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God's Ways not our Ways.

ONDAY morning, by common consent, is deemed the minister's sabbath. Wearied with the labours of the preceding day, he may refresh mind and body by intercourse with his people, and get back something of what he gave out. My Monday mornings, for years, were spent with Colonel Thornton, a venerable Indian officer. He was more than threescore and ten; he had seen much active service, and many a time had his "head been covered in the day of battle." Grey-haired, and with a slight limp in his walk, in consequence of a gunshot wound from which he had never thoroughly recovered; his mild, gentle eye told more of nursery prattlings than of scenes of conflict; but his figure was erect as when he received his first commission.

Every one knew him, and I do not think there was one who did not like him. When he walked out at noon, the children rushing from school would make a noisy group around him, catch hold of his hands, his thick walkingstick, or his faded military cloak. A "big" boy would now and then curiously examine his stick, and try to draw a sword out of it; while a "small" boy, with a more peaceful and innocent instinct, would say, "He never killed anybody, I am sure." It was a sight to see the old colonel amongst this tumultuous gathering of little inquisitors. He would allow them to do what they liked; he would answer all their questions; tell them a story, looking down upon them meanwhile with a loving smile, as if they revived a beautiful and long-forgotten dream. Then, with a military salute, which he returned with perfect grace and dignity, the children would allow him to go on his way to a favourite resort of his at the top of the town, whence he could gain a wide view of some of the noblest scenery that our England possesses. On his way thither, poor people would touch their hats to him; peasants and factory-workers wish him "good day," and receive the most courteous salutation in return.

He was the best known and most heartily beloved man in the whole district.

Few knew, however, the many bitternesses through which he had passed in his journey towards threescore years and ten. More than an ordinary amount of sorrow had been his portion; but instead of souring, it had mellowed and sanctified his spirit. His history, which came out in many Monday-morning conversations, was as follows.

He never knew his mother. To the day of his death he wore a small locket, in which there was a miniature of her and a piece of her glossy black hair; and sometimes, in a meditative mood, he would take it out of his breast, and say, quietly, “I shall know her hereafter, sir; I shall know her hereafter." His father was a gentleman of great wealth, and of greater goodness, and if he had one aim dearer to him than another, it was to see his only child growing up in the fear of God. While he procured the best masters for him, he made his religious training his own special work. His son Alfred's mind, however, was insensible to the kindest parental influences; and it was with the deepest grief that his father saw that while he was distinguished at school and college by gifts of no common order, his heart showed no signs of yielding to the power of Divine truth.

The first great trial was the loss of this good father. The young officer had received his commission, and was about to join his regiment when he was summoned to attend his father's death-bed.

"how sorry

I am

"Alfred, my boy," said the dying man, that you should have to witness this scene of sorrow when your hopes were brightest! but God's ways are not as our ways, my son. Whatever He does is for the best; and what we know not now we shall know hereafter. You never knew your mother; she was one of the best and most loving of wives and mothers. Her last prayer was for you; my last shall be for you." prayer The son, stricken with grief, knelt down and kissed his father's hand, as with tears the dying man commended his

only boy to Him who could save him from the temptations incident to his profession, and make him truly happy and holy.

After some further conversation, Mr. Thornton told Alfred that his property had been safely invested under appropriate guardianship; then lifting his feeble hands he prayed, "May the God of his father and mother be the God of their boy!" These were his last words; and in a few hours he breathed his last.

Some weeks after the funeral, Alfred Thornton, with a saddened spirit, betook himself to his military duties. He took with him a handsome stock of money, but resolved to follow his guardian's advice and to allow his property to accumulate until his marriage. He was never a wild or thoughtless young man, and studiously avoided the vices to which many young officers were addicted. His special danger resulted from a sceptical turn of mind, and the books and society in which he took the greatest delight were those of an infidel character. There was a kind of club formed, in which the wildest opinions were current; and it was with grief that many pious officers saw the mischief these young men were doing in the regiment. Alfred Thornton was one of the boldest "free-thinkers" among them, and by common consent was regarded as their leader.

His regiment had been ordered abroad for three years, at the end of which time it was arranged that he should return to England for his marriage with Frances Arnold, a young lady of considerable personal attractions, but as devoid of piety as himself. During his absence—the last year of it— a great change had taken place in her. She, who had been the delight and pride of fashionable parties, under the influence of a faithful minister's sermon, who happened one Sunday to preach in the church she attended, became convinced of her need of salvation. She felt that there was something higher and better in life than the mere butterfly splendours of fashion and the world. These convictions deepened in intensity as she lay on a sick bed, from which, alas, she

was never destined to rise. She sought and obtained mercy through the merits of Christ, and while Alfred was speeding back to England to claim his affianced bride, she was calmly desiring to depart and to be with Christ.

The last solemn event which the young officer had witnessed upon leaving England was the death of his father; and now, the first thing that met him on his return was the fading away of one whom in a few weeks he had expected would have been his wife.

After a few days, Frances said to him, quietly, "Do not be angry, Alfred; but I could not have married you, even if I had remained as blithe and well as when we first plighted troth to each other."

"Why not?" he asked, in the greatest surprise.

"My mind has undergone a great change-the great change, thank God!" she added, emphatically.

"What do you mean, Frances ?"

'I have a faith in Christ which you would think it weakness to exercise; I have a hope of a heaven in which you cannot believe. Our tastes, aims, and aspirations would be utterly different; we should never be happy; besides, it would be wrong in me."

Alfred Thornton's astonishment at these words can be more readily imagined than described; but, out of pity to the dying girl, he kept his sceptical opinions secret, and made no reply. Not many days had he to watch that dying couch. Calmly as dies a wave upon the shore, the soul of Frances Arnold passed away to the Redeemer's rest. On her last day on earth, she faintly whispered, "Dear Alfred, there is very sad news in store; I have begged them to keep it secret from you till I am gone. Will you grant me a last request ?"

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"Yes!" Poor fellow! any request she made should be immediately granted.

"In this Book," she said, taking her own Bible from beneath her pillow, "I have found the greatest comfort. Accept it, keep it for my sake; read it for your own!" In

the evening of the day on which these words were uttered, her spirit was amongst the redeemed in glory, who had washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

The sad news to which the dying girl had referred proved disastrous enough, although it did not afflict him so deeply as her death. Through the failure of a bank in which by far the greatest amount of his property had been invested, he was, comparatively speaking, a poor man. He had come home to enjoy a handsome fortune, hoping with it and with his bride to enter upon a course of perfect happiness. Now both were lost. He got what he could out of the wreck, and then immediately took his departure for India. He said many times that this was the most memorable journey he ever took in his life. He read the Book which had been placed in his hands under such solemnly affecting circumstances with new eyes and with a softened heart; and it proved a journey from death unto life. He joined his regiment an altered man, and boldly contended for the faith which he had once endeavoured to destroy.

"Ah, sir!" the venerable officer used to say, "how true is the promise, 'What I do thou knowest not now, but shalt know hereafter! I now know what I did not know when I lost my father, my wife that was to be, and nearly all my property. I know that it was in righteousness, and in mercy too, that the gracious Lord afflicted me. By ways that I knew not, He brought me to the knowledge and love of Himself through the merits of His dear Son."

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EACHER! will you come and see mother?" Thus was I accosted, very earnestly, one evening, by a poor girl, at a ragged school I was in the habit of attending.

"Why do you wish me to go to your mother?" I asked.