removed and a better state of things introduced. Before she died she had the satisfaction of knowing that proper homes were erected for the newly-arrived convicts.

She also corresponded much with the Government respecting the treatment of lunatics. In some of her journeys to the prisons of England, and Scotland, she discovered lunatics who had been imprisoned in chains, down in deep, dark, damp dungeons, for years. Not content with inquiring into the condition of prisons and lunatics at home, she went abroad, and visited nearly every European capital on the same errand of mercy. She obtained, not only admission to prisons everywhere, but respectful hearing; while kings and princes vied with each other in honouring her, and carrying out her recommendations.

But her enthusiasm for doing good found vent in other works of mercy and charity. She established libraries for the men of the coast-guard service around the English coasts, wrote works on prison discipline and management; furnished books and tracts to lonely shepherds away on desolate moors; went up and down the kingdom as an accredited minister to the Society of Friends; founded an institution of nursing sisters, and pleaded the cause of those who had no friends before the various members of the Royal Family of England. Yet with it all, she was an anxious, devoted mother to her large family of boys and girls, seeking to train them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. She endured chastisement with humility, for it came to her in many ways. Bereavement, losses in business, crosses of various kinds, and some misrepresentation and persecution from those whom she sought to benefit, also came; but none of these things moved her; having devoted herself and her strength to the cause of humanity, she worked on nobly and selfsacrificingly, until strength failed, and death opened for her the portals of endless glory. Life and labour for her ended almost simultaneously.

Her humility and faith kept pace with her works. She never seemed to be the subject of spiritual pride, but always

counted herself the least in God's kingdom; and this spirit grew in her as she passed down to the gates of death. During 1843 and 1844 it became apparent to all that her work was almost done. Bodily weakness overpowered the willing heart, and she had to hold her work with a loose hand. A letter written by her to one of her brothers about this time explains her state of mind at this juncture :— "There is One only who sees in secret, who knows the conflicts I have to pass through. To Him I commit my body, soul and spirit, and He only knows the depth of my love and earnestness of my prayers for you all. I have the humble trust that He will be my keeper, even unto the end; and when the end comes, through the fulness of His love, and the abundance of His merits, I shall join those who, after having passed through great tribulation, are for ever at rest in Jesus, having washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

Thus believing, thus trusting, she descended the dark valley. Her last words were, "Oh, my dear Lord, help and keep Thy Servant." Unconsciousness ensued, and on Sunday morning, October 12th, 1845, she passed away, to join the nobler worship of the sanctified spirits in the upper and better world. "I was in prison, and ye came unto Me. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these My brethren, ye have done it unto Me."

TH

The Soldier's Prayer.

A BALLAD.

HE whole long day the strife had raged,

With shrieking shell and boom of gun,

And on the field a thousand men

Lay stretched in death at set of sun,

Amid the dying and the dead,
A helpless youth lay wounded sore,
Whose life was ebbing fast away,

Who ne'er should see the sun set more.

E. R. P.

To him amid the twilight gloom,
The vanished years came back again;
He saw once more the farmhouse old,
The moorland field, the yellow grain.

He seemed to hear the mavis' song,
He saw the reapers at their toil;
He heard again his father's voice,
He saw again his mother's smile.

It seemed to him the eventide,
Within that pleasant home which lay
Beside the hazel-margined stream
Upon the hill-side far away.

Once more within the well-known room,
In spirit he was kneeling there,
Where he had knelt a thousand times
To whisper low his evening prayer.

Once more he prayed that simple prayer
Which he had used as boy and man;
The words that childhood knows so well,
For thus the short petition ran:

"Now that I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die ere I awake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take;
And this I ask for Jesus' sake."

His prayer was ended; looking up
He saw beside him where he lay,
A soldier friend, who side by side
Had faced the foe with him that day.

"Ah, Charlie. I am glad you're come, You heard my prayer," he said and smiled; "That is the prayer which long ago My mother taught me when a child.

I've prayed it every night since then
As boy and man, by land and sea;
Although 'tis but an infant's prayer,
It always seemed the best to me.

Now never to be prayed again
After this night, to me the last,
For I shall be with Christ in Heaven,
With Christ in Heaven when it is past."

And thus in faith he fell asleep,
With Christ in glory to awake,
His last petition murmured low,
"And this I ask for Jesus' sake."

Perhaps, my friend, a mother once,
Long years ago, taught you to say,
In simple words from childhood's lips,
Your prayers at close of every day.

You knelt, a child beside her knee,
You whispered your petition there;
Each night before you fell asleep,
You said those words-the children's prayer.

But now that simple prayer you learned
Beside your loving mother's knee
Is never heard at eventide,
As long ago it used to be.

'Twas childish and you left it off;
Ah, friend, but is it not the case,
That doing this as you have done,
No other prayer e'er took its place?

Now prayerless is the morning hour,
Now prayerless is the evening's close,
All prayerless is the working day,
And prayerless too the night's repose.

Oh, is it well you thus should live
This mortal life of toil and care,
And never ask from God on high
The help He promises to prayer?

And is it well that you should wait
Until the hour when death is nigh,
Before, a sinner in your sins,
To God in penitence you cry?

It is not well, they who suppress

Till that dread hour the voice of prayer,
Oft find at last they cannot pray,
Their lips are sealed in their despair.

With sinking hearts they dread that they
Have sinned away their day of grace,
And with their guilt upon their soul
They fear to see their Maker's face.

They will not listen to the word,
That bids them knock at mercy's gate;
But hopeless cry, "Oh, once I might,
But now it is too late, too late."

Oh, run not such a risk, my friend,
Begin to seek your God to-day,
Ere yet despair seize on your soul,
Kneel down in pentitence and pray

Some simple words, like childhood's prayer,
And short, for long it need not be;
But such as this, "For Jesus' sake,
O God be merciful to me;

My Father, I confess my guilt,
O pardon, pardon all my sin;
An outcast at Thy gate I knock,
O Father, Father, take me in.

O wash me in the cleansing blood,
To ine Thy Holy Spirit give;
Speak to me, O my Saviour, speak,
Thy word of power, and bid me live!"

She couldn't make out “Why.”

BY THE REV. B. P. POWER, M.A.,

Author of "The Oiled Feather."

NE sentence will tell you what she could not make out, and also the reason why. And what puzzled her puzzles me, and for the very same reason too. She said: "What does God love me for? I

am a bad un." And, indeed, she was an awful kind of woman, and I don't wonder at her asking the question; for, certainly, no