that those who have our health in their keeping should be very much in earnest, and that those who are called to instruct us with regard to religion and eternal life should also feel how great a work they have to do,—but “our work?"

What is it? Is it to live as a son or a daughter, and do our part toward the making of a happy home? Then let us do it as if we knew how much depended upon it, what memories the hearts that are around us shall take down through the years, what principles they shall adopt, what tones and words they shall use when they talk of right and wrong, what life they shall live, what death they shall die, even all this may, in great measure, depend upon the way in which we do our work. If we are fathers and mothers, still more is in our hands, more power, greater importance, a larger amount of responsibility. And if we congratulate ourselves that we have none of these ties, and, therefore, that we have no need to work, we are mistaken. Every Christian has a work to do, whether he does it or not; if we are young, there are plenty whom our love and warm-heartedness may bless; if we are old, there are young feet to lead into the narrow way, young hands to teach, young voices to train. Every one has some work allotted to him, but the only way to do it well is to love it, to throw our hearts into it, to let it be dear as our very lives.

It is because we do not this that our work is ever failing. Of course we blame the materials, the circumstances, anything but ourselves. Oh, if we would be

worth anything in the world, if we would be

"Only remembered by what we have done,"

let us pray that we may love our work.

Saints.

Ir not unfrequently happens that the most solemn and tender relationships of life are turned into ridicule by those whose only province is to look on and criticise.

For instance, no one will deny that that is one of the supreme moments of life when two hearts drawn together as by an invisible power compel two persons to vow that for all years to come they will live for each other. And yet, strangely enough, this is the occasion of more jests. than any other subject can produce.

But this being so is almost a proof that we live in an age when ridicule is likely to attack anything that is unusually tender and earnest. And, therefore, it is little wonder that scorn should be heaped upon the name which describes those persons who are eminent for piety and virtue, and that the word "saint," the Bible-name for God's heroes and heroines, should be now seldom, haps never, used but as a taunt.

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They have themselves to thank for it," say some. And perhaps that is true. Their very enthusiasm, which has caused them to carry some things, and these nonessentials, too far, may be in part to blame. The austerity of conscientiousness which has made them fearful of going into paths of sin may have made them also fearful of walking in "the green pastures" and laughing valleys which God has Himself provided for them. And their very peculiarity has, as they might have expected, been set down to pride, and even they will scarcely be venturesome enough to say that the allegation is altogether false or undeserved.

But scorn, though it be a very bitter cup indeed, has highly medicinal properties. And as it has been dealt. out to the saints in anything but homoeopathic doses, there is no doubt at all but that it has been at least partially curative in its effects. The servants of God love their Master so much, and are so keenly sensitive with regard to all that concerns Him, that, if they can help it, they will not twice do or say the thing that has brought contumely upon His name. And those who are the nearest to what He would have them be are not harsh, or cold, or hypocritically straight-laced, but are known for what they are by their gentleness, and humility, and all-absorbing love.

Still, whatever they may be, they cannot escape reproach. They are objects for a thousand watchers, and the eyes bent upon them with an unflagging interest are exceed

ingly keen and sharp-sighted. He must be a bold man indeed who in the present day dare openly set up for a saint; only that the simple avowal, "I am a Christian," also confesses the only source from which he expects to derive any strength or goodness he may have. For if a Christian do wrong, it is the occasion of great laughter and delight in the house of the enemy. There are wonderful clapping of hands, and shouts of derision, and "Saint, saint!" becomes the cruellest taunt.

Still, they might be able to bear this with equanimity, if not exultation,-for the Master said, "If the world hate you, ye know that it hated Me before it hated you,' -if it were not for one thing. It is not the scorn that makes them sad, but the inner consciousness that by their own wrong-doing they have deserved it. They are not what they would be. They are full of failures and imperfections, and they would themselves tell you that they can never be called "saints" but in bitterest irony.

Well, it should comfort them to know that while others gladly take them at their very worst, their Master is exceedingly generous in His appreciation of them, and takes them at their very best. "I have given unto them the words which Thou gavest me, and they have received them, and have known surely that I came out from Thee, and they have believed that Thou didst send Me and I am glorified in them." Were they then perfect men? No, indeed; Jesus had greater faith in them than any one else would have had. They were saints, but one of them denied Him, and "they all forsook Him and fled." But His were not the eyes to see nothing but flaws in them, His were not the lips to condemn them. Love glorifies everything, and changes all things into new beauty, and is it not with inimitable love that Jesus looks upon His

saints?

Fragments of Humanity.

"Gather the fragments that remain that nothing be lost." CONSIDERING all things, perhaps we attend to that wise injunction pretty fairly, for we live in an age of shrewdness and acquisitiveness. There are people who find that if they take care of the pence the pounds will take care of themselves. And many have amassed fortunes by the simple means of gathering up the fragments.

It is a good thing when prosperity comes and still the heart does not grow hard, a good thing to learn for one's self the higher blessedness of giving. Much has been said of the gladness of those who have been made happy by the benevolence of others; but it is a question if they have known half as much pleasure as those who provided the good things for them. And in all the world there are few delights to equal that of those who are engaged in the good work of gathering up the fragments of humanity that nothing be lost. There is a great joy for those who spend themselves in the service of others. Their own hearts are made happier than those whom they bless, and a peace steals over them which is not of this world. Besides, they must know that they are doing real work for Christ when they seek and save those who were lost.

Orphans are some of the fragments of humanity. Is it not wise to gather them up that they be not lost? Of course you are not obliged to notice them,-you may leave them if you like. Ay, that is just what you will do. You need not mention them in your wills, but you must leave them as legacies for your own children. What sort of gifts shall they be? Thieves, blasphemers, idlers, criminals, or workers, teachers, rulers, and geniuses? Will you only accumulate money for your children, or will you put some of it out at interest, by gathering up the fragments? What say you? Which will be the more economical plan? Which will pay the best?

There are other fragments which are being diligently and thriftily gathered up, and which will well repay the trouble bestowed upon them.

Take a column of advertisements from any paper.

"The penny soup kitchen! 750 persons relieved on Saturday last, many of them wretched sufferers waiting in the frost and snow for hours."

"Ireland! Ireland! Ireland! Five millions of people without Christ." "Homeless, friendless, helpless." "Union-walk Ragged-schools." "The paralysed and epileptic." Here are fragments of humanity waiting to be gathered up. Is there no disciple to go down the ranks and collect them together bearing the Master's word? Is there any excuse for us if we go on carelessly thinking of nothing but ourselves and our own comfort?

Let us waste nothing. Are not the bodies and souls of men of more value than bread?

Wishing.

We wish very differently for different things. Some of our wishes are very idle-mere passing thoughts, that are spoken and forgotten; some are very earnest, so eager and intense, that we feel almost as if we must have the thing we wish for. Of course there must be a real want before we shall have a real wish; there must be a hearthunger before feverish desire.

"I wish I were useful," is a good wish; but few say it as earnestly as "I wish I were rich." We know what it is to think we should be glad to see a person; we know what it is to listen with bated breath, to strain the vision which would fain see a beloved form, to feel the heart grow suddenly cold with disappointment, or fill to overflowing with rapture, according as our wish is denied or granted. Everything depends upon how much want we have. We can pray in cold tones and formal words for the afflicted, or we can so wrestle and agonise in prayer that "Speak the word only, and Thy servant shall be healed," shall have power to cleave its way to the very throne of God, and hold His ear and bring His answer down.