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until late at night, but when at last she sees the children safely tucked into their snug little beds, her evening prayer is almost certain to be two-thirds of it praise, excepting when some of the children have croup or measles, whooping-cough or scarlatina. It is true that the mountain of socks and stockings waiting to be darned is enough to frighten a timid woman; but it is ten to one that while she is gradually undermining it she is so busy crooning cradle-songs that she forgets to be discouraged. And if she is so happy amid her labours, and so gratefully content with her lot, there is certainly no need to pity her.

And then there is that crown of a parent's joy, the hope of what the children may be. How many a day-dream, suggested by some manifestation of power or talent in a child, has the mother as she sits and ponders at her work. How often the father is cheered in the midst of his business as he looks on a few years and pictures his fair-haired girls in happy homes of their own, and his boys filling honourably honourable positions. Of course these may be castles in the air, and nothing more! But the probability is that at least some of them will be realised, and that the children will follow in the father's steps, and be a comfort to the declining years of those who so lovingly tend them in childhood.

Sometimes it is thought that it is bad for the children themselves when there is a large family. In some respects it may be. They cannot be pampered and indulged so much, which is a good thing for them. But neither can they receive so good an education, nor be enabled to start in so good a position in life. Still, notwithstanding that they have to leave school sooner, and begin to earn their own living, and earlier learn the lessons of industry and self-reliance, it is, on the whole, a great advantage to belong to a large family. The tie which often is, and always should be, so strong between brothers and sisters may be of the greatest good to them. And it is well for the children to be obliged to form the habit of giving up to each other which must regulate the household if there is to be peace at all. It is from the large families that chivalrous lads and self-forgetful girls come. Let a boy have to take care of a frail little sister, and see how gentle and yet strong it will help to make him. The chances are

that he will be a thousand times more manly and good than if he had himself been petted and thought of the most. And see what a sweet and noble woman the eldest daughter of a large family often becomes. She cannot well be given up to vanity and frivolity, for there are little ones to tend and care for and love; and though she may be steadied beyond her years, she has to make up for the loss of girlish light-heartedness, that which is woman's greatest reward, the appreciation and clinging love of those for whom she lives.

Fathers, and especially mothers of large families, are apt to feel a little discouraged sometimes because they cannot do everything. They cannot exert all the influence they wish. There is so much to do for the bodies of the children that little time is left to give to their minds and the formation of their characters. But there is such a thing as silent, unconscious influence. Those who have little time to talk to their boys may yet be preaching constantly most impressive sermons by their lives. And, after all, this is the surest way.

A man might lecture his boys every day about truth; but if they heard him tell a falsehood it would go for nothing. Or he might never say a word to them about uprightness, but if he were an upright man himself, his boys would know it, and imbibe something of his spirit.

There is cause for anxiety where there is a large family. Different dispositions require different treatment, and there is certainly plenty to call out the parents' watchfulness and prayer. But Christian fathers and mothers have at least some words to encourage them. "I have been young, and now am old, yet have I never seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread." "Blessed is the man that feareth the Lord, that delighteth greatly in His commandments. His seed shall be mighty upon earth, the generation of the upright shall be blessed." "I will pour My Spirit upon thy seed, and My blessing upon thine offspring.' And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord, and great shall be the peace of thy children." "For the promise is unto you and to your children."

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Lost Links.

WE are all our lives weaving chains. We begin while our baby fingers are as yet weak and unsteady, and we do not cease until old age has made them tremulous and feeble. As we live our years, link after link is added, sometimes with infinite care and painstaking by ourselves, oftener by an unseen hand far more skilful than our own.

We are for ever gathering treasures. When the grass is wet with early dew, when the sun ascends and brightens the whole world with its noontide splendour, even when the silent night spreads its star-jewelled canopy over the cool earth, still do we continue our search, and still do we find what we seek. Sometimes we dive into dark waters, bringing up hidden pearls of joy and beauty; sometimes the diamond brilliancy of a far-off prize has quickened our steps and shortened the leagues lying between us and it; sometimes, unexpected and unsought, the treasures are presented to us, and the surprise of joy makes us glad. But always, by various means, we are collecting treasures of knowledge, love, and happiness.

And yet what have we to show for it all? How long is the chain to which all our lives we have been adding links? How full is our cabinet of the treasures which we have been so industriously gathering? Year after year we have toiled, and, alas! even now the chain is short and meagre, and our casket is only half full. It is true we have wrought and gathered, but we have also loosed and dropped. We had our treasures, but the box that held them was insecure, and one by one they have been stolen away. We weaved our chain, but it was not strong, it has fallen to pieces, and we have dropped the links down in the valleys and upon the hills, among dead leaves, and in hidden graves; and the gifts which once we had are ours no longer.

Is it not so? What has become of the knowledge which with such pains we acquired in youth? We have not needed a particular gem, so we let it lie by, and forgot it, and lo! when we want it and look for it, it has disappeared altogether. It is true we have gained others, our chain is not altogether broken up, nor our jewel-box

empty, but the contents are very different from those which gladdened us years ago.

Then how many links of friendship have been dropped as we have gone on our way! Names which were once ever upon our lips and in our hearts are never spoken now. If we hear them they are like strains of long-forgotten music, and the notes, sweet as they are, smite us with pain and bring tears into our eyes. What has become of our friends? We have lost them in all directions. They are in other lands, they have passed into another world, they are altogether changed, and, though they pass our very doors, are farther from us than if oceans divided We scarcely know how we came to lose them. We cannot remember their disappearance. Very few of these links were wrung violently from the chain; they dropped off slowly and unobserved, but they are completely gone, and even if we could retrace our steps, which we cannot do, we might not be able to find them again.

us.

Then we have lost some precious things in the way of emotions and experiences. Once how gay we were! we were brimful of life; we had energy enough for anything. We cannot feel so now, however much we may desire it.

That treasure has fallen from the casket; we have a few things instead-languor, weariness, and so on; but they are no such precious possessions as those we have lost. Once what peace we had! But our serenity has been mislaid or lost. Once how strong we were! but now we have only weakness instead.

What becomes of our lost treasures? Are they indeed really lost, destroyed altogether--annihilated? No; nothing that God makes can perish. Everything is enduring. We have let them slip out of our keeping, but may not He have taken care of them? Perhaps they were too costly for us here, and He may be saving them for us at home. When we are older and wiser, when we have left school, and reached maturity, when He sees that we are able to appreciate our treasures and take care of the chain, perhaps He may give them back, unaltered and still beautiful, into our more skilful hands.

Between the Lights.

THE summer brings bright, long days, and all of us will give them a welcome. So many hours of light surely bring many opportunities for good and various work, which, if we are wise, we shall strive to improve. But the summer brings something more. It gives us a full hour of evening twilight, a time between the day and the dusk which may be, if we use it rightly, full of rest and blessing to ourselves and others.

Of course there are some people, thrifty, industrious, and good, who gather up the fragmentary minutes that they be not lost, and who have all sorts of odd pieces of work saved to be done at this especial time. All honour to industry; but surely twelve or fourteen hours of daylight are long enough to work in, and we may take the time between the lights for doing nothing but what we will. It may be indicative of natural indolence, but we think it very delightful to let busy hands do nothing, and even the head and the heart only such things as are recreation. In these bustling, eager days we work too much and reflect too little. It is well to steal away out of the rush and excitement, and give a little portion of our time to quiet thought.

Did you ever notice, as you sit alone between the lights, what a change takes place in your estimation of different things? All the day you are anxious and troubled about this life. You are as busy and excited as the rest of the world. They race and you race with them. All their powers are put forth and so are yours. You are afraid lest you should be left behind, and so you struggle and pant and toil with all your might. You too eagerly catch the moments and get as much out of them as possible. The beauty of the world, the quiet of religious calm, dreams of the heavenly home with its river of life, and harpers harping with their harps, come quietly up to your heart with mute entreaty, but you dare not let them into your thought. The present is so imperative, so all engrossing, so supremely important, that you feel as if nothing may interfere with it. But how different it is between the lights.

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