relationships, it is a sign that He wishes us to open our arms wide and take all the world into them. If we are not really wanted at home, we are wanted in a dozen other places. There cannot in reality come a time when we may feel that we are not needed. We may fancy so, we may be blind so that we cannot read the language of appealing eyes, or deaf so that we fail to recognise the voices of entreaty which are raised around us; but they are there all the same.

So that if any are sitting by their quiet firesides to-day, and feeling desolate and forgotten, let them be assured that they have something to do if they only knew it. Let them go forth and see if they are not wanted. Even now, at this time, so full of tender memories, and sacred associations, there is many a want that you can satisfy, many a need that you can meet.

There are weary hearts that a pleasant, kindly word may stir into hope, sad faces that you can make brighter.

You are wanted by little children who find even the early morning of their lives overcast. You are wanted by the young, who are surrounded by snares and temptations, all the more dangerous that they are not seen and cannot be appreciated. You are wanted by the sick, who weary for the sight of a comforter. You are wanted by the sorrowful, who know not where to look for joy. You are wanted by the tempted, who know not how to find strength. You are wanted by the aged, whose evening of life is very sad and silent.

Not wanted? Oh, if none beside want you, Jesus, the Friend of sinners, the Saviour of mankind, wants you to work for Him. What are you thinking about if you have forgotten Gethsemane and Calvary?

For His sake, arise, and forget your own weight of loneliness or sorrow, and make the world bright to some of the many by whom you are wanted.

Voices.

THERE is no such thing as silence. The whole earth is vocal with thousands of sounds, so that even the night cannot be still. If at times, bewildered by the turmoil around us, we steal away from the crowded cities, where men congregate, and linger where no human voices can reach us, yet there are sounds everywhere. Away in the midst of broad open fields, with nothing but God's blue skies above us, and the green growing world about us, there are still the songs of larks, thrushes, and nightingales filling the air with music. In the secret lanes,

hidden away from sight between banks and beneath hedges, there is the hum of a thousand happy insects keeping silence away. In the heart of the thick forest, where, if anywhere, we may be at peace, we have soft, soothing music made for us by the gentle waving of branches, and the whispering of young leaves and flowers. By the sea, even when some solitary position has been gained, the mighty waves sing their everlasting Hallelujahs. There are voices everywhere, and the one song sung in different keys and by a variety of singers is, "Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for He is good, for His mercy endureth for ever."

But when we listen to human voices, we do not find them always saying the same thing. There is plenty of complaining in our streets. And we cannot listen long without hearing even worse things than complaints. He who loves his fellow-men cannot but be often pained by the way in which the voice is used. So many are saying hard things against their Maker, so many are saying bitter and cruel things to each other, so many are spending their breath in prayer that a loving God cannot grant, so many are uttering words that they deem light as air, which shall be turned into tables of stone, and hereafter lifted up in judgment before them.

But the voices of our brothers are not always hard. Often, indeed, they are made so gentle and strong by love, and they speak such good things, that we can but thank God and take courage. They linger in our ears

and in our hearts, making music for many years. These voices raised in praise, or lowered in supplication, make the world a better place to dwell in, and fill us with strange joy. We listen for them when we are weary and sad, and, hearing them, grow hopeful again; we do as they bid us, and believe that they are sent for our guidance.

And are there not other voices full of mystery but also full of importance to us? Poor Joan d'Arc was not the only one to whom they have spoken; only she believed them, and most people do not.

"I must go to Chinon," said she to her father. "And why, Joan ?" he inquired, much startled.

"To speak to the Dauphin. The Voices tell me so; I must go."

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She said she had had a dream-" no, not a dream, a vision, an impression, a manifestation." Well, plenty of people have had all these, and the voices have urged to even nobler things than raising the siege of Orleans and crowning the King at Rheims. A woman is led to think upon the condition of hundreds of her sisters who are fallen and miserable. She has " an impression" that they might be rescued, and made better, and even brought to Jesus, that they should become "clothed and in their right minds." It is "as if something says to her," Do it. Will she? Other voices speak in her heart. Fear says, "You cannot; what are you that you should try?" But Faith says, Obey the voices, and do the work in the name of the Lord of Hosts." A large-hearted man is touched with pity for orphans. A voice says to him, "Take these children and nurse them for Me." But how? He has not riches to build houses, nor to buy food and raiment for the children. But if he believes in the voice, and listens to it, will he not find that victory is given to him? How many, looking upon the sorrows and wants of the world, hear voices in their hearts urging them to attempt great things for God and for the suffering. Only they are afraid. They have not faith; they stifle the voices. But who shall say that what a few brave-hearted disciples of Jesus have been enabled to do many might not multiply, until even the mountains of sin and sorrow should be removed from our earth?

The voices in our hearts say something else, too, that

it would be well to listen to. We have been too content to live the old weary life of sinning, repenting, and sinning yet again. But are we never made to feel that it is possible to come out of the fog into the sunlight? We read, "As He which hath called you is holy, so be ye holy in all manner of conversation." And it is suggested to us that we are not told to do impossible things, but that Jesus, who is able to save, is able to keep us from sinning if only we live lives of faith upon the Son of God.

Shall we listen to this voice? Shall we believe it, and act as if we did? Oh! however we may close our ears to other voices, let the voice of God in our hearts be reverently heeded.

Summer Snow.

"IT is snowing," said a little child, lifting her eyes wonderingly to the cloudless blue above her, and lowering them again to look at the soft white flakes which lay upon her dress, hair, and the book she had been reading. But, in truth, it was a very different thing from winter snow which covered her. She was reposing upon the long grass beneath a tree which was heavily laden with blossoms, and, as the gentle breeze moved among the branches, it shook the snowy petals over the child. At first, notwithstanding the warm air and glowing sun, she felt inclined to start up and seek for shelter; but, as soon as she understood what it really was, she said, as so many will say with her, “ I like summer snow.”

Who could help it? No one objects to be covered with flowers, to walk upon them, to lie among them, or even to be buried in them. And summer snow of this kind is so sweet, and warm, and pleasant, that it seems to bring rest, and enjoyment, and vigorous health. Besides, we know that, though after it the trees may look less beautiful, the blossoms are only giving way to something better. They have accomplished their purpose, and now the fruit shall

come to take their places, and the loveliness of spring shall be followed by the luxury of summer. So that whichever way we look at it summer snow is a good and a beautiful thing.

But we often make the same mistake as the child. "If it be white and flaky, of course it must be snow," thought she. And we have a very similar thought about "the blessings in disguise" which come to us. It is true that we see no lowering clouds, and feel no cutting blast, but something has fallen upon our heads, and what can it be but trouble? It was a very gentle breeze, certainly, but still the wind did blow, and a shower of something fell over us, and without waiting to see what it was, do we not often feel inclined to start up like frighted children and run to our Father for shelter? It does not hurt us even when it falls the most plentifully, but then we expect it will, and allow ourselves to be disturbed accordingly. It does not feel like snow, but perhaps we might persuade ourselves that it did, if we stayed long enough.

What is it? A little pain, perhaps, which will pass away and leave us greatly the better; but we do not think that we imagine it to be only the herald of a severe winter, ending it may be in death. Or perhaps it is a temporary darkness of spirit which seems to shut us in from all brightness and joy, so that we cannot see how blue the heavens are above us. Or it is some loss which we feel or fear, that strips everything of its beauty, and makes us see nothing but bare branches, which are in reality covered with promises of fruit. It is a change of some kind—a change which startles us from our dreamy reverie, and causes us to look up and expect, and shrink. So timid are we, so expectant of evil, though our Father is constantly giving us good, that we only look for frozen flakes when really we are having a summer snow of manna.

Why are we so fearful? Why have we so little faith? How is it that we find it so hard to believe in flowers and sunshine, though our Father sends them as regularly as the months go round? It is not that He has ever failed us. He has led us into green pastures, and by still waters; He has made our cup of joy to overflow again and again when we had feared it was empty; He has been giving us blossom and fruit year after year with unfailing