many of us, that the love of Jesus means a great deal more than a mere sentiment locked up in one's heart; that it means this as well, that we are to love every one, however poor and wretched, whom He loves and came from heaven to die for. So she went into their hovels with just the same friendly smile and gentle grace with which she visited her other friends in their drawing-rooms; and there was not a poor woman who, when she saw the "kind lady," as they called her, knocking at the door, did not come forward to welcome her heartily, and then rush away to dust a chair, often the only one, and that sometimes defective in the proper number of legs, for the visitor to sit on. "Shure, ma'am," I remember a poor old Irishwoman once saying, "when I look at your sweet face, it makes me think that heaven's not so far off, after all." And indeed in a few years the lady herself had passed away to the Better Land; but there are many still walking on the earth who first, in those days, learnt from her lips the way heavenwards.

Soon she invited a number of the girls to come to her house on Sunday afternoons, where she promised she would teach them to read and tell them the stories, that already they were fond of listening to, of the Lord Jesus Christ. So a number of them came, and, I remember, quite filled the kitchen on the first Sunday. But there was a difficulty. Some were tall and gaunt-looking, others small with wizened faces, but all were inexpressibly black and dirty. What else, poor things, could they be? Working all the week among the coals, the fine dust of which seemed to fill every pore and lodge in the very texture of their clothes, no wonder that the blackness was everywhere. The hymn-books and testaments that were provided would soon be ruined if something were not done. But at the close of the first lesson, all that my mother said was that she would expect them again next Sunday, and that every one must come with clean hands and face.

Next Sunday a surprise awaited the children. My mother had during the week had a number of long white pinafores

made, and amid a good deal of rather noisy merriment each of the girls received one of these, and, the one helping the other to tie the strings behind, it was put on over the black work-a-day garments. And then they sat down, with clean hands and spotlessly white dress, and not an atom of dirt for the future soiled the books, the chairs, or the kitchen floor. Every Sunday afterwards the girls knew that the first thing to be done was to put on the white pinafore; but I am glad to say that in a few years they had grown so industrious, and found, with the help of kind friends, so much better employment than their old one, that there was no longer any need for their meeting to retain its old name of the "Pinafore Class."

Often, as a tiny child, it used to be my delight to sit near the blazing fire in that comfortable old kitchen. Once, I remember, the lesson was on the parable of the “man without the wedding garment," and, long ago as it is, I can retain some memory of the words that the teacher then spoke.

"Wasn't he foolish in not taking that beautiful wedding garment ? You would, wouldn't you?". It is so much more beautiful than anything I can make for you or give you. All that Jesus gives is beautiful, and, think of this, it makes those who wear it beautiful too. Under those white pinafores there are still the old black clothes, just as black as ever, are not they? However clean your faces may be, your hearts, unless Jesus has changed them, are still as stained and black with sin as ever. We can only hide and cover up the ugliness for a little time. Jesus can change it altogether. He can make you white and pure to the very centre of your heart; 'His blood cleanseth from all sin.' So, you see, there is a lesson that you can learn even from those long pinafores you wear. Whenever you look at them, think of the spotless wedding garment, not covering up but altogether cleansing away your sin, that Jesus, your dear Saviour, is waiting and will be so glad to give you."

coating of ice, and the east wind made itself felt in keen, cutting blasts. A few of the more healthy might perhaps enjoy the severity of the weather, and, clad in their thick, warm garments, fearlessly face the biting cold. Not so, however, the poor inhabitants of a crowded East-end district. Many of the men were thrown out of employment by the frost, and their wives and children suffered accordingly. The searching winds quickly discovered the thin places in their scanty clothing, and made its way into their homes through the cracks and chinks in the ill-fitting doors and windows. Coals were difficult to get whilst money was so scarce, and many a cherished article had to be put away" for the sake of the little it would fetch.

Early in the day a lady started out from her home armed with a list of names, and a corresponding number of relief-tickets, the gift of a generous friend of the poor. Quickly she passed from house to house, finding everywhere more or less distress, until at length she stood before a small dwelling in a narrow court. A pleasant, tidy-looking woman appeared at the door in response to her knock.

"Mrs. Fullen, did you say, ma'am? Yes, she lives here; first door up the stairs. But if you'll wait a bit, I'll strike a match, and then you'll see your way. It's black up them steps!" And no wonder they were dark; not a ray of light could reach the staircase except through a long, narrow passage, and only then when the front door stood

open.

But the landing above was safely reached, thanks to the friendly light; and tapping at the door indicated by her good-natured guide, the visitor soon found herself standing within Mrs. Fullen's room. It was a sorry sight that met her gaze. The place itself was very small. One half of the room was occupied by the bed; between that and the fireplace stood a small wooden table and two chairs; no other furniture had been possible; as it was, only squeezing room was left.

But it was the woman herself whose appearance was so miserable. She was kneeling before the grate, coaxing into flame a handful, literally a mere handful, of coals and wood. Her face was pale and drawn, her fingers blue with cold. She rose up as her visitor introduced herself, and apologized for the icy coldness of her room.

"You'll find it chilly, ma'am, but I haven't had no fire till now. My landlady, she brought me up those few coals, and I've been trying to get a bit of heat out of 'em; but its freezing to-day, it is!" and she shivered again.

66 But you don't live here all alone, do you?" asked Mrs. Willis. "You have a husband, I think?"

"Yes, ma'am," she said, "but he's out now trying to get something to do. But it's poor work; it is only a wearing of shoe-leather, as I say sometimes. The truth is, he's

getting too old for work; people like younger men than him. That's how it is we've been so badly off of late. I've never known anything like it afore."

"And have you no friends to help you?"

Tears came into the woman's eyes. "Never one left now, ma'am; they're all dead and buried, or gone away. I've got two sons, but one's a soldier and can't help me, and the other's got a large family of his own, and it's as much as he can do to keep body and soul together. He'd help me if he could, poor fellow, but you see he can't. No, I've got no friends."

"Then I think I have come just at the right time," said Mrs. Willis cheerily, and she explained her errand.

But the unexpected help was more than the poor woman could bear in her present weak state. She broke into sobs and laid her head on the table. "You must excuse me, ma'am," she presently said, "but you don't know how badly off we've been. We hadn't a thing to eat this morning, and I just made my old man and me a cup of tea, and that was all I'd got in the house. And when he'd gone off on his tramp, I sat down and cried like a baby, for I didn't know what was to come of us. And then I wondered if God