to stop and speak to him. The young man stayed and told all that was in his heart. Plainly the way of salvation was pointed out to him, and before he left he had found the Saviour.

That night he wrote two letters-one to his mother, and one to his old teacher, calling upon them to bless the Lord for His mercy, not knowing that at the very time they were praying for him.

"We Would Not."

"I WOULD, but ye would not." The words might have been spoken in his ears, so plainly did they come to him as he walked along the crowded streets, while the thickening darkness gathered around. The man had been spending his day as usual in business; he had planned and bargained, had sold and got gain, and he was weary as he went towards his home.

"Is it worth all the time and strength I give to it? Supposing I am successful, and become a really prosperous tradesman, what will be the good of it? am no happier then than now, I shall care very little about it."

If I

The meeting of several acquaintances broke the thread of his thought, but it came back to him again a few minutes after.

"What a weary, restless world it is after all. Is it always to be so to me, I wonder? Shall I never find anything to satisfy me, anything that will really repay me for the time and strength I am giving ?"

"I would, but ye would not."

Where had he heard those words? What did they mean? Why did they come into his mind now?

These questions he was not able to answer; but he went home with the words still lingering in his memory. Even when the pleasant glow of his fire sent a comfortable warmth through him he did not forget them.

"Did I read them in the Bible, I wonder? They almost sound like Bible words."

He had once sat at the feet of a pious mother, and some of the texts he learnt then abode with him still. So he repeated several. And last he thought of two, the Saviour's pathetic appeal to Jerusalem, and that other solemn assertion, Ye will not come unto Me that ye might have life."

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The man was very lonely, very sad, and very restless. But he thought of the old days, and tried to remember what his mother used to say about such verses as these. He knew what coming to Jesus meant. He remembered how when he was quite young he was almost persuaded to be a Christian, until worldly influences were so strong as to prevent his yielding. He would have had to give up so much, he thought, and he wanted to give up nothing. He was almost sorry now.

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Perhaps it is too late," he said. "Then He would, but I would not; but now perhaps He is weary of waiting, and will not receive me.'

But the old lessons came into his mind. He had forgotten many things, but one he had not forgotten-it was the persistence with which his mother insisted upon the boundless, unutterable, unwearied love of the Saviour.

"I will try Him," said the man; "I ought to be ashamed to come to Him now only because I want Him so much, but perhaps He will not be angry, or if He is He will relent.'

He did come to Christ. He was late in coming, but He came, and Jesus received him, and comforted him, and gave him something better to live for than he had had before.

And so bread sown upon the waters was found after many days.

Bleak Places.

It is far more comfortable to sit by the fire, curtained away from the wind, and cheered and warmed by the music and light of home, than it is to wander about on moors and hills. Such places are for the summer-time, when the sun is generous, and the birds are merry, and the flowers are numberless; and when the stroller is repaid for his walk by such a landscape picture as only summer could produce. But it is so different in the winter. He who walks abroad finds many bleak places. He has to do battle with the cold east wind, and the fight is rather unequal, for the enemy has subtle weapons, which creep, and pierce, and wound on all sides.

Even when wind, and rain, and mud have been conquered, and bleak places have been gained, the reward is not particularly great or valuable. The blast bites so cruelly that he would be glad of any shelter. But the hedges seem to be all thorns, the leaves having been swept off some time ago.

As for the view he gets, nothing could well be more desolate. The fields are brown and bare, the trees are all naked, and there are strange weird sounds among the branches; heavy mists hang over the valleys, the skies are covered by thick, grey clouds, that let not a ray of sunshine through, and the dreary earth frowns back in sullen discontent. Even if there were no wind a bleak place would be a very uncomfortable one.

And yet it is good occasionally to stand upon bleak places. Fighting with an east wind is capital exercise; one is apt to come away from the conflict feeling better and more vigorous, with a new light in the eyes, and a healthy glow upon the cheeks. And another result of standing upon bleak places is that our blessings are likely to be better appreciated afterward. As the keen wind cuts us through and through, as feet and face and hands become cold, and the spirit is ready to sink at sight of the utter desolation all around us,-there is warmth in the very thought of the snug room at home where the bright fire is burning. Ordinarily, perhaps, we think less of our

comforts than we should, but they are very dear to us as we stand in the bleak places. We look at the little blinking lights in distant homes, and think quite poetically of the happy faces and cheerful hearts gathered there. Very likely the inmates do not consider themselves so fortunate, -they may at the moment be grumbling about hard work and poor fare, but if they could come out and stand where we do, how different would their common mercies look. Yes, it is decidedly good to stand now and then in a bleak, bare, exposed place.

Besides, it is possible to be very glad at heart even there! It may be that all the wilderness and forlornness of the place cannot shut out the sunlight that is in our hearts. Wonderful visitors sometimes stand beside us in unexpected places. Patmos was probably a very bleak and cheerless spot, but what a happy time John must have had there! He could not have cared very much for the barren rocks, nor the strong wind, nor the sullen sea, when he turned to see the voice that spake with him," and saw Jesus.

And we need not mind bleak places of any description. if there we can turn to our "Rock of Ages" for shelter. The winds will blow in vain, and in vain will the skies be clouded if there our God will be near us, and teach us His will. We shall then go briskly down among the homesteads, and declare how wonderful is His love who is the Shelter of His people, and

"Rejoice that human hearts, through storm,
Through shame, through death made strong,
Before the rocks and heavens have borne
Witness of God so long."

Hints of Spring.

As when a friend whom we expect to visit us sends a letter containing the welcome news of his approach, and so gives us the pleasure of anticipation before that of possession, so the spring sends us little harbingers which tell us the pleasant tidings that already our guest is on the way. We have been longing for it to come. Bleak winds and grey skies, bare hedges and barren fields, are not so delightful that we should wish them to remain. It is true that the snow is very beautiful, and that the winter has an amelioration in Christmas festivities; but still we love the spring, and in the dull days we cannot help wishing for its reappearance. Brightness, and sunshine, and song, are such pleasant things, and we take to them so naturally, that we cannot but be glad at the signs of their coming.

And we have them when the days are longer, and the dark nights shorter, than they were. We have not to wait so wearily for the blessed dawn, and already at the close of the day we have a short, sweet twilight, which is but a promise of calm, still hours to come. Then the colour which seemed to have faded from the skies is coming back again; they are of a deeper blue, and the clouds have a dazzling whiteness, and already there are glorious sunsets of crimson and gold. And the earth is no longer silent and sad. The lark's song cannot be sweeter when the splendid June days have come than it is now, when the warm sunshine brings us a short taste of summer. Then we have hints of the spring in the vegetation around us. It is true that there is still plenty of barrenness, but it is beginning to pass away.

There is a tinge of redness upon some of the trees, and upon others there are the swellings of buds; even the hedges are putting forth signs of life, and upon the sunny banks the first violet buds are seen. The primrose, too, and the celandine may be found, and the meadows are dotted here and there with white daisies. Even the insect world is beginning to be aroused; there are a few butterflies enjoying the warm sun, and here and there even a solitary ladybird may be seen, and it is no wonder, for the