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At the age of seventy-four Mr. Smith began to feel the approaches of sickness, and sent for Mr. Jones, the medical man who had succeeded him in his business. Mr. Jones was one who believed the Scriptures, though he knew not the power of spiritual things, but the Bible was reverenced by him as the Word of God. Many an argument, during the slow progress of his disease, did Mr. Smith hold with his younger attendant. Many a time

did he insist upon the mournful fact, that there was no perfect character among those described as the people of God; forgetting in his blind eagerness against truth that the honest admission of man's infirmity and sin in the Scriptures is an argument in their favour, and not against them. But the disease slowly pursued its course, and Mr. Smith asked his adviser whether there was any hope of his recovery. Mr. Jones felt it is duty to inform the aged infidel that there was no hope.

Oh, dreadful tidings to the unbeliever of every name, and of every class-whether an infidel, or worldly unbeliever, he must soon die, and then the enquiry is forced upon the mind, what comes after death? Then the flimsy veil of the scoffer is rent away, then the unbeliever's conscience admits the reality of that great truth, after death is the judgment. For God does not leave himself without a witness in the soul. Scoffing is a disease which belongs to the days of health. Real disease restores the infidel to his senses. And so it was in the awful case which is here to be recorded.

Mr. Smith, upon this faithful answer of his medical attendant, began to tremble. The opportunity was seized, and the question asked, Shall a clergyman be sent for? The offer was then indignantly refused. Day after day Mr. Jones pressed him with the Word of God, as far as he knew it himself. What a blessing for a medical man to be able to act as the spiritual adviser. What a blessing, when he who attends for the cure of the bodily maladies, can direct the soul to the Great Physician. May my own death-bed be thus attended.

At length, when Mr. Smith drew near his end, the importunities of Mr. Jones prevailed. "You may send for a clergyman, if you think he can do any good," he said, for terror of soul had now taken the place of hardened infidelity. Mr. Jones rushed down stairs, threw himself upon his horse, and galloped to the Vicar of the parish, it was thirty years ago. He was at dinner. Ah, did he know the feeling of our Saviour, "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent me, and to finish his work." The answer was, I will come to-morrow. Mournfully did Mr. Jones turn his horse's head, slowly did he retrace his steps, to the house where the no longer infidel lay. Indeed he was no longer an infidel, for as he lay upon his deathbed, it shook under him, while he trembled for fear of the judgment to come. Not one hope cheered him—not one ray of spiritual sunshine enlightened the deep gloom that had settled upon his soul. He raised his voice in cries of alarm, but not in prayer; he longed for peace, but could not pray for it; he longed for mercy, but could not ask for it. Slowly that night came on, but its hours of darkness brought no rest. The agitation of the soul drove sleep from the eyelids. The terrors of that night were never revealed. The morning dawned, but with the dawning day, the pulse began to fail; but the voice did not fail: his lips were full of expressions of terror. As the day advanced the medical attendant arrived-ascended the

stairs-entered the bed-room-drew aside the curtains of the bed, but his miserable patient was not there. With the last energy of life, he had crept out of his bed, declaring to his alarmed nurse, he could not live there, he was suffering the torments of the damned! but he dragged his dying limbs to the place where Mr. Jones found him, a corner of the room, huddled up in blankets, and shaking in horror, while his stammering lips reiterated the awful cry, "I am damned, I am damned." At length the voice failed, the glazed eye turned up; one convulsive struggle passed, and the spirit appeared before that God who so awfully avenged himself even in this world.

The minister also came, but the infidel was dead! BEACON. The above account was communicated to the writer by the person who is called Mr. Jones, and is an accurate account of the deathbed of his wretched patient.

The Gospel Echo.

Supposed to be suggested by observing an Echo,*
True faith, producing love to God and man,
Say, echo, is not this the gospel plan?
Echo-the gospel plan!

Must I my faith in Jesus constant shew,
By doing good to all, both friend and foe?
Echo-both friend and foe!

When men conspire to hate and treat me ill,
Must I return them good, and love them still?
Echo-love them still.

If they my failings causelessly reveal,
Must I their faults as carefully conceal?
Echo-as carefully conceal.

But if my name and character they tear,
And cruel malice too, too plain appear;
And when I sorrow and affliction know,
They smile, and add unto my cup of woe.
Say, echo, say, in such peculiar case,
Must I continue still to love and bless ?
Echo,-still love and bless.

Why, echo! how is this? thou'rt sure a dove;
Thy voice will leave me nothing else but love.
Echo-nothing else but love.

Amen, with all my heart, then be it so,
And now to practice I'll directly go.
Echo-directly go.

This path be mine, and let who will reject;
My gracious God me surely will protect.
Echo-surely will protect.

Henceforth on him I'll cast my ev'ry care,
And friends and foes embrace them all in prayer.
Echo-embrace them all in prayer.

The above lines were sent to us as found in the Church at Kirkburn, Kircudbright. We suspected they were by George Herbert, but do not find them in his Poems.

THE MERCHANT'S CLERK.
CHAPTER III.

I remained at school till I was about sixteen years
of age.
I believe I should have stopped a year
longer, had not a circumstance occurred which
changed the plan that my mother and my aunt had
agreed upon. No, not agreed upon, for they had
determined only to tell me their wishes, and to let

me decide as to what profession I should follow. They rather wished that I should be educated for the Church, for although I had no prospect of a living, they thought that with a curacy, and the small yet comfortable fortune which my aunt intended to leave between my sister and myself, I should be a happier man, than in any more lucrative business or profession. I would rather have been a soldier or a farmer, but I did not like to disappoint them by saying so; indeed I did not think much on the subject. I knew there was time enough before me, and as they shewed not the least inclination to oppose me, I cared little about the matter. One Saturday afternoon, when I returned home from school, I found a very handsome carriage in the stable yard. It was drawn out from the coachhouse and the coachman was washing the wheels. "Whose carriage is this?" I asked. "My master's, sir," replied the man respectfully, "Thomas Arnold's, Esq." "Who can Thomas Arnold, Esq. be? I thought to myself, for just then I quite forgot I had ever heard my father's rich cousin so named. I was much occupied by the elegantly built carriage, and after I had surveyed it on all sides, I walked to the stable, the door of which was open. "Why, coachman," I cried as I entered, "you seem to bave some fine cattle here!" The coachman hastened towards me, well pleased at my admiration, but saying, as he passed me, “By your leave, young gentleman, I'd warn you not to go too near the tallest of them, that horse in the righthand stall, for he has a vile trick of kicking out at astranger, though in harness he is as quiet as a lamb.” He had scarcely spoken, when the horse verified his words, and lashed out so violently, that he almost broke his halter. I heard a scream behind me, and beheld our house-maid standing on the threshold, dressed out in her best gown and cap.

"Dear me,

master John," she cried," how can you go so near these vicious beasts? I'm sure my mistress would be finely frightened if she could see you. Oh, coachman, I wonder at you!" "You need'nt to be no matter alarmed, Mary, not in the least," he replied, "for I'll take care your young gentleman don't meet with no harm, and I'm sorry you are so tiresome, Mary, though I'm glad to see you at the stables. If you will walk to the left hand, sir, you may see Boxer there, without any danger whatsomever, or stop, sir, I'll lead him out, and you'll see him better."

"Oh, that I'm sure you must not, coachman," said Mary simpering, "you are very civil spoken I'm sure, but dear me, master John, why you must'nt stand dawdling here, Missis and Mr. Arnold are waiting for you in doors, and I did not think you would go first to the stables. I just come to call you; for I thought it was you that slammed the yard door so as you came in. Dear me, master John, you can't go into the parlour that figure, you had better just creep up stairs, and slip on your best clothes in a moment."

I was in the act of just creeping up stairs very quietly, not to let my steps be heard, when the

parlour door opened suddenly, and a loud hearty voice called on me to come down directly. I turned round and saw a tall portly stranger standing at the foot of the stairs-"Come down, John, what are you going up stairs for, we are all here. I wish to see you, boy-Well how do you do, John," said he very kindly, shaking me by the band. "Why cousin," he added, turning to my mother, as we entered the room, "he is as like his father as he can stare. God bless you child!" and he stroked down my head, as if I had been a child, I coloured for I felt I was sixteen. "His father was just such another at his age, a little taller perhaps, eh, Catherine!" turning to my aunt, you remember poor William just such a youth; don't you ?" My aunt did not answer, but walked to the window and coughed, my mother bent her head down over her work, but her eyes filled with tears.

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Mr. Arnold looked at them both in silence, and then sitting down, he began to talk to me, and to ask many questions, turning his attention entirely to me. "What do you mean to make of cousin John, madam ?" he said at length to my mother, "you must be thinking of something, for he will soon be a man." "We have determined on nothing yet," replied my mother, "but my sister and I rather thought of the church." "Nonsense, nonsense, cousin," he cried, interrupting her rather roughly, the church! what to be a poor church mouse all his life! That will never do. You must make your fortune, boy, and not be a poor curate. Come tell me yourself what you wish to be?" I replied, that I did not care-that I did not know. "Now that's but a fool's answer, boy," he replied, "I like a direct answer, for I am sure you both care and know what you wish to be. You have settled it, I dare say, in your own mind, so speak out.”

I had not liked his manner of putting down my mother's opinion, and, therefore, I had not told him my mind. I still hesitated, but my mother said to me, "If you have any particular wish, John, tell it to Mr. Arnold. I confessed that if I were to have my choice. I should prefer to be a soldier.

"God forbid," I heard my aunt say to herself. My mother went on working, but made no remark. Mr. Arnold repeated my words, and added to them the dry little monosyllable, "Hem!" "Hem!" "Why as to that," he continued after a pause in which he pinched his chin with his finger and thumb several times, and looked very thoughtful, "why as to that, perhaps I might manage to get him a cadetship to India-but that is all a chance."

I looked round at my mother, and my aunt, so did Mr. Arnold, we saw but a blank expression on each countenance which shewed very plainly that they felt no very great admiration of any plan for sending me out of the country. My aunt's words soon explained this. · Mr. Arnold," she said with a decided voice and manner, "to tell you the truth, neither my sister nor I would willingly part with that rough-headed boy of ours, nor do I see any great necessity for sending him to India. I hope he wont think of going, and that you will not wish

him to go, though I am sure you are very kind to take an interest in him."

"Not at all kind, Catherine,' replied he rather sharply," I shall not interfere with your wishes or those of your sister.'

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My mother made some little remark, I forget her words, to soften my aunt's blunt speech, and the conversation turned to other subjects. The next

morning Mr. Arnold received a large packet of letters from London, a few of which required immediate replies. After breakfast he called me up to his chamber, and bade me sit down and take a copy of a letter he had been writing. "I am sorry to trouble you, John," he said, "but my answers to these letters must be sent off by return of post, you might as well sit down and help me. First, however, mend my pen, cousin John," he added, as I was beginning to write for him. "Your son writes a fine clear hand, madam," he said when he next saw my mother, "and he makes a very good pen. I'll tell you what I have been thinking of madam. What would you and your sister-in-law say' to my making a merchant of John? I mean, of course, a merchant's clerk? We must all begin as clerks; for trust me, to be a good merchant a man must serve his apprenticeship. I am what they call a rich man, but I began life as a clerk in old Freeman's counting-house. How would you like the thing, John ?" he said, pulling me towards him. "Suppose you were to take your seat in my counting-house. I have no objection to have you for a few weeks on trial, and if we suit one another, you can stay."

My mother did not like to refuse this offer. My aunt thought it too advantageous to be refused. Nothing, however, was determined on that evening; but before breakfast the next day Mr. Arnold had examined me in arithmetic, and looked at my account books, and puzzled me with I know not how many questions. He was pleased to find that I could speak and write French very tolerably.

I arrived in London about three o'clock one afternoon in the month of November, 17-. The stage-coach set me down at the Horse-shoe, in the Borough, and after some little delay I called a hackney coach, directing the coachman to drive to Mr. Arnold's house. He had kindly offered to receive me, being my relation, into his own house for the first few days.

I had never been in London before, and the gloom of a November afternoon in the Borough gave me no very favourable idea of the vast city. The only thing that pleased me was the view of the Thames, which I caught in passing over London bridge. Much confused with the noise and bustle of the crowded streets, through which I had with difficulty passed along, (the coach meeting with long and frequent stoppages), I arrived at last at Mr. Arnold's house in Lane; which

is a small and narrow street leading down to the river Thames. Mr. Arnold's premises formed of themselves a small court, and the entrance to this court was by wide gates, and a wicket door. The

porter, whose lodge was just within the gates, had orders to shew me to the house, and I looked round with amazement at the windows of the counting-house on the opposite side of the court, they were then blazing with lights, it being post-night. A footman, in a plain livery, opened the door into a large well-lighted hall, paved with black and white marble, and then led me up a magnificent staircase of very dark mahogany into a spacious drawing room. "My mistress or some of the young ladies will soon be down, sir," he said, as he stirred up the fire, and left me alone. I turned round to survey the apartment, and, for the moment, thought that another person was in the room. The dim light had deceived me, I had only seen my own figure reflected at full length in an immense pier glass. I walked on tiptoe about the room: every now and then, when I thought I heard some one approaching, sitting down on a chair near the door. I once peeped into a book that lay open on the table, but it was too dark for me to read the title. I just touched one of the strings of a glittering harp which stood in a dark corner of the room, but that one string sounded so loudly that I again stole back quickly to my seat. walking to one of the windows, but in doing so, I tumbled over a low footstool, and fell at my full length on the floor. I now determined to sit still, but no one came, and insensibly I fell fast asleep.

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I was

I was awakened by a scream, which as I opened my eyes and rubbed them with both my hands, turned into a laugh. At first I could scarcely see the young lady that stood before me, for my sight was all dazzled by the light she held in her hand. “I suppose I know who you are now," she said, though you quite startled me when I came into the room. I'm sure mamma does not know you are here, at least they never told me." I now could distinguish her. I saw a young and smiling girl, about fourteen, with eyes and complexion and hair as bright as the dazzling light she carried. "How could you go to sleep behind the door?" she said,

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you are quite tired after your journey, are you not? but I'll go and tell mamma that you are here," and she left me. In a few minutes Mrs. Arnold appeared, and with her my new acquaintance peeping over her shoulder, and laughing, "Why you are still sitting behind the door," she cried, "you must be very cold there." " Pray come to the fire," said Mrs. Arnold, holding out her hand to me, and as soon as I heard the sound of her voice I felt that it was the voice of a friend. She enquired in the kindest manner after my mother and my aunt, and asked me so many questions, to which I could easily reply, that I soon found myself conversing as freely as when at home. Another daughter entered before dinner was announced. She seemed rather quiet and reserved, and her manner was perfectly different from that of her sister, but she was, I soon found, quite as good tempered. On going down to dinner, we found Mr. Arnold in the dining room. "Ha, cousin John, you are come!" he exclaimed, and shook me heartily by the hand.

The first evening of my arrival in London I caught but a glimpse of the counting house. Mr. Arnold rose up as the cloth was removed, and saying it was post-night, passed by a small door at the farther end of the dining-room into the countinghouse. He came back before he had closed the door and called me to follow him. I entered the brilliantly lighted office, and was surprised at the number of clerks, and much abashed, as many of them turned round and stared at me. Mr. Arnold, however, soon sent me back to the ladies. He did not come up stairs till after tea, but when he joined the party, his presence seemed to bring with it new life and spirit to his wife and daughters. Mrs. Arnold laid down her book, the harp was brought out of its dark corner, and the piano-forte opened. The rest of the evening past most pleasantly, and as they bade me good night, with smiles and kind voices, and warm shakes of the hand, I felt that I was very happy.

The next day I rose early, and I must own, I dressed with more than usual care, and stood at the glass some minutes brushing my hair up in the centre, and smoothly down on each side with a wet brush. I hurried over my prayers, for my thoughts were occupied with worldly subjects. I was too well satisfied with myself, as I cast a glance on the dress of my outward man, to think whether my spirit was clothed with christian graces for the day. Full of myself I walked down stairs. The housemaid was sweeping the drawing room as I entered, and, (not seeing me) her whisk broom sent up a cloud of dust into my face. I retreated suddenly and was standing in the passage, brushing off some of the dust with the cuff of my coat, when Mr. Arnold came down stairs in his dressing gown. "Well," he said, "I'm glad to see you are an early riser, cousin John. Come, you may as well go with me into the counting-house, and I will give you something to do." I sat down near my new friend for the first time in the now silent counting-house, he gave me an immensely long letter to copy, and he left me there when he went to finish dressing. As soon as I was left alone and heard only the loud clicking of the clock, I could not resist looking round and surveying the place where so much of my future life would probably be spent. Then I fell into a mood of thoughtfulness, and, alas! Mr. Arnold came back, with a large unfolded newspaper in his hand, to call me up to breakfast, and found me with the pen in my hand, but the ink dry in it, and not another word written. "Why you have forgotten yourself," he said, as he looked over me, "you don't hear me now, and you look as if you were thinking of any thing but that letter before you; but come up to breakfast; you will do better when used to these walls and desks. He led the way to a large and cheerful breakfast room hung round with pictures, chiefly landscapes, of rare beauty and value. The windows opened upon a garden court, in the centre of which a little fountain sent up its playful water. The morning was clear

and the sun shining brightly, and that room seemed to me one of the pleasantest I ever entered, though in so dull a quarter of the immense smoky city. I sat for a few moments alone in the breakfast room, for Mr. Arnold, finding none of the ladies there, rang the bell rather violently, and called with somewhat of a stentorian voice at the foot of the stairs to say that he was waiting breakfast. "Oh, I have been down father," I heard Susan his eldest daughter saying in a playful yet expostulating voice, "you will find the piano-forte open, and my music book upon it. I have, indeed, played a long concerto of Hadyn's, and half of the overture to Sampson."" Nonsense, child," replied her father, "what is the use of having been down, if you are not here when I come to breakfast? You know Susan how often I have said that I will have you ready to make breakfast the instant I enter the room." "Yes, dear papa, I know I'm wrong, but I only went up stairs just to ask Julia if she had seen the key of" "No excuses, Susan, you know I hate excuses, but come in child. Well come and kiss me first, for you have forgotten to kiss me this morning." Susan entered the room with a smiling countenance, “How do you do," she said, holding out one hand to me, as with the other she moved the teapot nearer to the urn. With her quick and delicate fingers she soon prepared breakfast, but I observed that on rising up to take her gloves and handkerchief from the piano forte where she had left them, she stood a moment before the instrument and turned over a page of the music book. I thought she did so to attract her father's attention to the instrument, and to remind him indirectly of what she had said, of the way in which she had employed her time. Mrs. Arnold now entered the room, her husband did not say a word to her but he took out his watch, announced that it was eight minutes after nine, and asked, in rather a solemn tone, why Julia was not down? and when she was coming down? "Susan, my love," said Mrs. Arnold, turning to her daughter, "you had better go up to your sister, and tell her to come down immediately." "No, no," interrupted her father, 'pray don't hurry her-let her take her time--we shall see how long the indolent young lady will be."

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Ten minutes had elapsed before Miss Julia appeared. We heard her running down stairs, and she threw the door wide open as she entered and cried out, "Now pray, father, don't scold me. I know I'm very wrong and very disobedient, and that I dress very slowly, and that I am an old offender," and she kissed her father and her mother, and nodded to me, and said to her sister, "You know I've seen you before, Susan!" Mr. Arnold looked very grave, but he received his kiss with an affectionate smile, and then again he looked grave, and said, as she sat down beside him, "What on earth have you been about, Julia?" She looked at him, but did not speak. "What have you been about, Julia? why don't you answer?" "Because,"

she replied, "I know you do not like excuses, nor do I wish to make them, though, perhaps, I could find a few very good excuses for being so late to day, but an excuse is so like a lie that I would rather be silent, and bear a scolding, than offer what I felt to be a very fair, correct sort of excuse. But really, father, I could not give a very satis factory account of my mornings before breakfast. I am called early enough, but I generally lie thinking about getting up, and hesitating and delaying till I fall asleep again, and on waking with a start, I find Susan half dressed. Then when I do get up I always find that part of my dress needs a string, or is torn, or that Hannah has forgotten some order that I gave her; indeed there is always some hindrance to being dressed in time, and at the time I always blame every one but the right person."

"In

"Yourself you mean," said Mr. Arnold. deed I do, I must own that afterwards I feel that almost every delay proceeds from my own inconsiderate self. I do not know when I shall get free from this terrible habit."

"Nor do I," said he, "till you determine to do so in good earnest. You'll make me angry with you every morning, Julia, I know you will, because you never take the right way to break this vile habit. But do make haste. Why, child, you have not even begun to breakfast yet! You do nothing but talk.-Good bye. I can't wait to talk longer with you. Come, cousin John, we will go to business."

"I hope you have been brought up in regular habits," he continued, as we walked towards the counting-house, for I tell you plainly that you will never do here, no, nor will you get on in life any where else without habits of regularity and order." "Wait a moment," he said, as he pulled open a drawer in his large writing table, "here is the little printed paper that you will do well to study. Learn it by heart, look at it often to see that you don't forget it, and above all put it in practice. It was given me by John Maxwell, one of my religious friends, who got it printed, and I think it came from the lips or the pen of a good man, a clergyman whose preaching he attends. knew nothing of the son, but my father knew his father, old Cecil, of Chiswell Street, and his grandfather before him. However, that is nothing to the question. If you want to rise in the world, be punctual and regular, take time by the forelock, as the old saying is. You'll know the value of this advice when you have learnt to practice it. This is a copy of the paper which Mr. Arnold gave me, I have kept it carefully.

The importance of Punctuality.

I

Method is the very Hinge of Business; and there is no Method without Punctuality. Punctuality is important, because it subserves the Peace and good Temper of a Family: The want of it not only infringes on necessary Duty, but sometimes excludes this Duty. The Calmness of Mind which it produces, is another Advantage of Punctuality: A disorderly Man is always in a hurry; he

has no time to speak to you, because he is going elsewhere; and when he gets there he is too late for his business; or he must hurry away to another before he can finish it. Punctuality gives weight to Character. "Such a man has made an appointment:---then I know he will keep it." And this generates Punctuality in you; for like other Virtues it propagates itself. Servants and Children must be Punctual, where their Leader is so. Appointments, indeed, become Debts. I owe you Punctuality, if I have made an Appointment with you; and have no right to throw away your time, if I do my own.

Mr. Arnold was in the act of putting the paper into my hand when the door of the room opened, and a gentleman appeared, whom he received with much cordiality, "You are the very man I was talking of," he said, "for I was giving one of your printed papers to my young cousin. I think, Maxwell, that you have met his father at this house; poor fellow, he was as gallant an officer, and as honest a man as ever broke a biscuit." "I knew

him well," said the kind man, and held out his hand to me," and I wish to know his son, for the sake of the father. I shall be glad to see you at my house," he said, "and to introduce you to the excellent clergyman whose remarks about punctuality my friend, Mr. Arnold, has given you. Your father has met Mr. Cecil more than once at my house, and he has been with me more than once at St. John's Chapel, where he preaches.

Margaret and Mary, or the Servants' Home and Registry Concluded from page 30.

She proceeded immediately on her arrival at Chester to Egerton Street. The lady to whom her letter of recommendation was addressed chanced to be at "the Home," conversing with the worthy matron of the Institution.

The lady recognized the well known hand-writing of her friend, and when she had perused the letter, she said, this testimonial of young woman, your character is satisfactory, we willingly admit you as a member of our society. The matron laid open the Register-book, explained the conditions of admission, and read the words of the pledge, "Do you hereby engage, God helping you, to give up all unsuitable dressing, attendance at Races, Wakes, or any such amusements, and, above all, to give up Sunday visiting, or receiving visits, or going out on that day, except to a place of worship?" You perceive, said the matron, that if you should be even thrown into a situation where visiting on the Sabbath Day, and such like practices are tolerated, if you should be placed in a family where other servants are kept, and they should all unhappily be in the habit of following these sinful courses, you perceive that even in these trying circumstances you would not join your fellow servants. You must be mild and gentle, but you must be decided in your refusal: do you pledge yourself that you will come out from among them, and be separate? Yes, said Mary, I will engage to conform to all these regulations-My good girl, said the sweet voice of a Lady who was seated at a small writing desk at the further end of the room, methinks I may address you in the words of our Church Catechism, and say, know this, that thou art not able to do these things of

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