B

ever,

UT, sir," said Tom Nailer to his minister, Mr. Smith, who was urging him to come to Christ now for salvation, and warning him that it might be too late if he put off, and that he might be lost for "but, sir, I beg your pardon, I don't mean to be lost; I've made up my mind to come to Christ, and make all straight with Him before I die; but there's no hurry. I like to take things fair and easy. I've time enough to think about it; I'm not going to die yet a bit. Why, I'm not even sick, let alone dying. There's time enough, and no need to hurry."

"How do you know what time you have?" asked Mr. Smith.

"Why, sir, when a man feels strong and hearty, as I do, he's not likely to die off short."

66 Many a one dies off short, without a moment's notice," answered Mr. Smith; "and for all you know about it, so may you. This present moment is all that belongs to you; the past of your life is gone-you cannot bring even a moment of it back; the future is God's, and He does not promise to give you any of it; but He does give you the present-He does give you now—He is willing to save you now. Will you come ?"

"Why, sir, you take me up so short; I'd like a little more time to think about it."

"But how do you know you'll get it? I suppose you are about forty years old ?"

"A little over it, sir; I'm forty-five."

66

Forty-five years old, and you haven't had time to make up your mind to come to that Saviour who died to save you! Why, even if you live to be an old man, the best part of your life must be over. Does it seem long to look back upon ?"

"Indeed it doesn't, sir. Why, I can remember things that happened five-and-thirty or forty years ago, and it seems like yesterday."

"And if God spares your life one, or five, or twenty years longer, it will seem short to look back upon; but eternity is very long. Think what it would be to be lost for eternityto spend eternity in hell! And yet if you don't come to Christ, every day is bringing you nearer to it. You have a day less in which to come to Him than you had yesterdaya year less than you had last year-and yet you have not come. You make me think of a terrible story I read many years ago."

"What was it, sir ?" asked Tom, glad to escape from Mr. Smith's home words, even for a moment.

"Well," replied Mr. Smith, some two or three hundred years ago, in a town in Italy, Florence or Venice, I believe, a man was convicted of some great crime against the state; but instead of being forthwith led out to execution, as was usual in such cases, his judges sentenced him to be confined in what was called the iron room of the state prison. The man was delighted; and having as he thought escaped with his life, imprisonment seemed but a light punishment. He found the room long, and rather narrow, with three small windows very high up; the only furniture was a bed; and the whole room, floor, walls, ceiling and all seemed to be made of iron. The gaoler who conducted him did not speak a single word, nor even answer a question; and having locked the door on the outside, he went away.

"The day passed, and the prisoner wondered that no food was brought him. He called and shouted in vain ; no answer came-not a sound could be heard. At last he lay down on his bed, and, tired and weary, he fell asleep. When he awoke it was broad daylight, and, to his surprise, he saw a bottle of water and a loaf of coarse bread on the floor. He wished he had not gone to sleep, and thus missed his gaoler's visit; but in reality there was no visit; but in the dead of night a trap-door in the floor was opened and the bread and water put up, and the empty bottle, if left in the same place, taken away, if not, it did not matter. The man did not know this, and tried to stay awake, but in spite of his

efforts fell asleep. The next day, oppressed with the loneliness and silence, he once again called and shouted, but in vain; he then thought he would try to climb the wall and look out to see if by any possibility he could escape. As he looked up, to his surprise he found that the wall came to the middle of the end window. He looked again. Yes-he could only see two windows and a half, and he distinctly remembered having counted three the day he came. All day long he watched, but could perceive no change. The next morning, however, the third window could no longer Then the terrible truth flashed upon him: he was shut up in the room with the movable wall—that wall slowly but surely would come closer and closer, and at length would crush him to death! It was terrible, but it was true. For a whole fortnight he lived, moment by moment (though he could not see it move) the wall coming closer and at last it crushed him to death."

be seen.

"Oh, sir," said Tom, "how awful !"

I

"Awful indeed," said Mr. Smith, "but perfectly true. remember how it haunted me when I first read it; I used even to dream about it. But, Tom, when that wretched man knew that he was indeed in that dreadful room, would he have waited till the wall had come quite close before he cried out for help?"

"I guess not, sir," answered Tom. "Why, the moment he knew it, he'd think he couldn't get out half fast enough."

"And the wall of death is coming nearer and nearer to you," said Mr. Smith, "and yet you are in no haste to escape! That wall has closed on thousands who thought as you do that they had time enough; and they only found out their mistake when it was too late. Tom Nailer, in God's name I invite—I beseech you to come to Christ now! He is able and willing to save you to wash you in His precious blood, which cleanses from all sin. He gives His Holy Spirit to all who ask for Him. Oh! come, come now, or it may be too late, and the terrible wall of death may have crushed you, soul and body, beyond all possibility of escape."

The Keeper of the Vineyards.

T was a close, sultry summer morning-a Sunday morning in July. Scarcely a breath of air seemed to stir, and the sun's rays were burning down with merciless steadiness on the roofs and pavements of the little town of L- It was nearly eleven, the Christ Church bells were sounding for morning service, and the long lines of school children began to pour from the redbrick building close by, and to cross the road to the house of God. Countless varieties of height, and dress, and feature there were among those close ranks of little ones; but the difference between the faces of the various teachers who walked beside their classes was scarcely less striking. The bright, eager, yet trustful expression of hope which beamed. from the eyes of some whose whole heart and soul were interested in the work in which they had just been engaged, contrasted strongly with the dull, listless look of others, to whom the task of teaching was indeed only a task, and a task utterly distasteful to them, undertaken solely from a sense of duty, and to which long habit had only enabled them to submit with passive resignation.

To this latter class belonged the teacher who followed in charge of the youngest class. She was still young herself not more than four-and-twenty, at most; but there was none of the bright hopefulness of youth on her face at present. To Mary Austen, the labour of teaching was indeed a drudgery, wearisome in the extreme; yet the thought of resigning her post had never entered her mind. It was her duty—at least so she imagined; and Mary never shrank from what she considered as a duty, however un pleasant it might be. She had long since become a teacher in the Sunday-school, at her father's desire, without much. inquiry on the part of either as to her fitness or unfitness for the grave responsibility of the work-a responsibility which, indeed, both of them very imperfectly realised.

Teaching, in Mary's view, consisted in hearing her class

repeat texts and hymns, and in an endeavour (often almost hopeless) to impress upon their memories a general outline of Scripture truths. Of a plain direct application of those truths to the heart and conscience of each individual child before her, she had very little idea. A feeble-"We ought to," or, "This should teach us," was the utmost she ever reached. They could read the Bible for themselves-surely that was enough, she would have argued. And it was true they could manage, with much spelling and continual promptings, to stumble through a chapter of the New Testament; but the beneficial effect of such a lesson remained doubtful, the great object of both teacher and pupils being to get through it as quickly as possible. No wonder that the first peal of the church bells for service was hailed as a sound of intense relief both by Mary Austen and her class.

To-day she felt more than usually dispirited. The children had grown restless and fidgety in the hot schoolroom; and although suffering from the same cause herself, she lost patience with them more than once, and wondered exceedingly how Miss Herbert, who sat near her, could possibly look so bright and happy, and why her children listened to her and answered her questions with such eager animation, and without a sign of drowsiness on their faces. Mary had yet to learn the true secret of success in teaching. She felt utterly tired and sick at heart of it all, and the weary look did not pass from her face even in church.

The little ones whispered to each other that "teacher" must be ill, for she did not join once in the singing, and sat during the lessons with her head resting on her hand, only looking up occasionally to reprove some unusually restless or giddy child. She repeated the responses mechanically as usual, but without the least thought as to their meaning; and she gave a deep sigh of relief when the last hymn had been sung and the minister ascended the pulpit, and inwardly determined that, after finding the text for the children near her, she would lean back in her corner, and endeavour, if possible, to shut out all unpleasant thoughts from her mind for the