"And if they are," retorted Mary, indignantly, "that is no reason why we should give them what isn't clean. So, Phoebe, I shall be obliged by your washing the teapot at once."

Phoebe complied; and as the thin flakes of dust floated out by the spout, she looked up into Mary's face and said, "you bring to my mind, miss, a verse they sometimes read in church when the plate's going round; but I never see that it's much thought of on week-days, leastways not in this kitchen. It runs something like this, that God blesses those that consider the poor. I'm thinking you're putting in for that blessing, miss."

"Thank you, Phoebe," said Mary, as she took the teapot, brimful of milk, from her hand; "I am very much obliged to you;" and running off with it, and a little tea and sugar she had bought the day before, she stopped at the baker's for a penny roll, and soon reached Alice's hut.

"Now," she said, as she entered the room, “I am going to make you a good strong cup of tea to cheer you before we have a talk."

"Thank you, miss; you're very good," said Alice, "and I do love the tea; but I'd sooner you sang that hymn again than anything. And the strange gentleman you left here likes it too: but he don't sing, miss; he said he wished he could.”

Mary made no reply; she was busy raking together the few cinders in the grate before she put on the kettle. Then, sitting down by the bed, she listened

patiently while Alice told her how badly she had slept the night before, how the cough had "almost choked her, shaking her all over, leaving her no breath at all; and many other details of pain and weariness, the utterance of which seemed to give relief.

"You are indeed sorely tried," Mary said, in a voice of tender sympathy. "I hope you will sleep better to-night, and have less cough. How I wish I could lie awake instead of you!"

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Oh, miss, you don't know what you're wishing when you say that," said Alice. "The night's long without sleep, and it's lonesome lying here in the dark. I keep my eye on the wall beyond, watching for the little thread of light which, in the early morning, comes through the crack at the other side. The light's pleasant, miss; it's company like, and makes up for many a want."

"Indeed it is," replied Mary; "but you said you would like to hear that hymn again. Shall I sing it now? perhaps it would rest you."

"It's sweeter than the first day," said Alice, when it was finished. 66 "I wish it would come back to me to-night, to warm my poor heart."

"Do you? Perhaps it will. 'He giveth songs in the night,'" replied Mary." He, that is, God, you know. He giveth songs in the night,' when earthly voices are silent. And, Alice, I think no one but God himself can give songs, that is, put joyful, happy thoughts into our hearts in the night, when we are sick, or in trouble of any kind. Those

are dark days, you know, like the night to our hearts, and then 'He giveth songs.

"Tell me one of the songs He gives, if you please, miss," said Alice, "and maybe I'll not forget it."

Mary thought for a moment, and said:"Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' That is what the Lord Jesus says to His children. He promises 'rest to the weary and heavy laden '-to you, Alice, if you will have it; and He is sure to perform His promises, even to the uttermost; only believe, and you will find Him faithful and true."

66 Surely," exclaimed Alice, " those are the very words I have been trying to remember. Yes, 'faithful and true;' that was what the strange gentleman you left here said as he was going away, and I kept them in my mind as long as I could, but in the morning they were gone, and I never could catch them since. It's queer, isn't it? how you and he should say the same."

"They are comforting words indeed,-are they not?" replied Mary. “We all know the value of a faithful friend-one whom we can trust."

"And oh the bitterness of the unfaithful!"

groaned Alice. "I know that. God forbid you ever should, miss."

"And your knowing that bitterness, dear Alice,” said Mary, "does it not make Jesus, our blessed Lord, the faithful friend, the only friend who can never fail us, all the more precious to you?”

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Yes, miss, if I only knew for certain He was my friend."

"He is yours at this moment," replied Mary, "if you will have Him. Behold, I stand at the door, and knock,' He says; if any man'-any man, Alice-hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.'

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"Well!" exclaimed Alice, clasping her hands together, "if that isn't wonderful! Why, for the Queen to ask a poor beggar to leave his rags and wretchedness, and live in a palace with her, would be nothing to that!"

"And would the beggar refuse such an invitation ?” asked Mary. "Surely not. Then, why should we? Why should sinners refuse the love so freely offered, why refuse to accept salvation so dearly purchased by the blood of Christ? Oh, Alice, let us both, this moment, say from our hearts :-

'Just as I am-without one plea,

But that Thy blood was shed for me,

And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee,

O Lamb of God, I come!'"

Alice seemed too much exhausted to speak, but Mary thought she heard her repeat the last line in a whisper, "O Lamb of God, I come! "

The kettle boiling over now, startled Mary. "Dear me!" she said, "we have been talking so much that I forgot your tea." It was, however, soon ready, and a good strong cup brought, with a thin slice of bread and butter, to the bedside. Alice

refused the bread; she "could not touch it,” she said, "but the tea did her good." "And now," said Mary, as she took away the cup and smoothed the bedclothes, "I will not stay longer, but leave you with Him who 'giveth songs in the night 'your faithful and true Friend and Saviour."

"The Lord bless you," said Alice, "for the comfort you've been to me this day.”

Do we ask how it was that Mary, who had not been used to visit the poor, knew exactly the right words to say to Alice? We answer-God himself had been her teacher. In her solitary reading and prayer she had long enjoyed communion with God through faith in His Son. When she spoke of the love of Christ to sinners-of His willingness to save the lost, it was but the utterance of her own experience, for she had proved Him such. And, as Alice had said, "words which come from the heart, go straight to it;" when those which are but the expression of head-knowledge, however true they may be, make little or no impression.

Mary Woods, too, was no stranger to the struggle, the fierce conflict, which every believer in Christ knows-"The flesh lusting against the spirit, and the spirit against the flesh." Many such battles had she fought; and though often tempted to despair, she had come off victorious in a strength not her own. And thus she could encourage Alice in the fight, and press home upon her truths of which she had herself felt the power-truths which, when spoken by another, had been powerless. For, until