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cost to get it perfectly. We are in the same school as that to which Paul belonged, and have the same teachers. Cannot we learn too? It is really worth while to try. The cares of life would not vex us, nor its disappointments fret us. We would be calm whatever came, and not only calm but happy. Surely if we look up and say, Father who art in heaven," we mightly gladly, or at least submissively, do without what He in wisdom denies us.

"Our

Eups of Cold Water.

Of course, there are plenty of people who, when they wish to give, are not restricted to cold water—wine, tea, anything you like to ask for, is at their disposal.

But that is no reason why we should hide away our pitcher and cup, and sullenly feel that because we cannot do much, therefore we will not do little.

Besides, is not a cup of cold water very often more valuable than a cup of anything else could possibly be? And who shall say that he who has only that to give is not as much a benefactor as he who has so much more?

We often hear a remark uttered in tones of gratitude, not unmingled with surprise, "Ah, he is a grand man, he possesses both the means and the will to do good, and it is well when they go together."

But really they always do go together, or if not then it is certainly the will, and never the means, which is missing. Some people are foolish enough to envy others. "If I only had his abilities and opportunities, how much good I would do!"

Well, we cannot exactly tell what weights and measures are used when good works are tested, but we can remember the widow's mite, and we can guess that the rich man who subscribes his hundred guineas to some charitable institution is of very little more use in the world than the poor man who works hard all day and gives a couple of hours every evening to the instruction of lads whose edu

cation has been neglected in consequence of their having been sent to work as soon as they had attained the age of five years. If you are a gentleman you can send a cheque to the Missionary Society; if you are a poor man you can invite your neighbour to come from his comfortless room and take a seat by your fireside while you tell him what you have learnt of Him who came to give peace, and joy, and rest to the weary and heavy laden. If you are a lady you can send a plate of savoury food or a bunch of grapes to the suffering invalid, and if you are a poor woman you can re-make the hard bed, and brighten the dark room, and quiet the crying baby. And who shall say which gift is the more acceptable ?

Let none of us try to persuade ourselves that we have not the means and the ability to do good; we have any number of cups of cold water at our disposal if we only have the will to distribute them.

It is not possible to decide as to what gifts are in themselves the most valuable. It depends so much upon circumstances. You may give a man a sovereign, and it may happen to be the thing he was most of all in need of. Or you may take his hand in your own, and give him a few hearty, kind words, and they may be more precious and more fruitful than silver or gold. There are moments in life when the earth is barren and the scorched sands are intolerable, when the lips are parched and life is nothing but a fever, and then a cup of cold water is of priceless value. There are days in life when the heart is faint and weary, and the pain and sorrow are almost too much to be borne, and then the touch of a loving hand, the memory of tender wc rds, and the glance of wistful eyes full of sympathy are more precious than anything else in the wide world. Oh, do not hesitate to give the cup of cold water; it looks weak, and common, and almost valueless, but there may be strength, healing, ay, even salvation in it.

"If I only had the ability I would do good." Oh, say not so. If you are young, how much light and joy you can bring to hearts that are old and world-weary. If you knew what gladness you can make in dark places, if you understood how your very presence and light, cheerful speech have power to turn evening into midday for those

who love you, you would not be so wholly occupied, even with your own happy life, as to forget to do your part.

And if you are old, your wisdom can teach the inexperienced such things as shall prevent them from suffering and disappointment in the future.

Whoever and whatever we are, we can surely do something. If we have, indeed, nothing but a cup of cold water, let us give it gracefully and lovingly, "in the name of a disciple.' Let us be

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"Content to fill a little space

If God be glorified."

No Letters!

THE longer we live the greater respect we must feel for our forefathers and foremothers. What wonderful people they were to be sure! They were not always discontented and grumbling, they had placid faces and unruffled tempers; they spoke cheerful words in a cheerful tone; they loved and hoped, and laughed and sang; they ate and drank, and walked and enjoyed themselves, and yet there was no penny post, and often a whole month passed without bringing so much as a single letter!

Talk about the repose, and self-control, and heroism of the present day; why they are nowhere in comparison with those wonderful qualities which our great-grandparents must have possessed to have enabled them to bear their deprivations in anything like a Christian spirit. If we contrast their power of endurance with our own fretful, impatient eagerness even alone in this matter of letterreceiving, there is nothing for us to do but hide our heads in shame.

For who does not know that it is almost more than modern human nature can bear to be quiet and dignified while waiting for a letter? How slowly the time goes, how the hands of the clock creep towards the hour at which the little black and white messenger is due. How

difficult it is to settle to anything, no matter how much there is to do, until it has come. With what feverish eagerness we anticipate its contents, one moment bright with hope, and the next full of fear. What a thrill we feel as we hear the double-knock of the postman at last. How impossible it is to feel at peace although we may remain outwardly unmoved, and how difficult it is to speak in an ordinary steady tone.

"Letters ?"

"Yes, but there is none for you."

What a painful feeling comes in the place where hope sojourned but a minute ago! How cold and cheerless the day suddenly becomes! What dense clouds pass over the sun! How rapidly the light vanishes from room and face and heart! How dreary the day looks in which we must live and work and do our duty generally without the dear words upon which our eyes longed to feast!

It is a very common occurrence after all. Everybody knows at least once or twice in a lifetime what it is. But that does not make it the easier to bear. Some, no doubt, can bear to hear the words, "There is no letter" with calm, unruffled feelings. They did not expect any. Or if any had come they would have been business-letters only, and neither very important nor very interesting. Or, perhaps, "No news is good news," the best that could possibly come. But

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Every morning as true as the clock
Somebody hears the postman's knock,"

with feelings of greater depth and excitement than can possibly be described.

The absent are often the dearest. When the mother is away, and all the house seems desolate and empty, what a treasure a letter would be! and what a void is felt when the expected messenger has not come! When one who is very dear is sick, what palpitating eagerness there is about post-time! When a son has just left to make his first venture in the world, how anxiously his letters are looked for and read! Sometimes the news is painful, but few things are so hard to bear as suspense.

What they must have suffered during the late war in this way in poor Paris! How many of us, finding our letters

on the breakfast-table, have given a sigh of sympathy, and, perhaps, something better still, at the thought of our sisters shut up from their nearest and dearest, and able to receive no tidings from them. And who, reading the short but often tender messages in the Times, could help respecting the family feelings, the yearnings for the absent, of which they so eloquently spoke?

While time lasts we suppose men and women must still bear the crushing remark, "No letter." And all that we can do is to try and be as patient, and enduring, and satisfied as possible.

If we

Anybody could tell whether we are great or little by the way in which we are able to bear that reverse. console ourselves with work, and speak just as gently to those about us, and still wear a cheerful face, we are not so bad but we might be worse. If we are sullen, and miserable, and impatient, visiting our wrongs or disappointments upon the unoffending, then the less that is said about us the better.

And yet there is one other thing we can do. We can see that by our prompt writing of letters that are required of us we do not subject those who care for us to the pain with which we ourselves are so well acquainted.

Joy.

THE newspapers are pretty full of sad stories. But it is doubtful if even in these times anything more painfully pathetic has been recorded than the tale told in the following short paragraph:

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A poor widow woman of the name of Bell residing in Marylebone died from over-joy on receiving ten shillings. out of the poor-box. She exclaimed, 'God bless the good gentlemen!' and fell back dead."

Death from excess of joy is most likely rare enough, but the remarkable thing here is that the gift of ten shillings from a poor-box should have produced such a

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