"It might have been worse," exclaimed the poor woman when my mother said so, thinking to comfort her. "I might have killed her. I get into such terrible passions at times that I scarcely know what I am doing. It never used to be so. I think it must be the trouble and the hard work."

"God never tries us above what we are able to bear," said my mother, "but has graciously promised that as our day, so shall our strength be. You must pray for more grace."

"I have had but little time to pray of late," replied the poor woman, half impatiently. "It is as much as I can do to work hard, and try and keep a roof over our heads."

Prayer never yet hindered work," was the gentle reply. "If when you are much tried and harassed, and feel the most irritable, you would only lift up your heart to God, and say very softly to yourself, Lord, help me!' just those three words-you cannot think how much good it would do you."

"I dare say it might," observed the woman, thoughtfully. "At any rate, I will try the very next time that I feel the fit coming on. Thank you for reminding me."

My mother soon afterwards got some of the children admitted into the infant school; and I have heard her say that, with God's help, the poor mother, after a time, became quite a different person, and was as remarkable for her gentleness and long-suffering as she had formerly been for her impatience and irritability.

Another poor woman in answer to a rebuke, kindly administered, but not by mother-she never rebuked any one-once said in her presence, "I know it was wrong, but I could not help it. I could not help wishing yesterday, as we sat in church, and the cold wind came rushing into the free seats every time the door was opened, that my poor children were better clad. And I almost determined not to bring them again. I am afraid I thought more about these things than the sermon.'

"Do you know that a murmuring spirit is a great sin in the sight of God?" inquired her admonisher.

"Yes, ma'am."

"It must have been very cold where you sat,' said my mother, gently.

"It was, indeed. But I have not told you all, and how I dared to ask in my rebellious heart

why there should be such distinctions as rich and poor in the land.”

My mother turned away her head. Even thus had she questioned once in her despair. She left her friend to deal with the culprit, who appeared to be already sufficiently penitent, and on her way home ordered a certain number of the neatest and warmest little cloaks imaginable, such as might well defy wind and weather, and gladden that poor erring, loving mother's heart.

Had my dear mother never known poverty herself, would she have felt thus tenderly for others? Would she would any of us-have been so thankful for the comforts which we now had, or so mindful of the comforts of others? I believe not. Adversity was the school which prepared us for the proper enjoyment of prosperity.

It was a long time before I was able to return to college. In that quiet interval I learned many useful lessons, which were of service to me all my life afterwards of more real service perhaps than those brilliant acquirements which it had been my great aim to obtain-patience and submission, instead of praise and honour; and to esteem the glory of God far above all

earthly triumphs.

When I did go back at length, it was with a chastened and subdued spirit, conscious not only of its own weakness, but also of its strength. Weak in itself, but strong in Christ; looking beyond the laurel to the palm, and the crown of glory that fadeth not away. It seems wonderful now to look back upon my past life, and see trials, and afflictions, and poverty, and ill-health, all working together for good, according to the gracious promise of a covenant-keeping God.

P

CHAPTER XXIII.

TEACHINGS OF ADVERSITY.

AND now the pleasant task which has beguiled so many hours draws to a close. But little more remains to be told. My brother William became a minister of the gospel. Mr. Martin came to hear him preach his first sermon. He never said how he liked it: he was always a man of few words; but I saw him wipe away the tears once or twice during its delivery. I think that my mother wept too; but if so, it was for joy.

Charley became a medical man, and was esteemed clever in his profession; but he never discovered any radical cure for headache-the more is the pity.

Alice and my mother might still occasionally be seen making shirts and other garments, to be given to the poor. In due time my sister married, and left us, to become the mistress of a happy home of her own. I remember that