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“Thank you, Walter," said Mr. Nevins.

"You have said

I'll

some plain things to me; but any sting there is in them is in their truth. 'Faithful are the wounds of a friend.' try, by God's help, to be a better and a happier man.” "And what a blessing it is," said Mr. Morland, "that we can have God's help; and that He promises us his Holy Spirit as a Spirit of peace and joy! The time will never come on earth when we shall be free from all disturbing trouble. God does not want us to feel that this is our rest. Yet, notwithstanding, we may have our hearts filled, through the Lord Jesus Christ, with unfailing happiness."

Mr. Nevin's children did not know what had passed between their father and Mr. Morland that Sunday night; but they did notice that from the day Mr. Gordon preached, when Mr. Morland was with them, their father was a happier

man.

A Retrospect of Life.

s Newton says, "I know what the world can do, and what it cannot do." It cannot give or take away that peace of God which passeth all understanding. It cannot soothe the wounded conscience, I have tried both

nor enable us to meet death with comfort.

services. For twenty-four years have I lived under the thraldom of sin, led by the devil. None need despair of being welcomed by the Saviour when he has pardoned and brought to repentance such a sinner as I have been. The retrospect of my past life is now miserable to me; yet before I was taught by the Spirit of God I thought and called it a life of pleasure. The very name, when applied to sin, now makes my heart sicken. Even then I never could enjoy recalling the occupations of each day; and think you my conscience was quiet? No, though again and again I stifled it, as too many do. Bitter experience has taught me that "there is no peace to the wicked." Blessed be God, I know

that I am pardoned, and reconciled to God through the death of his Son. How happy is the Christian's life, when he has this assurance -Life of Capt. H. Vicars.

The Defenced Cities.

"Let us enter into the defenced cities, and let us be silent."-Fer. viii, 14.

UNBUILT by human hands, their walls arise;
Their streets by earthly feet are never trod;
No smoke of battle dims the cloudless skies.

That hang above these dwellings of our God.
'Mid their white stillness Pain's wild tossings die;
Their snowy gates shut out the world and sin;
The wand'rer here forgets his misery;

The promises are they. Oh, let us enter in

Homes of the sorrowing hearts, unfold your gates,
And to your peaceful shadows let us come,
For we are weary, weary, and we sigh

For the sweet calm of heaven, our far-off home.
Why should we fear? Within your happy walls
Our Father dwells, and to His bosom pressed,
The smile of His dear love like sunlight falls:

And the sick heart is healed, the wand'ring soul finds rest. "Let us be silent" from our faithless fears.

Is not our Saviour with His children now?
Does He forget the prayers, the bitter tears

He poured at midnight upon Olive's brow?
"Let us be silent," doubting not His love,

Though clouds and darkness veil awhile His form.

Is Jesus but a friend for sunny hours?

Will He draw near us then, and leave us in the storm?

"Let us be silent" from our murmuring sighs,.

Our manifold rebellions 'neath the rod;

They filled with tears the Saviour's pitying eyes,
They wound afresh the pitying heart of God.
Oh, cities of defence! blest promises!

Shut from our souls' rebellion, doubts, and sin:

We long to rest amid your quiet shades;

Lift up your heads, ye gates, and let us enter in.

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Little Watercress.

LTHOUGH this was not her name, I always called her by it. During the whole of a trying winter

she used to meet me every day at London Bridge,

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with her creases" nicely washed and carefully put together. The clothes she wore were threadbare, and had evidently been "made to do" out of the odds and ends which benevolent people had given her. Yet they always seemed to fit tidily and well. She had a bonnet which might have been two hundred years old, so far as present fashion is concerned; she had a gown the fabric of which would be inexplicable to any modern draper; she had shoes—or, rather, I should say, a shoe on one foot and a boot on the other-that would have driven any shoemaker into despair if asked to repair them; but although three times too large, they somehow seemed to fit her; and she not only walked but ran after passengers as they alighted from the railway, as if these uncouth encumbrances were as easy and comfortable as the best kid gloves.

Perhaps it was that her bright, though very pale young face, her modest demeanour, and her intense earnestness in trying to sell her few poor little bunches, made you forget how she was dressed, or made her give a beauty to her strange attire which did not naturally belong to it. She had the most winning smile I ever saw upon a child's face; but, if it will be understood, there always seemed a soul of pain quivering within it. Her voice, though cheery and musical, was too quick and earnest for a healthy beating of the heart; her bright blue eyes frequently overflowed with tears, and her little hands, horny with hard labour, were always trembling.

Although I had always had my breakfast before getting to London Bridge, I invariably spent a penny with Little Watercress. I cannot tell why, but the child won upon my best feelings every day; and the more destitute she seemed the more kindly I felt towards her. One morning

I met her in her usual place by the railway station, but without any "creases" in her hand. Instead of which, tied up in an old cotton rag, she had a bundle of halfpence. She had "sold out," but the fact did not seem greatly to please her, for she had evidently been crying.

"What's the matter, Little Watercress ?"

"I did not like to go, sir, without having seen you; but we have great trouble at home this morning.

all in bed."

I left them

"Them? who do you mean, child? not your father and mother, I hope?"

"Oh, no, sir-them; the children. I have no father or mother. They are all ill with measles, sir, and perhaps I can't tell yet, but when I get home he shall have all this "—giving her little lump of halfpence a shake—“ to come and see them."

worse.

"And where do you live, Little Watercress ?"

"Such a long way from here; three miles almost." "And do you walk here every morning?"

"Yes, sir, and all the way back; and I have a great deal of walking both before and after that, for I have to buy my creases before I come here, and then to get a fresh lot for tea-time."

"That's hard work for you, Little Watercress. Suppose you and I jump into this cab, and go and see them? I suppose they are all older than yourself; I hope they are, at least."

"Oh, dear no, sir! One is little more than a baby; he is only just turned two years old; then there is Susy, who is about five; and Freddy, who is getting on for seven; such a good boy he is, sir."

"And you are about twelve, I suppose ?"

"A little more than that," she said, bravely; "and I don't mind work one bit; and we have got on pretty well till this illness came; but now I am afraid I shan't be able to come out to work, but must stop at home to nurse them; for the poor woman who lets us have a little room in her house almost

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