, she said, "Nellie, your father and I are in great trouble about something. You are too young to understand why I am crying, darling, and I cannot tell you about it or I would, because I know my little Nellie would like to comfort her mother."

The little arms gave an answering pressure as the child said, "Can't I fetch or do anything, mamma?"

"Darling, I wish you could," was the answer.

Nellie remained silent for a moment, and then she said, with a beautiful bright smile, "Mamma, I can ask God to take away the trouble from papa and you. He can do everything."

The child's hopeful words thrilled through the mother's ears like a message of mercy. She was a profound believer in the power of prayer. She had taught her children to pray as soon as they could lisp, and not one of them could say, "I remember the time when mother first prayed with me." She had knelt with her babe in her arms; she had breathed prayers over the little sleepers as they lay in their cots; and as soon as they were old enough, mother and children had bowed the knee, and in simple words sent up their petitions at the throne of grace together.

And now this youngest of them all was bringing her lessons to mind, and strengthening the faith of her mother by her childlike confidence in the love and power of God, and in His willingness to answer prayer.

Mrs. Matthews saw Nellie go to the window and behind the shelter of the curtain. She remained silent for some minutes while the little bowed figure, with clasped hands, was asking God to "take away the trouble which made her mother weep." She was sure He knew all about it, though she did not and could not tell Him.

The prayer ended, Nellie came back to her mother, and sat quietly for a little while, until Mrs. Matthews was called out of the room; but before she went to bed that night she whispered, "Is the trouble gone yet, mamma?"

"Not yet, Nellie. We have to wait God's time for removing trouble."

"Well! He will take it away," replied the child, without one shade of doubt as to the result of her prayer.

The mother sighed, as the thought came into her mind, "Oh, that I could receive the kingdom of God, that I could grasp His promises and trust Him, as this little child, who first heard of Jesus, the Saviour of sinners, through me! How easy it seems to tell others; how difficult to 'Rejoice in the Lord alway,' and to trust Him as a child submits to the leading of a loving parent."

The morning came, and again Nellie whispered her inquiry, "Mamma, I have asked God again. Is the trouble gone yet?"

Mrs. Matthews was half afraid to say "No," there was something so touching in the child's confidence. She replied, "Not yet, Nellie."

"But it will, mamma?" half inquiringly.

"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Matthews, firmly, "it will, Nellie. But we cannot be sure when or how. God knows what is best. Never forget that, dear. Sometimes He makes us wait awhile, to see if we can be patient and trust Him and sometimes, though He does not take away the trouble, He makes us strong and willing to bear it."

This was something new for the child. She thought; the little face brightened. "I understand, mamma. I know," she cried, eagerly. "You love me; but you do not always give me everything I want, and sometimes you make me wait. I will ask God to make you strong."

Day after day the child waited, prayed, and expected an answer, believing it would certainly come. One morning, Mr. Matthews received a letter as they were all at breakfast. As he read it his face grew bright; he handed it to his wife, and Nellie heard her mother say, while tears of a new kind ran down her cheeks, "Thank God!"

"Mamma, mamma! Is the trouble gone?" cried Nellie, eagerly.

"My darling, it is," was the answer, as she kissed the face of her little comforter with a thankful heart.

Mr. Matthews wondered what Nellie meant, especially when he heard her glad shout, "I knew it would go! I was sure it would go."

But when her mother told him how the child's prayer, and her daily expressions of confidence, had cheered and comforted her during those days of trial, he understood it all, and rejoiced that the good seed sown in the young heart had already brought forth fruit.

The words of Jesus are—

"Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child, he shall not enter therein."

May this true story of a little child's prayers, faith, and patient waiting, be the means of carrying comfort to some weary and heavy-laden soul, longing, but fearing to take God at His word, and to lay hold on those precious promises which are all "Yea and amen in Christ Jesus."

A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH.

TWO gentlemen were talking together one evening about the inestimable value of the Sabbath as a gift to mankind.

Both had led busy lives, and though one of them had long since retired from active commercial pursuits, he was incessantly occupied, not in making money, but in doing all that he could to promote the welfare and happiness of others.

"Better to wear out than rust out," was this man's motto, and his clear complexion and the bright expression on his countenance, together with his active step, showed that his labour of love, instead of making him older, was helping to preserve his vigorous health.

The younger of the two was still in the very prime of life, and was the owner of an immense manufacturing concern, which constantly taxed all his powers, both of mind and body. Yet he, too, found leisure to look around amongst his toiling hands, and to think of and carry into effect plans both for their moral improvement and bodily comfort.

"I used to think," said Mr. Baird, the elder of the two, "that I had weight enough to carry on my shoulders when I stood alone as the proprietor of mechanical works, and with hundreds of men in my employ. But my responsibilities seem small to look back upon in comparison with yours of to-day. There is such keen competition; news flies with such rapidity; in fact, the world lives so fast that we have hardly time to think. We seem to be in a perpetual whirl of business."

"It is quite true," returned Mr. Jackson, the younger speaker. "Times have changed greatly during the last fifteen years since you retired from business. And I could not stand it, but for one blessed relief."

"I can guess what that is—the Sabbath, that precious gift of which so many now seem to think lightly enough."

"Yes, it is precious indeed, and through all my life, I am thankful to say, I have valued its rest and been jealous of any attempt to encroach upon it. I think you know that for some years I travelled for the founders of the very works which now belong to me, and which you consider so vast and important."

"You have told me as much before," said Mr. Baird, "and just now, as you spoke of the Sabbath, I was wondering whether you succeeded in acting up to your principles whilst leading a life which exposed you to so many temptations."

"I wish I could say that I always did. I tried; but sometimes, alas! I yielded to the temptations around me. I can say this much, that I never, either as a traveller or employer, transacted business, or allowed others to do it, on the Sunday. As a rule, when 'On the road,' I so arranged my journeys that I ended the week in some quiet country place or old cathedral city. I often went a few extra miles on Saturday nights in order to reach such a resting-place; and words could not express how sweet the quiet was to me after the bustle and hurry of the week. I do not believe many men entered the house of God with a more thankful sense of its privileges than I did during those busy years."

"But you say there were exceptions to these happy Sabbaths."

"Yes. It happened occasionally that I could not reach one of my havens of rest, and that I was thrown into company with my brethren of the road who did not feel as I did, and was persuaded to spend my Sunday with them and after their fashion."

"Without attending public worship, for instance?"

"That would be one thing neglected. Then we sat longer at the table, and, though I was never intemperate, I perhaps took a little extra wine, and talked of subjects that would have been better kept out of mind."

"What difference did this make on you, body and mind, during the week?"

"My body missed its periodical rest, and was sooner tired. My mind was less bright; my conscience accused me. I exactly realised the truth of those words of old Judge Hale:

"'A Sabbath well spent brings a week of content,

And health for the toils of the morrow;

But a Sabbath profaned, whatsoe'er may be gained,

Is the certain forerunner of sorrow.'

"But that is not all. I kept during all those years an exact record of my Sabbaths, and particulars as to how and where they were spent. I also kept an account of the week which followed each, and the business done in it. I possess those memoranda now; and it is a fact that I never had a good and prosperous week in business matters after an ill-spent Sabbath, and I never had anything but a happy and prosperous one after a Sunday which had been spent in accordance with God's gracious and loving purpose in bestowing it. Well now, how do you account for this, Mr. Baird?"

"I fancy we should both account for it in the same way, my friend," said the elder gentleman. "We have not forgotten those words spoken by the Prophet Isaiah to the Israel of olden time but as true as ever to the Israel of God to-day: 'If thou turn away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy pleasure on My holy day and call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord, honourable; and shalt honour Him, not doing thine own ways, nor finding thine own pleasure, nor speaking thine own words: then shalt thou delight thyself in the Lord; and I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth, and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it.'"

"Yes, I believe the words with all my heart. It is a good gift for the body, a blessing to the soul, a time bestowed on us here to fit us to enjoy eternity. Thank God for the Sabbath!"

Mr. Jackson paused, and his friend added a fervent "Amen."

As the testimony and experience of a business man in these busy days, I thought this conversation worth recording. I trust it may carry home a lesson to some of those who deny themselves the enjoyments and the privileges attached to God's good gift of one day in seven.

"See, for that the Lord hath given you the Sabbath." "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy."

WHICH PAYS BEST?

TWO shops stand side by side, in one of our city roads. Both are inhabited by hard-working and most obliging tradesmen. But there is a difference; for the one with the larger family works hard enough—the other works too hard. Six days' work in each week is enough for one, the other cannot do with less than seven.

One shop is closely shut on the Sunday, and from the side door, the father, a widower, may be seen, twice during the day, starting to join the assembly of God's people in His house. His eldest girl, a sweet-faced modest young woman, is on her father's arm, the younger ones go in front—a little family band, of one heart and one mind. There is a sweet sense of peace and rest on the young faces, and a light on that of the father which tells of that other peace, which the world can neither give nor take away.

Those who know them best say they are a happy family—that a loving father has dutiful children, and that the home, under the careful management of that young girl, is a sweet picture to look upon.

The secret of it is, that they leave the six working days outside the Sabbath as far possible; but they take as much as they can of the Sabbath lessons into the week days' work to cheer them onward.

Leaning against the door-post of the next shop is the too industrious master of it. He cannot spare himself the Sunday, and, though he puts up part of the shutters during morning hours, as a sort of compliment to the day of rest, you can see all the goods in tempting array within. You feel quite sure the master is ready to serve any customer who may be as unscrupulous as himself with regard to the Lord's day. Perhaps he thinks he will be the richer for his seven days' work in each week; but his home does not give evidence of this.

What can be more miserable than an untidy home on Sunday morning, and clothing with all the soil of the working days evident upon it! As no member of that household is thinking of going to church, no child has a place at the Sunday-school; neither parents nor children think of washing or dressing until the afternoon. So, slatternly and comfortless, they go about preparing the only sign of Sunday in the shape of a really extravagant dinner.

When this is over, and the kitchen cleaned, after a fashion, the mother takes her Sabbath rest, by sleeping until tea-time, and spends her evening in gossip with the stray customers whom her husband serves—at least when he is to be found in the shop.

But most of his time is passed in a neighbouring public-house, where he spends far more than the profits of his Sunday trading. As to the children, they are either displaying tawdry finery in the streets, or following the mother's example, and spending the precious hours in idle talk.

So the days and weeks go on unmarked by rest—either for soul or body. No walking to the house of God together; no taking sweet counsel together; no telling of the love of Jesus to the little ones, or bringing them to footstool for a welcome or a blessing. Seven working days in each week means no time for the concerns of any other world than this. No time for the Bible, for prayer, for thought of what is to follow when this world, its work, and its bustle, are ended for us; no time to think of a home beyond the grave, or to prepare for the great and solemn change that must come to us all sooner or later.

It seems strange that two families so unlike each other should continue to live side by side for years, and each go on its own way unchanged. But the Sabbath-keeper has tried many a time to influence the Sabbath-breaker, and it grieves him to see his neighbour's children, and especially a fine lad of fifteen, growing up in this godless fashion.

"Why don't you take John to church?" he asked, one Sunday morning, as the father and son were lounging by the shop door.

"He may go," was the answer. "They may all go. I tell them so always. Don't think I hinder them."

"You should take your children, not send them," said the other. "If I had only said 'Go' to mine, they would have been like yours. We all go together, and that is why we like it twice as well. I tell you, neighbour, that if one of us is kept away from God's house on the Sabbath, we feel as if we had lost something all the week through."

Depend on it, when we are called on to give an account at the last great day, it will be a poor excuse for us parents if we can only say that we gave them leave to do right if they liked; but never either used our authority as parents, or set them an example to induce them to do it.

We would repeat this Sabbath-keeper's advice. "Do not send, but take your children to church. Work together through the week. Worship together on the Sabbath; and so may you hope to be able, through Christ, to stand in His presence at the last, and to say with joy, 'Behold I and the children which God hath given me.' A family chain without one missing link."

BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS-BOX.

THERE was not a better known man in all the town than old Ben Barry. He was the owner of a large tilted wagon with a truck attached to the back of it by a chain, and a horse which looked neither strong enough nor fat enough for the labour of dragging wagon and truck when fully laden.

Ben was a handsome fellow, who had been a sailor, and who still went to and fro in a river steamer from the comparatively small town in which he lived to the large seaport near the river's mouth. People called him old, not because he was so, but because everybody knew him so well, and looked on him as a person of large experience.

Ben's business was to start at the end of the town the farthest from the pier whence the steamer sailed, and to collect the goods and parcels which were to be sent by it. He blew a long horn at all the street corners, and used to delight the lads by the musical flourishes in which it was his pleasure to indulge.

On the return of the steamer, it was Ben Barry's duty to deliver all parcels and packages brought by it, and often a passenger's luggage as well. The process of collecting the goods in the morning was a long one, but as nothing compared with that of distributing them at night. The poor old horse went at a snail's pace, and it was noticed that he stopped, without the admonitory "Whoa," at every public-house, and that it took longer to leave goods at such a place than at all the shops in the town beside.

Ben was not a good master to his bony steed, and in the bitter weather did not care that old Jack was standing supperless in the cold, whilst he was taking glass after glass, professedly to keep it out of his own throat, in a well-warmed, well-lighted room. Still Ben's immovable good temper, merry jokes, and really obliging disposition, made him a favourite with many, and at Christmas time especially, he received a gift, and too often a glass along with it, from most of the tradespeople.

It happened one very cold winter, that Ben's potations to keep out the frost became more frequent, and the delivery of goods more tardy and irregular; so Mrs. Barry, fearing for the safety of the parcels, sent her little son Jack—a sturdy ten-year old—to guard the same whilst the father was indoors. This made Ben all the more comfortable. Jack was a trusty fellow, too small to deliver goods, but certain not to forsake his charge. So Ben stayed a little longer by the warm tap-room fire, and Jack and the old horse shivered outside in company.

Christmas came, and Christmas-boxes. Ben dropped many a coin into his pocket, and swallowed many more glasses free of cost than were good for him. At the principal stationer's shop, which was also the post-office, Ben had had many large packages to deliver. There he did not expect that his Christmas-box would be supplemented by a glass, for the postmaster was a staunch teetotaler; but he felt sure of a handsome tip, and with a smiling face wished him a merry Christmas and a happy new year!

The coat fitted him just a little too much.

"Same to you, Ben, and many of them. I have a Christmas-box here, but I can't give it you without the old horse and Jack are with you."

The old horse was round the corner, but Ben had sent Jack home, so it was arranged that the trio should call on the following day.

There was a humorous twinkle in the postmaster's eye as the old horse, at his usual snail's pace, came crawling on, and was brought to a stand opposite his shop. Out came the shopman with a nose-bag containing as much corn as any horse could possibly consume, and at which Ben's steed set to work, moving his jaws with a steady, rapid crunch, of which no one who saw his legs move would have thought them capable.

"That is the old horse's share, and this rug will keep his old sides warmer when you are delivering those parcels that take so much stowing at the Red Lion," said the postmaster, as he put a warm rug over the poor beast's thin ribs. "And Jack, where's Jack? There's something for you. My boy's legs and arms are too long for this good overcoat. Try it on, and see if it will fit you."

Little Jack was speedily inducted. The coat fitted him just a little too much; but then it would last, and there was room to grow. In order to help him to fill it out, the postmaster added a large mince pie and a Christmas cake, and, on condition that he started an account with it in the penny bank that very evening, a bright shilling.

Ben touched his hat, thanked the postmaster, and looked expectant. "Nay, Ben," said the latter, "I have no Christmas-box for you in addition. So far you have had all the money and the drink, whilst Jack and the old horse have had double share of cold and all the waiting. If they share the labour, they should share the benefit, and I prefer giving my Christmas-boxes in food and clothing, and where both are most needed, to bestowing money where it is likely to be misspent in drink by one who has had too much already."

Ben was a good deal abashed at this, but he was not without fatherly feelings, and he was pleased in his boy's pleasure. "Thank you, sir, all the same," he said; "you have been good to my lad, and in that kind to me. And if you had given me nothing but the old horse's feed, at any rate you have taught me a lesson."

He waited patiently till the corn was finished, and then went on his way. The joke got wind, and Ben was often laughed at about the postmaster's Christmas-box. He took the jests with his usual good temper but it began to be noticed that Ben's eyes grew brighter, his pauses at the Red Lion shorter, and that his old horse's ribs became better covered. Little Jack, his mother, and the youngsters at home had more of Ben's company after that day.

By God's blessing, the postmaster's lesson proved a word in season, and that Christmas time, the turning-point in Ben's life. He began to think less of self and more of others. Then he became discontented with himself and his life, and in want of a Saviour. And when he found that Saviour in Jesus, he wondered how he had ever lived without Him.

Need I say that Ben Barry, the Christian, was a far happier man than the old Ben of whom we caught a glimpse at the beginning of this sketch?

TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE.

IN passing along one of the busy crowded streets of a large city, it was my lot, on the same day, to witness two pictures very opposite in character. There was much of sadness in each, and much to learn from both.

The figures in the first were an elderly man and woman; evidently husband and wife. By right, the wife should have leaned on the arm of her partner; but, alas! His step Was unsteady, his gait tottering, and she was guiding him with a firm clasp, looking around from time to time, as if afraid and ashamed to be seen by any casual passenger to whom they might be known. It was evident that the wife's sorrowful task was a new thing to her, and that the man was no habitual drunkard.

All the way along the road as they tottered on, it was touching to hear the poor old fellow pouring out expressions of regret for having yielded to temptation, and promises to avoid it for the future. The woman wiped her eyes now and then with the corner of her apron, and spoke soothingly and tenderly, as if she would fain comfort her old partner in his evident humiliation. Then the man began to remind her in a broken pleading voice of all the years and years during which he had never transgressed by taking a drop too much; adding, "And thee knaws, my lass, I've had to wark reet hard a' the time."

The wife tightened her hold of her husband's arm, and, as she clasped her other hand across it, said, while her voice was fairly broken with a sob, "Doan't I knaw it, Jem? Doan't I knaw it?"

As she uttered these words, she and her half-helpless charge came to the turning into a narrow street, down which they went, and I saw them no more.

There was a dark shadow cast over this little picture by the condition of the old man; but there were some beautiful lights in it nevertheless. To see that wife's homely face, full of combined love and sorrow, and the earnestness with which she strove, as far as her strength would allow, to hide her husband's fault from the eyes of their neighbours, stirred my warmest admiration and sympathy. Not one word of reproach did she utter, to increase the pain her husband was already feeling. She was ready to meet his penitence half-way; to call to mind his long perseverance and hard work, and to strengthen him in making and keeping good resolutions for the future.

My fancy followed them to their little home, and I seemed to see its fast-closed door shut, to prevent prying eyes from knowing anything to Jem's discredit. And I pictured, too, the sorrowing wife on her knees, asking pardon for his fault and new strength for both. The two, doubtless, long joined together by the strongest earthly ties, would be drawn closer still; for all who practise such conduct as that wife manifested realise the truth of those sweet words, "He that covereth a transgression seeketh love."

Thus thinking as I passed onward, I reached a railway arch, under which my road lay. There I witnessed a scene of a very different character. A much younger couple than those I had lately noticed were standing beneath the arch; the man steadying himself against the wall as well as he could; while the woman, in a perfect fury of passion, was heaping reproaches and abuse upon his head.

She taunted him with her rags and dirt, with his barefooted children running wild in the streets and not half fed, whilst he, worse than a brute, was setting in a public-house. She was so bitter in her words, so quick-witted and sharp in her taunts, that they stung him, heavy as was his head, and muddled as were his senses. He replied by an oath and an expression which was full of hate and contempt towards herself, vowing, in addition, that he would spend every farthing he had left of his wages, and she might get money where she could; though he had meant to give it to her.

Stung to fury at this, she seized his arm, as If to drag him homeward, but she only succeeded in throwing him down on the ground. The man with difficulty regained his feet, and his first act was to aim a blow at the face of his wife which would be heavy enough to leave cruel marks there; his next to reel forward and enter the nearest public-house, which was just outside the arch.

There were several witnesses to this miserable scene, this picture all black, and without any gleam of light to relieve it. The woman's shrill taunts had called more from the adjoining street; for her idea seemed to be, not to cover, but to expose her husband's transgression to the very utmost.

Now she went on her homeward way alone, weeping, disfigured, hopeless, and surely we may suppose self-accusing, if conscience were not altogether deadened within her.

I suppose my face told something of the sorrowful feelings which this scene had stirred within me; for a decent-looking woman, who evidently knew the unhappy couple, said to me, "Isn't it a pity she can't hold her tongue a bit, not even till she gets him home and the door shut behind him? But it has always been the same!"

"You know this couple, then?"

"Yes, ever since they were boy and girl; when they were first wed, he would only get a little drop of drink now and then; but when he did, she would make such an outcry, scolding and going on like anybody mad, that if he had come home meaning to stop, it was pretty sure to drive him out again. I think she might have done a good deal to improve him if she'd only had a bit of patience. But, poor lass! She never could hold that sharp tongue of hers. So they have gone on from bad to worse, and no signs of mending. She has made herself a lumpy bed; but as she has made it, so she'll have to lie."

The speaker then bade me good-afternoon, and went on her way. I went on mine also, musing sorrowfully on the last picture I had witnessed, and calling to mind that other lesson from God's Word:

"A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger."

I thought with deep sorrow of that poor young wife who, having a very real trouble to battle with in the intemperate habits of her husband, had made it greater and him far worse by her own ungoverned temper and bitter words. And oh, what a touching contrast did the example of the patient old woman present! It is hard, terribly hard, to be linked for life to a drunkard; to have a miserable home and ragged children, where peace, comfort, and plenty ought to reign. But surely, where a woman's own intemperance of language has tended to make bad worse, conscience must speak with a stern accusing voice; unless by long neglect she has succeeded in silencing its pleadings.

I was once describing these two contrasting pictures to a poor friend, whose husband—a good workman, and in the receipt of large wages, often had fits of intemperance which lasted for several days at a time. She listened to my story and said, "Ay, it's all very well to speak about having clean hearths and bright homes and pleasant looks for your husband. But how much does he see or notice when he comes in half blind with drink? I tell you, missis, there are men who, with kind wives, clean hearths, and pretty innocent children round them, would leave their homes if they were as grand as the Queen's, and find their pleasure in a public-house."

I knew that her home was a pattern of neatness, and that her well-trained children would have been a credit to a mother in any station of life.

The tears were streaming down her cheeks as she spoke, and I knew too how bravely she had fought, aided by a better strength than her own, against this great trouble. I held her honest hand, rough with household toil, in mine, and honouring with all my heart this true wife and mother, I said to her, "How much worse might things have been, if you had acted like that young woman in her mad passion? If you had taunted and aggravated your Tom, he would not have stayed in his downward course. He has never struck you, or given you bitter words and oaths. He has never come in and made you cower and tremble before him, and his terrified children run to hide themselves."

A true helpmeet.

"No, never, poor fellow! He always slinks into the back kitchen in a shamed sort of way, as if he couldn't bear the little ones to see him, and I just get him to bed as quick as I can; for I can't bear that they should despise their father. He never gave me an ill word or a blow in his life; but when the fit is over, he doesn't know how to be sorry enough, or to work hard enough."

"Ah, Margaret," I answered, "that tells me your prayers and your labour have not been in vain. You have done your duty by your husband, even when he has failed; and you have withstood temptation in one way, when he has yielded in another. Go on, brave heart, in God's strength. Still strive, pray, and wait. It may be the will of your Heavenly Father to make you the instrument of winning your partner to the Lord's side. You will never drive him into what is good; but the cords of love are powerful to draw and to bind, and 'what knowest thou, O wife, whether thou shalt save thy husband?'"

We bade each other good-bye, and Margaret went homeward, I trust not the less hopeful for our little talk together. At any rate, a smile had chased away the tears, and she was enabled to see that her domestic cloud had still a silver lining, black though it might be at times. And thank God there is no cloud so dark behind which the eye of faith cannot discern the rays from Him who is the Sun of Righteousness.

A WORD IN SEASON.

"YOU don't mean to say you are really going to hear that atheist lecturer, Jim," said a working man to his neighbour who had just entered his cottage after tea was over.

The two men had walked home from work together, and it was while they were on the way that Jim Parker had stated his intention of going to hear the so-called secularist, and asked his fellow-workman to accompany him. John Turner was not a little surprised when the latter made his appearance as he said "spruced up," to repeat the invitation.

"Yes, I am going, John," was the answer. "I always like to hear both sides of a question. Won't you go too?"

"Not I, Jim; I hope I've read my Bible to better purpose than that. I profess to believe, ay, and I do believe that it is God's Word, and if I were to go and hear that man it would be like saying that I'm willing to let somebody try and persuade me that it is not. Nay, nay, 'Let God be true, but every man a liar,' say I. I cannot afford to be reasoned or persuaded out of what is my greatest comfort, Jim."

"Why, you might be frightened that you would be persuaded out of your belief, if you were to go with me, John."

"And so I am, and I'm not ashamed to own it. I'm only an ignorant sort of fellow, with very little book learning, and this lecturing man is sure to be up to everything. He could make lots of statements that I could not contradict. At least I couldn't argue so as to show that he's wrong, even while I am certain in my own mind that he is. Where would be the use of a poor working man like me standing up and saying that yon atheist was going about to rob us working folks of the best riches we have? Even if they would let me do it, and say what a comfort it is to feel that God loves a poor sinner like me; that Jesus died for me, and the Holy Spirit has brought home the blessed lesson to my heart, that was ready to sink with shame and fear, till that message of pardon came to me—who would listen?"

"I don't suppose anybody would; because, you see, the folks are going to hear the other man tell a different tale, and they would not have him interrupted."

"No, I should have to sit and drink in poison, and see other people doing the same without being able to knock the cup away."

"Poison, man! Why, who would want to poison you?"

"Anybody that would try to upset my faith in God, Jim. If anybody offered you a drink of prussic acid or laudanum, would you take it?"

"I should think not. I'd knock him down first."

"And yet, Jim, you would sit there and let him pour worse poison into your ears. Poison to kill the spiritual life that's in you; poison to destroy your soul and bring you not only to the death of the body, but to eternal death. I tell you, I'd just as soon drink a cup Of poison, as I would put myself in the way of taking in such soul-destroying stuff as that miserable blasphemer is trying to delude his fellow-men with."

"I've got his book," said Jim, "but I haven't read it yet. I thought I would go and hear him first."

"Don't, Jim, don't," pleaded Turner, earnestly. "It's poison all the same, whether printed or spoken, and if we take it in, the memory of it will stay with us, in spite of all we can do. Think what it would be in a time of trouble, where an earthly friend can't help us, if we had no Father in heaven to go to, no Saviour to feel for us and plead our cause! Oh, Jim, it is so precious to me to feel that when I go on my knees to pray, God is sure to hear and answer, too, in the way that will be best for me. And these atheist lecturers would take the comfort from us and give us nothing instead."

"I don't see what they have to give," said Jim, in a meditative sort of way, as if that thought had never struck him before.

"No, and there's the shame of it," said Turner. "It seems to me, that if there was nothing else bad about these lecturers, it is dreadfully cruel of them to go from place to place unsettling people's minds, taking away what is their great comfort, and giving them nothing in place of it. The simplest-minded, humblest Christian that just takes God at His word, and believes the promises which He tells us 'are all yea and amen in Christ Jesus,' is a happy man, in spite of poverty, trouble, hard work, sickness, or trial of any kind. He knows that all these things are only for a little while, and that far-away beyond the grave there is glory for him in the Father's house, and an 'inheritance incorruptible, undefiled, and that fadeth not away, eternal in the heavens,' bought for him by the precious blood of Jesus."

John Turner's face glowed again as he spoke. He was thoroughly in earnest, and this earnestness produced an impression on his neighbour who had a respect for his fellow-workman, though he sometimes laughed at him as being over-religious. Still, where a man's religion shows itself in his conduct to others, in the very work he does, and the temper he displays to all around him even when purposely tried by his companions, he must, sooner or later, win their goodwill and esteem.

"Why, John, I think you are the very man to go with me to the lecture," said Jim. "You've no call to be afraid of losing your religion by listening to an atheist, such a preacher us you are. Why, I'm not afraid, and I couldn't hold forth like a parson as you've been doing."

"I wish you were afraid, Jim. You know what the Bible says, 'Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall;' and, 'Be not highminded, but fear.' I should like you to burn that bad book, and have a walk with me, or sit a bit, if you like, instead of going to hear that man."

"How do you know the book is a bad one, John, when you've never seen it?" asked Jim, with a laugh.

"Just as I know that clean water cannot come from a muddy pool or from a sewer. The fountain is unclean, Jim, and what comes out of it must be the same."

"That's not bad for you, John," said Jim, hesitating. After a little further kindly pressure, Jim made up his mind he would not go to the lecture; and surely he was no loser by his wise resolve.

A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED.

MRS. GREAVES was a Bible-woman, and her visits brought comfort to many a home where the roughest and least God-fearing in a great city had a welcome for her. We give the following narrative in her own words.

It is several years ago since I knew two young men who were frequent companions. One of them professed to be a Christian, was a Sunday-school teacher, and never missing from his place in the house of God on the Sabbath. He was very self-confident, too, and often expressed his belief that no arguments could affect him, or cause him to falter in his faith. Perhaps it was this over-confidence that made him careless in choosing his acquaintances, for the companion he chose was a professed infidel. He ridiculed the Bible, boasted of his own freedom from such weaknesses as church-going, prayer, observance of the Sabbath, and so on. But yet he was a good workman, sober, diligent, and leading a decent life, being neither impure in his conduct nor accustomed to use bad language.

I think he was anxious that no one should have cause of offence; for he made his decent life an argument in favour of his infidel opinions. "Here am I," he would say, "living a better life without praying than some of you psalm-singing folks lead with all your religion."

The young Sunday-school teacher was very anxious about his infidel companion, and he told him so. He offered to lend him some good books, and the other said he was willing to read them. He took them in a pleasant way and read them; but without being in the least changed in his opinions. He only laughed as before, but when he returned the books, he said to his friend:

"I have read all you wished me; now it is only fair you should see my side of the question. You promised me you would read some of mine after I had done with yours. Here they are. Keep your word as I have done mine."

The poor young man had made this rash promise without asking counsel of God. He was too self-confident for that; and he could not bear for an infidel to reproach him with breaking even a rash promise. So he took the books and read them, after boasting that they and ten thousand such could not alter him or turn him from his faith. The result proved the folly of his boastfulness, and the vanity of trying to stand without a better strength than our own to hold us up so that we may be safe. He proved, by miserable experience, that there is no touching pitch without being defiled. Those wretched books, full of subtle arguments which he was not scholar enough to answer, or Christian strong enough to withstand, unsettled his mind, and he became a worse man by far than the companion who had been his tempter.

Time passed on and saw him worse and worse. An open blasphemer, an evil liver! At last he was laid on a sick bed without hope of recovery, and, surely, few more miserable sights have over been witnessed than his last days offered to those around him.

He raved about his former life, the faith he once possessed, and his present hopeless condition, and nothing gave him comfort. Many strove to remind him of God's love and mercy in Christ—of the Saviour's words of comfort to the dying thief on the cross; of the measure dealt out to those who began to work in the vineyard even at the eleventh hour.

"I know, I know," he would cry, "but there is no mercy for me. The dying thief had not been taught as I was. The labourers went into the vineyard at the eleventh hour; but they went when they were bidden. I left my work. I sinned against light and knowledge. There is no mercy for me now."

I am often called up, as you know, to go and pray with the sick and dying, and, in the middle of the night, a message came to ask me to go to this young man. Dear friends, that was the most dreadful experience I ever had, the only time I ever was restrained in prayer.

I knelt by the bedside, but it seemed to me as if the heavens were as brass above me. I longed to pray but no words could I utter. At last, I just said the Lord's Prayer, it was all I could say, and I got up from my knees compelled to own that I was unable to pray.

"I knew it, I knew it," the dying man cried. "I went wrong with my eyes open. There is no mercy for me."

I shall never forget that hour as long as I live, and whenever I hear the name of a professed atheist mentioned, that scene comes back to my mind, and I seem to hear again that despairing cry ringing in my ears. The poor man died before the morning. God grant that I may never see such another death-bed.

These are times of many snares, and there are temptations to infidelity at every step. I have told this true story, with an earnest prayer that the reading of it may prove a warning and be made a blessing to English working men and women.

BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS.

THE following anecdote was told by a gentleman at a little Bible reading meeting:

"I was going by steamer from the south of England to Dublin during my college days," he said, "and on the voyage I entered into conversation with a young man, my fellow-passenger. He told me that he was going to Dublin in the hope of obtaining a situation, as he had heard there were openings in that city, and trade was slack in the neighbourhood he had left.

"After some talk, I ventured to put in a word about eternal things, and asked him if he had ever come to Jesus for pardon, cleansing, peace; or, if like many another, he was putting off the consideration of that most important subject—the salvation of his immortal soul—to a more convenient season.

"The young man laughed at my question, and said, 'I go to a place of worship now and then, and lately I have been listening to a preacher who told his hearers that it was of no use for them to take any trouble about their souls; that Jesus had done everything, so, of course, there was nothing left for sinners to do. If they were to be saved, they would be, and if not, why, there was no help for it, they could not save themselves.'

"It was easy to see how the young man had misunderstood the preacher's meaning, and put his own interpretation upon it: that in hearing of the full, free, perfect, finished work of Jesus, the Saviour of all men, but specially of them that believe, he professed to find an excuse for his own indifference and inaction.

"But I determined not to argue the matter by taking his version of the preacher's teaching as a ground to go upon. So I said, as if passing from the subject altogether, 'You tell me you are going to Dublin in order to obtain employment. Shall you go in search of work when we arrive there?'

"'Of course I shall. When a fellow has got his living to earn, it does not answer for him to let the grass grow under his feet. I shall be over the side and off as soon as possible after the vessel stops.'

"'But why take so much trouble? According to what you have told me, you think that whatever is to be will be. If you are to get employment, you will get it. Why not sit quietly down on deck here, and wait until some one comes to offer you a situation?'

"The young man stared for some moments without replying, as if he thought only a madman could have made such a suggestion. Then, breaking into a contemptuous laugh, he answered, 'Do you take me for a fool? I think I should prove myself to be one if I were to follow your advice. I might sit here until my hair grew grey, if I were allowed to do so, before anybody would seek me and offer me work. No, no. If I want a situation, I must bestir myself at once and look after it. I shall need all the help that a good written character can give, as well as a push from a friend in Dublin, who advised me to come here, if I am to succeed.'

"'Then, my friend,' I said, 'if it would be the height of folly to neglect the use of every means for the promotion of your temporal interests, how much more foolish to despise those which concern your everlasting welfare?'

"'You've caught me fairly,' returned my acquaintance, good-humouredly; 'beaten me with my own weapons, and I'm not sorry for it.'

"Encouraged by the spirit in which my words had been received, I ventured to use the little remaining time in what he called 'a bit of a preach out of church.' I urged him to use the means in his power, not to save his own soul, for that no man can do, but to lay hold of that salvation which is by Christ alone, 'who will have all men to be saved, and come to a knowledge of the truth.'

"'If you want to learn about worldly things,' I said, 'you obtain the best books written on the subject, or put yourself under a teacher. You try to get into the company of those who know more about it than yourself. Do the same; use like means in regard to spiritual knowledge. There is a Book in which God's grace, His infinite mercy, wisdom, truth—above all, His love for poor sinners, and his eternal plan for their redemption—are plainly set forth. There are places in which you may hear this Book explained. There are plenty of men and women who have experienced the loving-kindness of the Lord, who have known the burden and misery of sin, and can tell you how the dear Saviour, who said, 'Come unto Me,' has welcomed, pardoned, cleansed, comforted those who have accepted the invitation.

"'But if you want to know about these things, you must use the means. 'You shall have,' is the Saviour's promise but first He bids you 'ask.' You can no more expect to have an answer to prayer without praying, or to know about eternal things without the guide which God has given to teach you, than to obtain the situation you seek by sitting still on the deck of the vessel, and waiting for some one to bring you an offer of employment.'

"We were drawing near to our destination, and there was not time for more; but the young man gave me a hearty grasp of the hand, and promised not to forget our conversation.

"I added, 'You told me you had a friend here who had invited you to come, and promised to speak a good word for you. Do not forget that you have also a Friend in heaven, an Advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous, who bids you come, whose plea on your behalf is all-powerful, and who ever liveth to make intercession for you.'

"We parted, and I saw no more of my companion of the voyage. I can only hope that our conversation did not prove altogether fruitless. I repeat it, that some one else may be stirred to use more diligently the many means of glace which have been opened to us by the goodness and love of Him 'who is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance.'"

Salvation is of God, and of God alone. But hear His own word: "Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God that worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure."

WIDOW HENDERSON;

OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED.

IN our little country town, there was not a prettier-looking home than that in which Widow Henderson lived. She and her orphan child dwelt in a charming cottage, which was not only picturesque enough for sketching, but also thoroughly comfortable inside, which is not always the case with cottages which look well on paper.

Outside, the porch and walls were hidden by a mass of climbing plants. Roses bloomed, woodbine scented the air, the passion-flower spread its curious petals; and in winter, when all these were gone, the hale ivy clung still, all green and flourishing, and saved the pretty cottage from looking ragged and bare. There was a very sweet union of nature and art outside Widow Henderson's cottage, for with all its wild beauty everything was in good order.

Poor thing! She was very young, only seven and twenty; yet that little bright-eyed lass of eight years old called her "mother." All the people in the village pitied her, and made a pet of orphan Effie, though the mother was a stranger from a far-away town and county. But Frank Henderson, her father, had been born and brought up at Deerhurst, and when he first talked about going to sea, it was made a trouble of by the whole parish. The people said it was like taking a ray of sunshine from the place, because, from a child, Frank had always been the willing helper of all who needed a helping hand, and he had a kind word and a cheerful smile for everybody.

Years sped on though, and Deerhurst folk grew proud of the smart young sailor who, at long intervals, enlivened their firesides with his wonderful tales of far-away lands, and of the strange things he saw there.

"Frank was not," they said, "the lad to go through the world with his eyes shut."

And when he became first mate, then captain, and lastly owner of a goodly ship, the village people remembered how they had always felt sure he would do great things, and congratulated themselves on their foresight.

Many a prayer had been offered for Frank, too, by the dwellers in his native village, and for seven years, his path in life had been very smooth, though it lay across the trackless waters. At length his prosperity seemed to have reached a climax, for Frank bought and furnished the pretty cottage at Deerhurst, and brought thither his stranger bride.

A few short months of wedded happiness fled swiftly by, and then Frank went away to sea. Alas for the poor young wife, he never returned. A brief newspaper paragraph brought the first sad intelligence that the captain of the brig "Middlesex" had been washed overboard and drowned, in the terrible Bay of Biscay, during a gale.

This was woeful news for the whole village; but what was the grief of all the rest compared with that which Margaret Henderson felt when she heard of the loss of her gallant young husband? She was like one turned to stone. Hers was unforgiving grief. She could moan out, "'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away,'" but when a Christian friend would fain have persuaded her to add, "'Blessed be the name of the Lord,'" she shook her head.

"I cannot, I cannot," she said, despairingly. "It would be just a mockery; for my heart is always rebelling and calling for Frank. Oh, we were so happy; and to think he should be taken from me in such a shocking way. What had I done to deserve such a blow?"

Even the advent of little Effie failed to subdue that stubborn spirit which could not consent to say, "Thy will be done." And during eight long years, Margaret never learned to bow in submission to Him who had seen fit to chasten her.

As far as worldly matters went, Mrs. Henderson lacked no comfort, for the sale of the ship brought her a large sum of money. But she never looked on the bright side of her lot, or compared her blessings with the wants of many who might have pleaded that they were at least as deserving as she was, and yet scarcely knew how to find rest and shelter for their little ones, or food to satisfy their hunger, while she possessed all in abundance.

For eight long years, then, Margaret Henderson fought against God; only she spoke not of her mental conflict, but hid her murmurings in her heart, where they rather increased; like the seed which, though buried in the ground, dies not entirely, but brings forth more fruit.

Sunny-haired, blue-eyed Effie Henderson, found home but a cold place of refuge for her little warm heart. Petted by young and old at Deerhurst, she could hardly understand why her mother's brow should wear a constant cloud, her face be the gravest, and her voice sound more harshly than any other.

When dear little Effie came bounding into the house, ready to tell some new tale of kindnesses received from their friendly neighbours, her mother would coldly bid her "be quiet, for the noise made her head ache." Or when the little girl, emboldened by seeing a softer expression on her mother's face, threw her arms round her neck and kissed her cheek lovingly, Mrs. Henderson would resolutely turn aside without returning the caress, and bid Effie "go sit on her own chair and not tease."

But if Effie could have noticed and understood the expression of her mother's face, she would have read the maternal longing even through that unnatural coldness; for all the while Margaret thought to herself: "I would give worlds to clasp my child to my bosom as other mothers fold their little children in their arms; but I will never love aught again, lest it should be taken from me. I will not be wounded through my child as I was by the loss of her father."

Poor, vain, rebellious soul! To think that its puny strength could successfully contend against Him who holds the winds in the hollow of His hand, and to whom we poor sinful creatures are but as the clay which the Potter fashioneth as he will. So, at home, Effie was ruled less by the law of love than by that of fear, and she became accustomed to hush the merry laugh and check the bounding step when she reached the little gate at the entrance of the garden amid which stood her pretty home.

One Saturday afternoon, two women, next-door neighbours, having seen little Effie pass an hour before, ceased their household work to make remarks about the mother and daughter.

"How grave Effie looks," began Mrs. Brown, leaning the while upon the sweeping-brush she had been busily plying the minute before. "Poor thing! I declare she is beginning to look like a little old woman."

"And well she may," replied Mrs. Green, "only think what a dull time she has at home. If she had no more cheerful company than her mother, she would be fairly moped to death."

"Ay, Mrs. Henderson has grieved sorely for her husband. Nobody has ever seen her shed a tear, but I believe she never will forget him. Dear, dear me! Who, to look at her now, would think she was the laughing lass that Frank Henderson was so delighted to bring to Deerhurst."

"To be sure, she is changed, and no doubt she has mourned terribly; but still I can't think it is right to be so hard and cold with poor little Effie. I call it both sinful and selfish to nurse one's grief until it makes others miserable."

"Come, come, neighbour," said Mrs. Brown; "we must remember what the Bible says about judging. It isn't easy to see the thoughts of another person's heart, and I am sure Mrs. Henderson never neglects anything to make Effie comfortable. There is not a child in the place that wears such beautiful clothes and goes so neat as that little thing does."

"Well, to be sure, the Bible says, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' and I don't mean to say for a moment that Mrs. Henderson means to be unkind to the poor child. Still, one can't help having some idea of a person's heart if one sees their actions. Now, do you think a child cares half so much for fine clothes as for loving words and kind looks? Why, if my little lass were not allowed to run and throw her arms round her father's neck and mine, and tell us all her little pleasures or troubles, she would wonder what was going to happen. Depend on it, you must treat children just like little friends, if you want them to grow up honest, truthful, and loving."

"I don't think Mrs. Henderson understands much about a child's ways, or cares for poor Effie's pleasures or troubles. It does seem strange, too, for she is so like him that's gone. I would look at her till I fancied I saw poor Frank Henderson himself."

"It just comes to this, though," replied Mrs. Green, "that Mrs. Henderson seems to want to make an old woman of Effie, and never remembers or sits down to think a bit about what she liked when she was a child herself. I have a great idea of duty to parents; but I consider I owe a duty to my children; and that if I would have them care for the things I care for, I must show that I feel for all their little troubles, and am glad when they are happy."

At this moment, a gentle and pleasant-looking lady came in sight. It was Mrs. Elwood, the wife of the Deerhurst doctor; and the two gossips suddenly recollected not only that the household business was at a stand-still, but that they were "not fit to be seen;" so they vanished indoors and resumed the labours which their chat had interrupted.

It was a common thing for Mrs. Elwood to ask little Effie Henderson to spend the Saturday half-holiday with her own children, and she was now going with the intention of taking her back. But, when she arrived, the widow's face had a flushed and angry look, as she opened the door for her visitor; and Mrs. Elwood began to fear for the success of her mission, when she saw Effie's hands clasped in a supplicating attitude, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

A table was strewed with a curious collection of odds and ends, such as would provoke a smile in a grown-up person, but which in a child's eyes are priceless treasures. There were shreds of silk and velvet; a little half-dressed doll, whose other garments were close at hand; a few beads; a ring or two, which had been manufactured by Effie's little fingers from the same stock, and deemed by their owner as good as diamonds; her doll's necklace; some pictures profusely coloured in red, blue, and yellow, together with all those miscellaneous bits of rubbish which every mother has smiled at, when she turned out her little girl's pocket after the young ones had gone to bed.

Mrs. Henderson placed her visitor a chair, and while making a remark about the weather, gave a reproving glance at Effie, and then with a quick motion of her hand threw the whole queer little collection to the back of the fire. Poor Effie durst not speak; but she sobbed bitterly, and followed her mother's movements with sorrowful and longing eyes.

Mrs. Elwood felt uncomfortable; but, hoping to act as a peace-maker, said: "I trust my little friend has not been guilty of any serious fault, for I have come on propose to take her home with me, if you can spare her. I dare say my two little daughters are eagerly watching and listening for our footsteps, and thinking every minute an hour until mamma returns with Effie."

"I am sorry to disappoint them, Mrs. Elwood," replied the widow; "but I cannot let Effie accept your kind invitation to-day. I am going to send her to bed, to keep her out of mischief. I told her I should before you came, and I cannot break my word, though I dare say she thought it would be all right when she saw you. You can go, Effie," she continued, pointing towards the staircase as she spoke. "Say 'good-afternoon' to Mrs. Elwood."

The child placed her trembling hand in that of her friend, and in a low voice, interrupted by sobs, thanked her for coming to ask her to tea. Mrs. Elwood pressed her kind motherly lips to the little wet cheek, and said she hoped Effie would be able to go another day, but she must not say anything just at present, as Mrs. Henderson was displeased.

"I hope," said Mrs. Elwood, when Effie was out of hearing, "that my little friend has committed no serious fault."

"Quite enough to deserve punishment," was the reply. "She fills her pockets with all sorts of rubbish, and I am continually picking up some of her trumpery about the house. I have told her before I would burn all I might find, so to-day I made her gather up every bit, and I have taken care they will not be strewn here and there again."

"But, my dear Mrs. Henderson, excuse my asking, had Effie a proper place in which to put her little treasures?"

Mrs. Henderson seemed half-amused, half-scornful, at the very idea of such a thing. "No, indeed," she replied; "I do not set aside a place for mere rubbish. Effie must learn to do without such trash as that I have burned."

"She will in time, let us hope; but all those shreds of silk, and odds and ends, which are valueless to you and me, are very precious in the eyes of a little girl. I can assure you my two children have just such collections, but so far from destroying them, I am constantly applied to for additional scraps to eke out their treasures. Of course I insist on their being put away when done with; but the children have no excuse for untidiness, because each has a drawer for her property. I presume Effie's fault has been that of making your beautiful home look untidy by strewing it with her odds and ends?"

Airs. Henderson made a gesture of assent. She had felt annoyed that Mrs. Elwood should interfere even in such a gentle manner, and now, though somewhat mollified by the deserved compliment paid her by the lady, she did not regret when the visitor rose to take her leave.

There were sorrowful faces at home when Mrs. Elwood reached it, and even the kind doctor's good-humoured countenance was overclouded when he asked in vain for little pet Effie.

"It seems strange," said he, when his wife told him the cause of the child's absence, "that so few people have patience and love enough to deal with children. But poor Margaret Henderson is like many others; she cannot forgive Him who has seen fit to afflict her; and because He has taken away one blessing, she flings the rest after it, and will have none. What froward children we are in the sight of our heavenly Father."

Mrs. Henderson's cottage looked beautiful indeed that evening, but the heart of its mistress was not at rest. She could see nothing but the little sorrowful figure, with clasped hands and streaming eyes; and that look, so like the dead father that she almost fancied she heard his voice pleading that she would love their child, and be very tender with her for his sake.

Conscience was busy with Margaret. It brought before her the many blessings she had slighted because one was taken away, her own unthankfulness of heart, her unloving ways with those about her.

Visions, too, of her own bright childhood filled the heart of the lonely woman, and she contrasted it with Effie's, such as she had made it. Her own had been all love from the first day that she, the youngest lamb of the fold, could remember, to that on which, with a father's blessing ringing in her ears, she had left her childhood's home for the far distant roof of her sailor-husband. All her own coldness and unkindness, the many times she had cast off the little clinging arms, and turned her cheek away from the proffered kiss, the harsh words of reproof which the slightest fault had been sufficient to call forth upon her child, and the difference between Effie's home and out-door looks, rose plainly before her.

And then, as she sat with the fire-light shining upon her pretty room, she became sensible of the value of her comforts, as she had never been before. God's long-suffering and goodness, too, were made apparent, and the words, "Shall I receive good at the hand of the Lord, and shall I not receive evil?" came into her mind. "He has taken away ONE good gift," she murmured; "oh, Frank! But He has left me all beside, and I have thanked Him for nothing. Yet, instead of wishing, as I have often done, that I had never owned the lost blessing, ought I not rather to thank God that I have so sweet a memory of my short married life, unmarred by the recollection of one unloving word?"

At this moment a little scene, witnessed years before, was vividly recalled to the widow's mind. It had chanced that she had been entrusted with the care of a much-spoiled child, when she was quite a girl; and the little urchin being denied the possession of a watch, had refused all the toys suitable to his age, which had been provided in abundance. She recalled to mind how he had dashed aside the proffered playthings, and even stamped upon them with his little feet, refusing all her efforts to make him happy because the one thing was withheld.

"I have been like that child for all these long years," said Margaret to herself, and the thought brought her upon her knees.

Kind Mrs. Elwood would have been rejoiced could she have seen how God was answering the prayer which she, in the quiet of her chamber, was offering for her friend, that she might receive light from above, and that the eyes which were blind to His goodness might be opened, the cold heart warmed by Divine grace, and the orphan child made happy in a mother's love and sympathy.

Truly God's ways are not as our ways. During that lonely hour by her still fireside, the dim twilight shutting out the external world, Margaret Henderson was taught the lesson which for more than eight long years she had been refusing to learn. When she rose from her knees, it was with an humble desire to place herself in God's hands, and a resolution to prove herself thankful for past and present mercies.

Naturally her first thought was of Effie, and of the lack of maternal love which was due to the little one. She felt that she had often been too harsh; but here arose her first difficulty. It was comparatively easy to acknowledge her errors to God; but how change her conduct to the little one without at least owning that hitherto she, and not Effie, had been to blame for the gloom in their home and the cloud on the child's brow.

With a new-born perception of the value of her little daughter's love, Margaret Henderson felt a jealous dread of doing anything which might lower her in Effie's eyes, and she therefore hesitated for some time before she even determined on stealing quietly to the room to which the child had been banished. She took no light in her hand; and when she stood by the bed, nothing but the feeble ray from the new moon showed the couch in dim outline, though she could not see the child.

There was no movement when she reached the bedside, and she was about to steal softly away, feeling relieved at the thought that Effie had forgotten her troubles in sleep, and resolving that, by God's blessing, a new life should begin with the awaking. But first she bent to kiss the little sleeper, and she was startled at the clammy coldness of the cheek. She listened; she could not hear Effie breathe.

Then she gave utterance to an exceeding bitter cry. "She is dead; my child, my darling!" For there, in the almost entire darkness, the conviction rushed on her mind that, to punish her rebellious and unthankful spirit, she had been permitted to become sensible of her blessings, only that she might lose the greatest and most precious of the many that were left to her. Who can describe the agony of that moment? The mother believing the child dead, from whom she had parted in anger, unreasonable anger, a few hours before!

Oh, the terrible torrent of remorse that passed through the widow's mind, while, with trembling steps, she hurried to find a light, and then returned to look on what she believed to be Effie's corpse. And oh, what joy to see one blue eye unclose, and then to hear a faint sigh! To know that she was spared a terrible trial, and a life-time of bitter self-upbraidings!

The real truth was that Effie had swooned from the effects of fright. She had lain awake all those long hours, feeling sad and miserable, weary of solitude, and compelled still to bear it until sleep should bring forgetfulness. At length the dim rays of the young moon had just sufficed to show a dark figure stealing noiselessly towards her bed. Her mother never came thus, she thought; and dreading some evil, the poor child became senseless from very terror, her over-wrought nerves being unable to withstand its effects.

When little Effie recovered her senses, she could scarcely think they told her truly, for she was resting in her mother's arms; warm tears were falling on her cheeks, and endearing words sounding in her ears. It was the beginning of a new life of love and confidence between the mother and her child, and Effie had in the end little cause to regret her sorrowful Saturday afternoon, and her terror at sight of the dark figure stealing towards her bed in the dim moonlight.

To Mrs. Elwood, the widow confided the experiences of that still evening hour, when visions of unheeded mercy rose one after another to her mental vision, "How wonderfully God deals with us," said she. "Little did I think, when you came to ask my poor Effie to be your guest, and found her in trouble about a few baby treasures, that the words you then spoke would raise such a train of thought, and be, by God's blessing, the means of opening my eyes to my unthankfulness.

"Yes," continued Mrs. Henderson; "I can now say the words I never thought I should school my heart into agreeing with: 'The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; and blessed be the name of the Lord;' yea, doubly blessed for all He still leaves me. May I be taught daily to own His goodness and my own unworthiness, and, while thanking Him for every gift, still own that I and all I have are in the Lord's hands, 'Let Him do what seemeth Him good,' both with me and mine."

London: Pardon and Sons, Printers, Paternoster Row.

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Table of Contents

Look on the Sunny Side,

LOOK ON THE SUNNY SIDE.

MARTHA'S CHOICE.

AS A LITTLE CHILD.

A WITNESS FOR THE SABBATH.

WHICH PAYS BEST?

BEN BARRY'S CHRISTMAS-BOX.

TWO PICTURES BY THE WAYSIDE.

A WORD IN SEASON.

A RASH PROMISE, AND HOW IT ENDED.

BEATEN WITH HIS OWN WEAPONS.

WIDOW HENDERSON; OR, THE REBELLIOUS HEART SUBDUED.

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE