But in order to enjoy them perfectly the Sabbaths of August should be spent in the country; as indeed they are by thousands of privileged persons who select this month, when the year is in her prime, for their holidays. It is there, in the quiet of the fields and the hush of the forest, that we are compelled to say—

"Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky."

It is where the corn waves on the hills, and the wild flowers of the valley lift up their eyes to heaven, that Sunday is all that it can ever be in the world. That it is

a day of rest the very cattle seem to know. The horses lying upon the grass, and the cows standing in the water that is shadowed by some tall tree, look full of lazy enjoyment. The bees work, and the butterflies play as usual; the clouds float across the skies, and the shadows creep over the fields; but to our eyes who watch, nothing seems to work wearily, and all things seem to be resting.

How good it is, far from home, to enter some little village church or meeting-house, and join in the simple. service. There is a feeling of strangeness, it is true, and our thoughts may at first wander away to the sanctuaries where a constant attendance makes all things familiar; but presently we feel at home after all, for the hymns are the same, and sometimes the tunes are old favourites. Always the well-known words from the Holy Book are very sweet to the stranger in the strange place, and hearing them, and feeling a certain sense of loneliness in being separated from his Christian brethren at home, he will scarcely help lifting up his heart wistfully to the Father who is ever present, and saying, "Be not silent unto me, O Lord." The sermon may be very different from those to which he is accustomed, but so long as in some form or other the old, old story is told, nothing matters much; and the plain building, very cramped and small perhaps, often seems very near to heaven.

It is so pleasant to sit in church on an August Sunday with the doors and windows open. The fresh air comes in and fans the faces of the worshippers, and helps to 'make them vigorous and interesting listeners; and the air is so sweet with the scent of flowers, so different from the

air we have to breathe in the close hot town, that even inhaling it is a pleasure. Sometimes, and this is better still, the service is held in the open air. It is a very different thing from standing at a street corner to sit on the grass in an orchard to listen to the Word of God. There is a service held during the summer months upon the Great Orme's Head, and those who have attended it are not likely to forget the impression it makes. Everything is quiet, and fresh, and high. Down below the sea is rolling, and the sea-birds are skimming over the waters. The congregation sit and kneel among the graves, and the litany of the Church of England sounds sweetly beautiful even to the most uncompromising Nonconformist. The hymns, too, are sung as from full hearts, and

almost brings the tears into the eyes of those who think how near the holy city may be to them. It is easy amid such influences to believe that "God is Love." It is so evident, indeed, that faith is scarcely necessary, and we feel like little children as we say, Our Father, who art

in heaven."

Wherever they are spent the Sabbaths of August are blessed. And when the night comes it is with thankfulness that the closing hymn may be sung

"The air was full of Sabbath song,

And Sabbath beauty robed the earth;
There was no flaunting, fine-dressed throng,
No marring and unseemly mirth,

But golden sunlight in the dells,
And music of inviting bells.

"The house of God was everywhere;

We stood in courts where He had been,
We walked across His meadows fair,
And down His aisles of evergreen,

And stayed beside His river brim,
While all our hearts went out to Him.

"We lingered where the little bands

Knelt down together in His light,
With sunburnt faces, toil-worn hands,
And simple hearts that loved the right;
And while we breathed His holy name,
Into our midst the Master came."

The Departed.

THE departed-for so we always speak of our dead—are the happy ones who have outstripped us in the race, and reached home first. We speak of them in whispers, though we know that our voices would never waken them now, since "He giveth His beloved sleep;" and we speak of them in sorrowful yet half-envious tones. We miss them terribly at first, indeed it seems as if we cannot get on without them, but we feel that they have indeed the best of it who are so safe and blessed. It is well to be them, say we who are still left behind. And while our hands and heads are busy we catch ourselves looking up, and almost believing that if we had keener eyes we should see the happy family who are at home in our Father's house. We listen, too, with hushed breath and eager spirits, and fancy that we hear the music that in their rapture they cannot help pouring forth; it comes to us very faint and low, but then perhaps it has a long way to come. So we comfort ourselves as the days pass on, and sometimes it seems as if they have scarcely departed after all.

There is a question-asked by Miss Ingelow in her poem, "Supper at the Mill"—which, in various ways and at different times, must be asked by almost everybody—

"Is there never a chink in the world above

Where they listen to words from below?"

It seems so natural that there should be something of the kind; and, whether it be so or not, we cannot help wishing there were. There is sure to have been something left unsaid which we very particularly wish to say, and something that we did say that we long to unsay, or at least to be pardoned for saying.

"I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore!

I remember all that I said."

And it does seem hard that our intercourse should be suddenly broken off, and there should be no more communion.

There is no doubt but that the books that have lately been written, whose aim is to prove that heaven is more

homelike and human than we have thought, and that our friends who have departed are not nearly so far away from us as we feared, are very comforting. The opinions expressed in them may be strongly objected to by many; all kinds of things may be said against them. But when the smiter has smitten us sorely, and death is no longer a vague thing that does not very closely concern us, then we begin to want something which shall help to decrease the distance between the two worlds where we and our loved ones live. If we may believe that, after all, they are not really gone, that sometimes, at least, they come to us and help us by sweet though silent influences, a good deal of the bitterness of parting is taken away.

What is meant by the phrase so frequently used"Ripening for glory"? Does it not mean that we have noticed that the lives of our friends have been less earthly, more like what we supposed heaven to be? They did not realise that they were drawing near the end of the journey. They had no prescience of what was before them. They entered into their daily work as heartily as ever. Their hearts were not weaned from their friends, but rather seemed to cling to them more tenderly than ever. And yet there was a difference. Gradually, and quite unconsciously to them, the Saviour became more precious, and their home above more distinct. And, in consequence of this, there stole over their faces, almost imperceptibly, another look, and into their conversation another tone. And this cannot be said to be the result of affliction always; for when death has been sudden, without any warning, we have seen it the same.

Does it not seem as if the dwellers of that other world had come down and begun the communion, so that the newly-arrived ones should not feel like strangers or guests, but like children at home?

After all, it is perhaps better to leave all that our Father seems to have hidden from us. They are not, for God has taken them. "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

"Why mourn we? Oh, we would have kept them, we say,
From the cold of the winter, the wind and the rain.

To have looked in their faces each desolate day

Would have brought back the sun in its shining again,
And chased away pain.

"But the Father knew best. And since some must be first

In that quiet home-shelter beyond the blue hills,
We are glad to be chosen to suffer the worst
While they are quite safe by the heavenly rills,
Where God's perfect joy thrills."

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Love Tokens.

WE have different ways of showing love; but is it not true that no ways seem so strange to us as those which our Father in heaven uses? It is the difference between human and Divine methods. His love, so much truer and stronger than ours, can bear to do much that we never could.

We love, but we make mistakes. If we remember all that we have done and wished to do for our friends, we must see how often, had we been wiser, we should have acted very differently. But He who sees the end from the beginning, and whose love is as great as His wisdom, does not have need to repent.

One thing would we not do if we could? Would we not shelter our nearest and dearest from the troubles of this life? But "whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth." We would cry, do often cry, with all our hearts that the smiter's hand may be withheld, and only the Healer appear. But it seems as if He did not hear, so persistently do the strokes fall. We hold up our hands to ward off the blows; we lift up our arms, and would fain spread them out over the heads of our beloved; but He will do as pleaseth Him; and, what is more, He will make them see that His way, not ours, was the best. It seems so strange to us, but we cannot understand it; but we know our Father, and we should trust Him. They, even when the pain and sorrow of life are upon them, often unconsciously rebuke our want of faith. They are not afraid of what His hands bring to them.