spring, and his large-old-fashioned sunflowers and marigolds in the summer, besides numerous little seedlings, which only lasted their appointed time of a few months. But if the outside appeared bright, the inside of Nat Cantle's kitchen was far brighter; for there, in front of the window, working at his bench, sat Nat, with that look of peace upon his face which the world can neither give nor take away; whilst his wife Mary bustled about here and there (for she was of a busy nature) making everything as neat, according to her pet expression, "as a new pin." Several cages of canaries hung about in the sunniest parts of the room; for Ned or Edmond Cantle was a canary fancier, and reared a good many for sale. He was a delicate, sickly young man, who could not bear a sedentary mode of life, and had consequently been obliged to give up working at his father's trade, and maintained himself by carrying milk. Polly, the eldest child, had married years before, and lived in Wales. Nat Cantle had long ago given up shoemaking, but he was pretty well employed by his neighbours with shoe-mending, which was all he felt able to do at his time of life. It was a warm sunny morning in the early part of June when we will next introduce Nat to our readers with another visitor, who has come for a little advice. It is not Mrs. Fry, of the previous chapter, but a young lady whom we shall call Miss Day, a great favourite of Nat's.

"Oh, Mr. Cantle," said Miss Day, "I do feel that I cannot go on with this work; it makes me quite sad. If I could only think that some of my poor friends heeded what I said to them, and cared for my visits apart from the little relief I am able to bestow, I should take heart again."

"Bless you, my dear miss, did our precious Lord get much encouragement when he was here upon earth? Didn't he say, himself, that they sought him because of the loaves and fishes ?"

"Oh yes, Nat; but-well, I suppose I am wrong to expect to see fruit.”

Not a bit, miss. You must expect it. They who sow in tears shall reap in joy. May hap not in this world shall they see the reaping, but it's sure-certain sure-as sure as I sit here at this bench talking to you in that chair. Why, 'tis God's seed you are sowing; it cannot die any more than my soul or your soul can die. It's the good seed, the word of God, which is life to us all; and by-and

by you'll hear of it or see it springing up just where you didn't think you had cast a grain. Don't you be letting go your hold of the Christian's anchor, Hope. The tighter you grip that, the nearer you'll be to the blessing. "According to your faith so shall it be unto you;' but there'll be no faith when hope is gone, so don't you be letting go that."

"I will try not to, Mr. Cantle, but to-day I just feel as if I never could go on. Other people seem to do so much, and I seem to do nothing."

"But you do as much as you can, or, at least, you try to, don't you?"

"I do try, Mr. Cantle."

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'Well, then, if you try, that's just the work the Lord has for you to do. Why, if you tell your servant to go and see about such a thing, whatever it might be, and she goes, and she tries with all her heart to do it just as you'd like it to be done, and yet she is not able to do it as she thinks it ought to be done, would you be angry with her ?"

"I hope not. I hope I should tell her that I knew she

had done her best."

"Of course you would. And do you think, my dear young lady, that our heavenly Father is a harder master than you are an earthly mistress? Doesn't he just look into your heart, and cannot he see that you are trying to do his work, and doesn't he know that's what he has set you to do? Don't you be afraid; you sow his seed, and in the right time he'll give his increase. And won't that be a blessed time, whether here below or in heaven above, for you, when you shall see souls set free and rejoicing through the blood of the Lamb, and shall know that you helped to proclaim the knowledge and merits of that precious blood? My dear miss, to think that you have helped one to Jesus will more than recompense you for all the weariness of the road. Your labour shall not be in vain in the Lord.' The Bible says so, and it must come to pass."

Miss Day bent her head, and her eyes were full of tears, but they were tears of gratitude. Nat Cantle had once more helped her on. How often he had done so before was only known to God and her own soul. He was indeed as much an oracle to her as to his poorer neighbours, and however depressed she entered that kitchen, she never left it without hope having once more gained the ascendant. Nat Cantle adorned his religion, he set it forth in its natural

colours, bright and cheering. He showed that God was not a hard taskmaster, but a loving, sympathizing parent, and that if any gloom or sadness hung about believers, it originated with themselves, and did not proceed from Him "with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning," who being Love itself, must necessarily also be the source of happiness. Nat was happy, and he wanted all his fellow Christians to be happy. "And why shouldn't they be?" he would urge. "If you have a good hope for eternity, why carry about a sad countenance with you for time? Why not let your religion commend your Master?" he would contend.

For some minutes silence reigned in the little kitchen, but it was presently broken by Mrs. Cantle's entering the room, saying hurriedly,

"Father, I'm afeard Ned is in for another attack. Oh, miss, I did not see you," she remarked, as she discovered Miss Day sitting in the arm-chair near her husband's bench.

"Never mind me, Mrs. Cantle," said Miss Day. "But what's the matter with Ned?"

"He's up on the bed, and he's been spitting blood again, miss. Oh, my boy! my poor boy!" sobbed the poor mother, breaking down.

To rise from her seat and place the weeper there was but the work of a moment, and then Miss Day united with Nat in trying to console her.

·

"It's the Lord's will, Mary," said Nat, with a faltering voice and troubled face; "he's a great comfort to us, and if he's called afore us 'twill be hard work to part with him; but it won't be for long, lass, our journey can't be much longer before we reach the city which has foundations.' Let us look up to the Lord." And Nat removed a little black skull cap, which he always wore, from his head, and remained some minutes in silent prayer. When the cap was replaced, Miss Day saw indeed that he had looked up, and, looking up by faith, had gained the needful strength; for the troubled expression had vanished from his countenance, and with a steady voice he inquired, Hadn't I better go for the doctor, Mary?"

"No, Nat; we've got some of the last medicine in the house; I gave him a dose as soon as he could swallow, before I came down. My heart misgives me this time 'bout him. Ah, he's a good son, miss," she said, turning to

her visitor; "he never gave me any trouble, he always was so kind and thoughtful like; and my poor master will be dreadful cut up when he's taken."

Nat had left the kitchen and gone up to his son, and Mrs. Cantle felt she could unbosom her secret sorrow to her friend when he was not by.

"He may get better again," said Miss Day, encouragingly.

Mrs. Cantle shook her head, and only replied, "My heart misgives me this time."

But Ned did get better, so far as to be able to come down stairs and go out for a short walk, and occasionally, when his cough was easier, go to a place of worship; but he could no longer carry about the milk, though he hired a girl to do it in the mornings, and his mother went in the afternoons. His young canaries brought him in a few shillings, and he would willingly have sold the old ones, had his parents allowed him, to eke out supplies. But this proposition was always met by Nat with "Let be, Ned; let be, my lad. If 'tis the will of the Lord for us to part with the wee winsome critters, why we must, but we'll bide a bit and see."

And they did bide, and the cages of the "wee winsome critters," as Nat called them, hung against the kitchen walls, and they sung their sweet songs long after Nat and Ned had passed from earth. The aged couple strove hard to make two ends meet, and the Lord blessed their strivings, so that Ned never wanted the food or medicine necessary for his complaint. It was a sore trial at first to Nat when he learned for a certainty that Ned's labours were over, and if he should be spared to outlive him, he would never be able to maintain his aged mother. But Nat took this great care and laid it upon Him that is mighty, and soon was able to think upon it calmly. The summer months passed away, and suddenly, in September, Nat Cantle's strength gave way, and the old man fainted at his bench. They carried him up to his room and put him to bed, feeling that the hour of his departure was at hand. It was the 14th of September, 1852, the day the Duke of Wellington died, when Nat was death stricken. From his bedroom window the church tower was visible, and when Nat recovered consciousness he saw the half-masted flag waving from it.

"Who has been called away, Mary ?" he inquired.

"The Duke of Wellington," replied his wife.

"Commander and servant will soon have done with earth, Mary. God grant the 'blood which cleanseth from all sin' may have blotted out both of ours," was his immediate reply.

Nat lingered on four or five days, gradually getting weaker and weaker, until at times his voice was scarcely audible. A deep sleep was coming on him, from which no earthly voice would soon be able to waken him; and as Miss Day held the aged hand, fast growing cold, within her own young warm one, she yearned to hear the dying testimony of her aged counsellor and friend.

"Shall I speak to him?-May I speak to him?" she inquired of his wife and Ned.

They assented, and bending over him she asked“Nat—Mr. Cantle, do you know me ?"

A slight movement seemed to assure her that he did. "Mr. Cantle-dear old Nat, you are in the valley and shadow of death. Is it peace with you?"

With a strength that they could scarcely believe he possessed, he distinctly replied—

"Young lady-it is-the peace-of God-which-passeth all-under-standing."

They were his last words. Surely Nat Cantle, in helping others to trim their lamps, had not forgotten to trim his own. In less than an hour after he had borne his testimony to the all-sufficiency of grace, he went forth to meet the Bridegroom, and with him entered into rest, and “the door was shut." Reader, was not his lamp burning? How is it with your own? Ned and Mary have both, we trust, joined Nat Cantle in the realms of bliss. Ned died a fortnight after his father, rejoicing in the Lord. Mary sur vived her husband ten years: her last days were days of peace. Her daughter in Wales, and a few members of the church to which she belonged, united together in providing her with a small weekly allowance sufficient for her humble requirements. The old house in which the Cantles lived still stands, and others have filled their vacant places in the rooms; but no one yet has supplied the place of Nat Cantle, the oracle.

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Dear readers, Nat Cantle "being dead yet speaketh" to each of you, Neighbour, whilst helping others to trim their lamps, do not forget to trim your own."