him. We seldom do or say a foolish or ill-natured thing without being sorry for it afterwards.

Little was said so long as the old house appeared in sight. But very soon afterwards we might all have been heard speaking cheerfully and hopefully of that new home to which we were going.

CHAPTER XXII.

LIFE'S CHANGES.

YEARS passed-years of toil and study, of mental vigour and bodily decay, of triumphs dearly purchased at the expense of health and strength, almost of life itself. The active mind was slowly and surely wearing away the feeble frame, until at last, as Robert Hall says, "I laid so many books on the top of my head that my brains could no longer move." A serious illness followed, and I left college, and came home to be nursed.

How grateful I was for all the little comforts -I thought them luxuries-which we now enjoyed. The strengthening food, the pleasant walks and drives in the open air, our quiet evenings enlivened by my sister's piano or some entertaining volume, even the blessings of light and warmth, were things for which, among my many lessons in the school of adversity, I learned to thank God. "Home," as my

sister Alice expressed it, "was all Sundays now."

My father had become a partner in the firm in which he had so long been only a poor clerk. My dear mother looked at least ten years younger. Alice had grown into a fair, gentle girl, and was not deficient in the accomplishments usually expected from her age and size. She could play and sing well enough to please her own family, and had a tolerable knowledge of languages. Like the rest of us, she had worked hard to make up for lost time. Charley was at school, and promised to be very clever.

I hardly dare trust myself to speak of my eldest brother, William, lest I should be thought to exaggerate his worth and talent; his holy consistency of conduct; his simple and earnest piety; his strong intellect, and his child-like faith. To all of which many others can bear witness as well as myself. At the time of which I write he was preparing for his admission into the ministry.

I found my dear mother still busy and active as of old-only in a different sphere. I think she must have been very useful at that time;

and the more so because I know that she never failed to ask the blessing of God upon her earnest endeavours to do good. My mother had a kindly way of speaking to the poor. It had been truly observed that "wise sayings frequently fall to the ground, but a kind word is never thrown away." I am much inclined to agree with Coleridge in thinking "that advice"-that wholesome and necessary medicine, so easy to administer and so very difficult to take "that advice is like snow: the softer it falls, the longer it dwells upon, and the deeper it sinks into the heart." Very softly did it ever fall from the lips of my dear mother. As a poor woman once observed, "She always seemed to speak right out of her own heart into theirs.” She felt what she said, and they felt it too. Sympathy is the great bond of union in our intercourse with the poor-indeed with all.

"How can I help feeling for them?" she would frequently say to me afterwards, "when I look back upon the past, and remember all its sufferings and privations.'

Complaint was once made to her of the irritable temper of a poor woman she sometimes visited. My mother listened patiently to a

long catalogue of hard speeches, and at its conclusion said gently, "Poor thing! She is, doubtless, sorely tried with her large family, and having so much to do. It is easy enough to be patient and good-tempered when we have nothing to put us out." She remembered her own temptations.

As

My mother called on the poor woman. she ascended the stairs she heard her raised voice speaking in angry tones to the little hindering things about her. Then followed a cry of pain. When she entered the room she saw the woman sitting on the floor with one of the children in her arms, its little face covered with blood. In striking it a slight blow the child had fallen, and cut its forehead against the sharp edge of the fender.

"I would not have hurt her for the world," said the poor mother. "But I am so busy, and they are always getting under my feet in this small, close room."

"There is not much space to be sure," replied my mother, as she assisted in washing away the blood from the child's forehead, which she bound up with her handkerchief. It was but a slight cut after all.