write and cypher. In the night-school I tell you of there are no play hours. All there is true, earnest learning, and that learning keeps on all the time; there's no-"

"Ay, but the scholards must be a bit tired! I remembers as how I once heard a gentleman say, talking about learning, 'much of it would make us mad.”

Mr. Grey could have smiled at poor Dick's unconscious allusion to an incident in the history of Paul,1 but resisting the smile as out of place, he simply said—

"The learning at this night-school would never drive anyone to madness; it heals it rather, even the worst sort of madness."

"Sure, then, it must be a right kind o' teaching, that there; and may be, if I weren't so old, I'd take to it, sir."

"Dick Morgan, I repeat, you are not too old for it, nor will you be so long as you have life in your body or understanding in your mind to receive the lessons. Remember, I have warned you that it is dangerous, very dangerous, to leave this learning till to-morrow, a to-morrow that may never come except to find you—yes, you, Dick Morgangone, gone for ever!"

Here old Dick looked uneasily around, and at last glanced out of the window, and the sight of the men going from the cottage, where they had left poor George in his coffin, did not improve his feelings. Mr. Grey kept silent for a moment, and then, wishing to give a brighter thought than that of death to his aged friend, said, with a bright, hopeful smile

"But when the learning is over in this night-school, oh! then, Dick, comes such a glorious day of happiness and joy, as no one who has never been in that school will ever know! And only think of the great honour in store for the scholars. The Master Himself will come in and sit down with those who have learned of Him.2 Oh how those scholars will shout the praises of that Master, and thank God for leading them to that night school, and allowing 2 John xiv. 23.

1 Acts xxvi. 24.

them to learn those lessons which prepared them for sharing in the joy, although they (the lessons) did not give them the least claim to be amongst the happy company of freed and rejoicing learners."

Dick here shook his head again, and repeated, "I be no scholar, never was; and now I be too old, and it's too late."

"Dick Morgan, my friend, I do not like waste of any sort, and if I waste the breath God has given me by speaking too many words, I am wasting one of His best gifts; therefore I will only say once again (on this visit, at any rate) that you are not too old, you are not too late now. A man older than you came some years ago, of his own free will, to this night-school I tell you of, and he became quite an altered man-he seemed quite young again. His age, of course, remained the same, but his heart got so light and bright that, to show his gratitude to his teacher and in hopes of drawing others to come, he, at his own expense, had painted in golden letters round the arched door of the school, a few words of invitation to all who passed by."

Here Dick, who had been a painter and decorator, became very interested, and looking up, said

"Did en, though? That was a pretty notion, and if him as did it were a fair hand at it, no doubt it looked fine and 'tractive enough to make the childers go, as well as them men. May I ask your rev'rence what the lettering were? I takes nat'rally to it, seeing as how I was brought up to the trade, and my father afore me. What was the letters? If they were weather-tight, they ought to be there now."

"They are weather-tight, indeed, Dick! If the whole ocean washed against them they would only shine the brighter."

"And the sun, sir; the sun?" said Dick, almost eagerly; "will they stand that? That's the go."

"A thousand suns at midday heat might beat upon them, but they'd only look like gold that had been tried in the fire, more beautiful than ever."

Dick turned round in his chair, and put his fingers to his head, wondering what kind of "lettering" it could be. Then, in a humbled tone, as though the subject were beyond him, he said

"What was the words, sir?"

"They are these, and you will be far happier in your old age than you were ever, yes, ever were in your youngest and most prosperous days, if you obey the invitation and go to this night-school. Now listen attentively."

And Dick did so, whilst his kind minister said slowly and beseechingly, ""Come unto Me . . . . Take My yoke upon you, and learn of Me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls." Come, Dick, oh come! You will be so welcome, and all the scholars will be so glad to see you, and give you place amongst them."

"Nay, your rev'rence, I'm no 'tradicting of you; but they'd be after laughing when they saw old crippled Morgan come 'obbling in on his stick and crutch."

"Another excuse," thought Mr. Grey; but he was too wise to say so. He therefore merely replied in a firm

voice

2

"No, Dick; laughing at others is strictly forbidden in that school. One of the first lessons taught there is meekness, kindness, and lowliness; and the Master judges of the scholars' love for Him by their obedience to His rules. The chief, or nearly chief, rule is, 'Love one another,' and, to make this commandment binding, He (the Good Master) says, 'If ye love Me, keep My commandments.' 3 By this shall all the other scholars, and not only scholars, but everyone, know you have been in that blessed school where loving your neighbour as yourself is taught. So you may come without fear, Dick, for it would neither be lowly, loving, nor meek to make game of a stranger."

Then Mr. Grey, giving a great sigh of distress, murmured to himself, "Oh, sad! sad! sad! that any should be 1 Matt. xi. 28, 29. 2 John xv. 17. 3 John xiv. 15.

strangers to this school. Oh, sadder, sadder still, that those strangers should be old!"

These words evidently came right up from the depths of his heart, and although they were not meant for Dick's ears, yet they reached those open doors, and made (from their evident feeling) more impression on him than all the former earnest appeals. So much so, that the visitor had scarcely left the cottage than Dick Morgan summoned the handy little maid who, by the kindness of her mother, came in every third hour, or oftener if necessary, to inquire what her "maister" was pleased to want.

C. L.

L

Loss?

oss? ay 'tis unspeakable loss :-but for him 'tis the greatest of gain,

For my darling has gone to his bright summer home,-and has

bidden farewell to all pain.

It is here that the loss is so keen,-it is here that the anguish is

felt;

On the other side Jordan no sorrow is known ;-no tears down the cheek ever melt.

I watched him for many a day,-I hung on each word as it fell, I hid my own grief that I might not give pain,—but my heartache who ever can tell?

Have you watched by the sick bed, dear friend,—of a Christian all mellow and ripe,

Like the corn in the autumn, just waiting the barn,-and the harvesthome song in the night?

Ah me! what the lessons I learned-from the sweetness and gentleness there!

The patience of hope, the calm childlike faith,-and the power of believing in prayer.

How calmly he talked of the end,—and committed us all to His

care

Who has promised the widow to help and befriend,—and her care for her children to share.

"Don't fear for the children," said he,-"the God of their father is theirs,

He will surely take all 'neath His sheltering wing,-for I know He has heard all my prayers:

And, Dolly, don't mourn me as dead, for I'm only gone home, don't you see?

And a very few years, or perhaps months, or days,—and together again we shall be."

For parted we never can be :-he is only gone in at the gate, And I'm left outside in the cold bitter wind-to patiently suffer and wait;

But 'tis not his doings: he longed-to be able to take me in too, For he knew that the world would be dreary and sad,-and life lose its bright sunny hue.

I am not always sure that he tarries--the other side Jordan's blue

wave,

Though his step's never heard in the morning,-and his body I've laid in the grave,

In the gloaming he sometimes seems near me,—and brings me a message of light,

Which strengthens, refreshes, and cheers me, and gives me glad songs in the night.

I want to draw up his old chair,-and put out his slippers all right, I forget for the minute he's absent,—and hidden away from my sight. I expect to hear every moment-his hand on the latch of the door, Or his feet rubbing bright o'er the matside,-for fear he should soil my clean floor.

Then my eyes are suffused in a moment,—and I think of the year and the day

When my darling last bid me "good morrow,"-and went on his errand away;

For many long years I've been waiting, and hoping his dear face

to see,

But the Saviour knows best where I'm wanted,—and the happier our meeting will be.

I try to keep everything ready,—and look forward with joy to my call, For the Saviour has shown me His treasures,—and I know I am welcome to all:

The lamp of this life burns but feebly,—but the other's renewed day by day,

And I thank my dear Lord and my Saviour, -for "Unworthy" is

all I can say.