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not think many of us in this busy world fully realise the great power that is in us to make lighter the burdens ot our fellow-creatures. I once heard an active, happy wife and mother exclaim, "I am sure I have quite enough troubles of my own, without wanting to hear other people's." The truth was she had fewer troubles than many others—a kind husband, good healthy children, a safe and comfortable income,—and it struck me as she made the remark quoted that it was because she had so few troubles that she was uninterested in the troubles of others. We cannot easily sympathise with what we have never experienced. If we live in the sunshine ourselves, it requires an effort to realise the dreary life that has little or no sunshine in it; if we always have money in our pockets, we cannot understand at all the pinching poverty that has to look twice at every penny spent . I remember once pleading with a well-to-do man to help a brother who had slipped down the ladder of life, overweighted by the cares of a large family. "He is out of health from want of good food," I said. "Rubbish!" was the reply; "he can get a good dinner at a dozen places in the City for a shilling." I could not make this affluent man understand that, to his poorer brother, a shilling spent on his own solitary dinner would have seemed a selfish wickedness, with so many mouths to feed at home on a very scanty income. What sunshine might one brother have let into the home of the other by a little timely kindness. It is well known that there is no class of people so kind to each other as the very poor. They know so well the sorrows of poverty, the pains and weakness of ill-health and poor nourishment, and they know too how cheering are a few sympathetic words; how the tiniest act of kindness seems to lift the weary burden somewhat, and give the tired heart fresh courage to battle with the troubles of life. Friends, whether we are poor or whether we are rich, whether we are amongst the robust or the ailing of the earth, let us learn to look around us for the dark corners of life, upon which we may shed the bright sunshine of sympathy and kindness. So very little makes sunshine in a dark life, that there are none amongst us who cannot give that little H we will. Some hang back out of shyness. They do not like to speak to that timid, nervous stranger, who is evidently afraid to cross the crowded street alone; they hesitate about comforting that little child, who is crying piteously over a hand grazed by a falL They shrink from calling on a bedridden old dame unless they cam take her something more than a few flowers, forgetting that a little cheerful company is to such an one perhaps even a greater boon than money or dainties. We can all give kindly words, if we will conquer our shyness and try; and nothing makes such bright sunshine as kindly words. Some amongst us lose our opportunities because we are suspicious of evil; we pass by that old man who has slipped down in the road, because we think he may be tipsy; we hurry on, refusing to listen to that girl who has lost her way, lest she should be going to ask us for money. It would be well for each one of us if we sometimes asked ourselves before we dropped asleep, "What sunshine have I made to-day for others? or have I kept all the sun for myself?" The habit would soon grow of looking around into the dim corners and shady places as you went about your daily occupations, and trying to illumine them with even a brief ray of the beautiful sunshine of sympathy and kindness, and that ray would be reflected back into your own heart, making it glad with the purest joy we can know on earth, the joy of making others happier.

Ellen Hopkins.

(Bbtning,

NOW the day is sinking down,
All the western sky is red,
Mary is come home from town,
Baby dear, you go to bed!

Ering the towel, soft and white,

Bath and water, now's the time;
Softly sinks the fading light,

Sweetly sounds the evening chime.

Get the little ducks to swim—

Golden ducks in silver boats;
How they glitter, while the dim

Red glory gilds their golden coats!

Half-an-hour—she is asleep,

Down the night comes, starry, clear;

In the Dreamland far and deep
You are wandering, Baby dear! w.

[graphic]

Stfuglrt Ktib Jfrruitir.

?ary, won't you go to church with me this morning?" said John Dixon, one bright summer Sunday.

"No, John; you know I can't. There are the children to see to, and the dinner to cook."

"But, Mary, the children are all away at school, except baby, and we could take her with us, for she always sleeps in a morning; and as to the dinner, it will be all right if you put it in the oven before we start."

"That's all you know about cooking. I believe men are all alike, and think women have nothing to do but go about and enjoy themselves. I can tell you, you'd soon find a difference if I did."

"But"

"Now, John, it's no use saying 'but'; I am not going, and there's an end of it."

And, with an impatient toss of her head, Mary took up a duster and began vigorous work on a table already in a high state of polish.

John turned away with a sigh, knowing well that to argue with Mary, in her present state of mind, would be worse than useless.

Up to a few months before my story begins, John and Mary Dixon had been of the same way of thinking in regard to religious matters; that is to say, they were alike in being utterly indifferent to higher things than the ordinary daily duties of life. Tidy, honest, respectable, fond of each other, and kind to their children, they certainly considered themselves not a little above their neighbours; and as to a life to come, they were too busy in the present to have time to trouble about the future. True, the children were sent to Sundayschool and church, but chiefly for the sake of the peace and quiet their absence afforded; and though Mary and John went sometimes to church on a Sunday evening, it was with no thought of Him they were supposed to be worshipping, but simply because it was a proper and respectable thing to do—that is, when none of many hindrances could be used as an excuse for staying at home.

But, one ^Sunday in early spring, John had been startled and impressed [by a sermon on our need of a Saviour, and as he listened to the preacher, the Holy Spirit opened his eyes to see that his outwardly good life had not been without sin in the sight of God; and such sin as by no effort of his could be done away with.

On the way home, John remarked: "Mary, did you understand how the minister said we were to be saved?"

Very much surprised, Mary answered: "Not I: I never trouble myself to listen; I'm only too glad to sit quiet a bit."

"But, if we are sinners, as he said, don't you think it's time we found out how to be saved?":

"Well, you are foolish: if he said sinners, of course he didn't mean such as you and me."

"I'm not so sure about that: he read a text from the Bible that says there is none righteous, no, not one;x and I don't feel as though I could ever be happy till I find what he said was the real remedy for sin."

"Well, John, of course you must do as you like: but mind, I am not going to be bothered with such nonsense. I am quite content as I am, and I don't believe in a lot of talk." 1 Ps. liii. 3.

But John's anxiety was too great to be set aside even by Mary, on whose judgment he generally relied, and he eagerly sought every opportunity of further instruction. Nor was it long before he was able in simple faith to accept and rejoice in the finished work of a sin-bearing Saviour. Full of joy himself, he was most anxious that Mary should share the same blessed experiences, but from the first she set her face resolutely against what she termed sheer nonsense, and in a quiet way did all she could to throw cold water on John's enthusiasm. Especially did she resent his anxiety to be present at all the services in God's house. Very seldom, indeed, would she accompany him, and.nothing was more likely to upset her usually even temper than any argument or persuasion on the subject. Indeed, after the conversation with which I started, Mary positively refused to go anywhere on Sunday but for a walk, and if John ventured a remonstrance, he was met with some such sneer as, " Oh, you're good enough for us both."

Apart from the question of religion, Mary continued pleasant enough, but she became increasingly bitter at any mention of this most important subject, and seemed determined, by indifference and sneers, to worry John into giving up his new ideas.

But she little knew the power of a living faith, and his very difficulties served to throw John more entirely upon his Saviour's love, and to make him specially careful that no inconsistency on his part should bring discredit to his Lord. His prayers, too, for Mary became increasingly earnest, as he saw her opposition become more decided.

And so matters went on for many months, John growing in all excellence and goodness, and Mary apparently hardening more and more.

But at length came a change. Mary, for the first time in her life, became so seriously ill as to be brought consciously face to face with death, and then indeed she realised that, for all her boasted goodness, she was quite unfit to meet her God; but the memory of her past behaviour to John sealed

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