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extremely haggard. He was so much altered that at first Mr. Morton did not recognise him; but he knew Mr. Morton at once.
"You don't know me, sir," he said.
Mr. Morton scanned him more closely, and then said, at the same time extending his hand, "Why, Wayland, is it you? Sit down."
Wayland took the proffered seat, and then said: "I did not know I was coming to you, sir, or I should scarcely have ventured to come."
"You are thinking of what took place thirteen years ago at Gloucester," said Mr. Morton. "Don't let that trouble you: it is long since I forgave it all."
"Thank you, thank you," said Wayland; "it is far more than I had any right to expect, and far more than I deserve."
"Well now," said Mr. Morton, "tell me what you have been doing since we parted?"
It was a sad story. He had wandered hither and thither; he had crossed and re-crossed the seas; he had passed through great trouble, and he frankly confessed that his life had not been what it should have been. But he really did want to do better, and if he could only get a chance he would try his utmost to do right. Yet he scarcely ventured to hope, after what had passed, that Mr. Morton would do much, if anything, for him.
It was Mr. Morton's habit never to do anything of importance without consideration, when [consideration was possible; so he said to Wayland—
"lam very sorry to hear of all this trouble. Here is a trifle to help you for the present; and if you don't find work before next Monday, come to me again, and I will see what I can do for you."
So saying, he took out his purse and gave Wayland a sovereign.
On inquiry, Mr. Morton found that they had quite as
many men in their employ as they needed; but he resolved, notwithstanding, that if Wayland found nothing elsewhere, he would give him work.
The poor man returned at the time appointed, but he had found no employment. Trade was bad, and masters were sending men away rather than taking fresh ones on.
"Well," Mr. Morton said, "I'll give you a trial."
Wayland was quite overwhelmed, and had no words with which to express his thanks.
Poor fellow! he was of very little use. His reformation had come too late, for the seeds of consumption were sown in his frame. Within six months he was completely laid aside. He lingered long, but Mr. Morton never suffered him to want. He often visited him; and he did not fail, whilst ministering to his bodily necessities, to point him to the " friend of sinners."
"Ah, sir!" the dying sinner said feebly, only the day before his death, grasping the hand of his benefactor, and his cheeks wet with tears; "to think of your showing all this goodness to me!"
He had "heaped coals of fire on his enemy's head."
No one in Mr. Morton's establishment knew from his lips what had taken place aforetime; and for a long time it was taken for granted that he and Wayland must have been early and fast friends. It will be readily imagined how surprised everybody was, when a man who had gone up from Gloucester told them the truth.
%\t gark anir Clmtirg gag.
"Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? Hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God."
The morning dawn was faint and dim,
I. 3 297
The sun rose on a sunless morn,
And thick the mists, and dark and low,
The day beheld the welkin vexed
In drifting seas of darkest clouds
At noon still fiercely raged the blast—
It blew a hurricane; Till sobbed the winds themselves to rest
'Mid deluges of rain.
Full heavily all day it fell.
And 'mid the clouds no rent appeared
Yet men had light to see their path,
And light to ply their wonted task,
The hammer of the smith rings on
Amid the shadowy gloom;
The weaver at his loom.
The work of life went on unchecked,
Though all the day o'er all the land
Until the hour of eventide
Then shone he forth at last as he
The clouds that long had hid his face
Around his setting rolled,
In amethyst and gold.
The portent of a goodly dawn
Upon the coming day,
The shadows flee away.
Thus with a soul that seeks for God,
No sight of Him in dawn or day
Which yet doth love His light and truth,
And longs to see His face;
The gladness of His grace.
But mists of woe are o'er the sky,
The clouds hang like a pall,
And tears of sorrow fall.
No ecstasy of faith is there,
No rapture sweet of love,
No glow in heaven above.
But weariness in waiting long
To hear the Saviour's voice
O weary heart rejoice."
Strange that a soul should so desire
And yet should still be sad; Strange that a heart should love the Lord,
Yet dare not to be glad.
What cause may cloud a spirit thus
That loves the Master well,
What tongue of man can tell?
Some burden of the daily life,
Some trial great and long,
And sorrow with the song.
Some secret pang within the soul
That cannot find relief; Some pain whose cause in darkness lies,
Some hidden spring of grief.
Perhaps some frailty of the frame
Inherited with life,
May fill the heart with strife.
While all through sorrow's darkest hours,
The Saviour's word that soul obeyed—
The Christ it loved, although unseen
Amid the daylight dim,
And followed after Him.
Press on in hope, O weary heart,
Thy longing eyes shall yet behold
Shall see those clouds of trials dirk
That hid the sun on high
Across the sunset sky :—
The promise of a coming day
No cloud shall ever dim;
And live on high with Him.
R. R. THOM.
%n tflir Srjjolar's fwrits.
Jo-day I have been reading one of the sermons of
of John Welch, of Ayr, the son-in-law of Knox.
It is said that few could hear him without tears.
• He was one of those deeply spiritual men to
whom the unseen was the reaL Often all night he continued
in prayer; and every day, in the rude town where he lived,
he used to preach the everlasting Gospel. To my own heart,
and after two hundred years, his words come home with
peace. Many people, he said, are tempted to think that
the sorrow they have to bear are so many proofs that God
has ceased to have for them a kind heart. "But think ye
not," he says, " that this was not a sore temptation to Lazarus