you again?" If they have, they surely know-none better-how very true they are, for they who sow discord in the paths of others never walk over roses themselves.

They do not know-they will not know-any of that hidden peace which makes other faces so beautiful. For there are others to whom we express the same wish with a full consciousness that they will have a happy new year. And yet their way may seem to be a much sadder one. There may be losses and trials and afflictions for them. But they know where to find a joy that nothing can take away, a peace that no wild winds can disturb. They sing such songs as these—

"I stand upon the mount of God,
With sunlight in my soul;

I hear the storms in vales beneath,
I hear the thunders roll.

But I am calm with Thee, my God,
Beneath the glorious skies,

And to the height on which I stand
Nor storms nor clouds can rise."

There is an interesting fable abroad that the young are sure to be happy. But it is possible to wish even them "A happy new year," with a very grave presentiment that they will not get it. Youth does not necessarily mean happiness, any more than age means sorrow. And there are some bright young faces round about_us that will not look bright on every day of the year. For one thing, they think too much of being happy, and chase pleasure too eagerly. Happiness does not always come with pleasure, and it never stays long where frivolity has its abiding place.

What can we do to be happy? If we are tired of the old ways, and are really longing for something better, is there a road to happiness even for us? "Thou wilt

keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee, because he trusteth in Thee." "Trust in the Lord, and do good." Happy is that people who is in such a case, yea, happy is that people whose God is the Lord."

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Tired.

THE work and worry of every day make us sigh for the darkness, and stillness, and repose of night. How often with aching head, and weary limbs, and over-wrought spirit, do we welcome the evening as the greatest blessing! But we need to be weary to find out the exquisite enjoyment of repose. Is there anything like the calm, thankful gladness with which we close the door on the outer world of work, where we have found it so hard to be patient, and gentle, and forbearing, and feel that we have eight or nine hours before us, and nothing to do? How many of us have felt Montgomery's words,

"Night is the time for rest;

How sweet when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose;

Stretch the tired limbs and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed."

How many of us thank God for night! Even sorrow is forgotten for a time! the anxiety which has crushed us leaves us long enough for us to find new strength, to gather up our burden again when the hour shall come. The darkness and silence are like curtains which shut out all perturbing influences, so that we can for once have privacy, and hold quiet communion with our own hearts and God. And after that how peaceful is the night! How calmly we close our eyes and fall asleep!

It is not strange that when we feel the blessing of rest and sleep, we should yet look with a sort of terror on the last long slumber! What is it to frighten us?

We shall grow over-tired, and faint, and quiet, and the shadows will creep towards us, and the night will set in, the things of the world will grow very dim and indistinct; and our heavy eyes will close, and some one standing by will say, He giveth His beloved sleep."

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And then we shall be at rest. We have our dreams of golden crowns and waving palms; of sapphire walls, and seas of glass; but is any thought of that home so sweet as that which assures us that there we shall never grow tired

again? There we shall have continuous, satisfying, unbroken rest.

Does it matter so very much that the hills are steep and our feet grow weary? This is only for a little while. Soon we shall begin a shorter journey, and hear our Father say, "My presence shall go with thee, and I will give thee rest." And then we shall go home and find our morning of joy and live without weariness for ever.

Working in Vain.

WE soon get past the age at which it amuses us to build castles and fortresses of sand for the pleasure of seeing how rapidly and easily the next wave washes them away. In that happy time when the only result for which we labour is a little more fun, we are very easily satisfied. We have no objection whatever to spend a whole day in the preparation of something which shall provide us with some interesting object for half an hour in the evening; and even blowing bubbles which do little but burst, affords us delight.

Afterwards we get a great deal more consequential. We want to see satisfactory results after our efforts, recompense for toil, profit for outlay, reward for labour. Success is dear to every heart. We have no objection to concentrate all our thoughts and energies on one thing, to "strain every nerve," to work from early morning till late night, if only we may gain our object thereby. Energy, anxiety, labour, strength, all are nothing, so that we may but succeed in the end. We do not care so very much about the steepness or the ruggedness of the hill, so that we may at last gain the very top. We do not regret patience and forethought and devotion, so that something tangible and worthy be gained by it all.

Is there not something presumptuous in all this, especially when it is felt with regard to work which is done professedly in the Master's service? No sooner do we say a word or two for Him after the thousands which we have spoken for ourselves; no sooner do we try to teach

the young, or leave a tract at a door, or in His name visit the sick, than we begin to use as our right the very common prayer-"Let us not labour in vain, nor spend our strength for nought." As if our labour and strength were such precious and important things that they might not be wasted! As if our words were so golden as to deserve to be preserved! As if we were so wise that we might never be set at nought! Oh, vain and impatient that we are! Is it not honour enough for us if God let us serve in His vineyard? Is it not distinction enough for us if we may speak our foolish words and give our little efforts recognised by Him? What matters it though we do labour in vain, and spend our strength for nought? Surely there is reward enough in the service itself, though all results be withheld. It is better to be like little children who are content to do something at the bidding of the mother whom they love, even though the work itself be worthless.

But, after all, we never do work in vain. There is joy in labour. It makes us blithe, and strong, and gladsome. It makes life worth something. It satisfies the craving within us. And if it do nothing more than make us active and comparatively content with our lot, we have reason to be glad that God has given us work to do. Let us not be over anxious for success; let us not crave for high and distinguished things to do. Who of us lives in vain ? Surely there are some eyes that brighten at our approach; surely there is one heart that grows lighter because of our love. Let us no longer sigh about living in vain, but rather rejoice and be thankful that so much honour is given to us.

Not in Vain.

I HAVE not laboured in vain, though the seed takes long to grow,

If I have sown it all day in a world of pain and woe; Though not a green leaf springeth to gladden these eyes

of mine,

Yet is the grain not lost, it shall thrive in the life divine.

I have not laboured in vain, though many a weary night I have prayed unanswered prayers for a glimmer of heavenly light;

Through waste of many words, and a frequent sigh of pain,

The conviction is strong as death that I shall not have prayed in vain.

I have not laboured in vain, if some little word of mine, Has made the journey of life the brighter for one to shine; If I have brought a hope to a spirit that, worn and faint, Had quite forgotten its song, but echoed its own complaint.

I have not laboured in vain, if I see in the children's eyes Glances of love and light, and a striving to grow more

wise;

If I have but taught them a song with a thought of the Saviour's love,

Though I garner no other fruit, I am owned by the God

above.

It is not success or praise that the children of God shall

need;

It is but to serve Him here, though feebly and weak

indeed;

Is not the joy enough if He will but let us wait

For His sake on the humblest child who shall stand at the golden gate?

Through the Sermon.

THE prayers have been offered, the hymns have been sung, and you have followed the reader through a psalm from the Old Testament and a chapter from the New. It is time for the sermon to begin, and you draw the hassock a little nearer to your feet, find a comfortable place for your elbow, and nestle among the cushions of your pew. It is the evening service, and you have lost a little of the freshness of feeling with which you sang in the morning, “I