that she was not heard, until the stewardess passed from one berth to another, whispering, "Hush! the young lady is reading." Then the passengers ceased their crying, and listened until the Psalm was finished.

"Thank you, thank you, miss," was echoed from one part of the cabin to another, when the Psalm was concluded.

"Will you please tell me, dear," called out one old lady, "whereabouts the chapter is ? "

"I never saw such a book," apostrophised the stewardess; "it's calmed them all down like lambs. I'm sure I thank you a thousand times, miss, for obliging me. They all seem amazingly comforted by it."

In an hour or two the gale had subsided, and the ladies having received the assurance that all danger was past, retired once more to their berths, where many of them soon fell asleep. The occupant of number eleven, however, was an exception. She still sat near the table, the Bible open before her, and her whole attention apparently absorbed in its sacred contents.

At length, when all was quiet, the stewardess drew near, and said, in a respectful tone, "I'm glad to see you love that good book, miss."

"Oh, it is precious!" exclaimed the young lady, enthusiastically. "I never felt its power so much as to-night. I'm not very strong," she added, with a heightened colour, "and must confess when you first came to me I was terribly alarmed. But those few words you read calmed me at once. How kind in father to think of me! I wish he could know how quiet I feel.”

"I'll see if I can find him," said the stewardess, rising cheerfully.

66

Oh, I thank you. Tell him I found the gracious promise fulfilled, and now I beg of him to go to sleep."

After she had delivered her message, the stewardess returned, and finding the young lady did not intend to retire, gladly availed herself of the invitation to resume her seat.

"This is my time for reading," she said, drawing a worn Bible from her pocket. "You love the good book, too, I see," remarked the lady, with a smile.

"It's home and family to me, miss. It's company to me night and day. If the wind's blowing a gale, as it did to-night, I feel safe, because I know who holds the waters in his fist. I know, if He wills it, he can speak the waves into a calm. My heart warmed at once to your father, when he sent you

that verse to think of. It always does warm to those who read the good book."

The next morning dawned clear and bright. Within the cabin there was scarcely a trace of the confusion and fright caused by the tempest. Indeed, few remembered it except to joke each other at giving way to alarm.

"I didn't suppose there was any real danger," said one.

"Your screams at the time would lead one to think you did," answered her companion.

"We ought to be thankful to our heavenly Father that we are alive this pleasant morning," remarked the stewardess, who happened to be passing.

"Yes, we ought," exclaimed a sickly. looking lady; "and to the young lady whose reading reminded us where to put our trust."

The second night several of the passengers approached the table in the cabin, and read a few verses from the Bible before they entered their berths.

The stewardess watched her opportunity, and when all was quiet, begged her young friend to read again for the benefit of the whole. Quite a number of voices echoed the wish, when, in a sweet, distinct tone, she read the fourteenth chapter of St. John's Gospel. Not a sound was heard as she then, in an unostentatious manner, kneeled by her chair, while she silently commended her soul to God, and asked his protection for the night.

"Oh, miss," exclaimed the stewardess, coming forward eagerly to help her to un dress; "I am glad you are not ashamed to own Christ. I wish all Christians would be as bold as worldly people are in proclaiming themselves."

THE WIDOW AND HER SILVER SPOONS.

IN the parish of Bathgate, in Linlithgowshire, Scotland, lived a widow woman by the name of Simpson.

In her family resided, in the capacity of servant, one Nancy Campbell, a girl about nineteen, who was suspected of having taken a fancy to Robin, the widow's son, who reciprocated the sentiment. Nothing, however, would soften the heart of the widow as regards a match, till at last the following event occurred, and caused her to give way. About the hay-making time

a distant and comparatively rich_relation was expected to call and take tea that evening, on his way from Linlithgow. It was not often that the superior relative honoured her house with a visit, and Mrs. Simpson, determined that nothing should be wanting to his entertainment, brought out the treasured spoons early in the forenoon, with many injunctions to Nancy touching the care she should take in brightening them up. While this operation was being conducted in the kitchen, in the midst of those uncertain days which vary the northern June, a sudden darkening of the sky announced the approach of heavy rain. The hay was dry and ready for housing. Robin and two farm-men

were busy gathering it in; but the great drops began to fall while a considerable portion yet remained in the field, and, with the instinct of crop preservation, forth rushed the widow, followed by Nancy, leaving the spoons half-cleaned on the kitchen table. In her rapid exit, the girl had forgotten to latch the door. The weasel and the kite were the only depredators known about the moorland farm; but while they were all occupied in the hayfield, who should come that way but Geordy Wilson, one of the parish beggars!

Well, the kitchen door was open, and Geordy stepped in. He banged the settle with his staff, he coughed, he hemmed, he saluted the cat, which sat purring on the window-seat, and at length discovered there was nobody within. Neither meal nor penny was to be expected that day; the rain was growing heavier, some of the hay must be wet, and Mrs. Simpson would return in bad humour. But, two objects powerfully arrested Geordy's attention; one was the broth pot boiling on the fire, and the other the silver spoons scattered on the table. Bending over the former, Geordy took a considerable sniff, gave the ingredients a stir with a pot-stick, and muttered, "Very thin." His proceeding with the latter must remain unmentioned; but, half an hour after, when he was safely ensconced in a farm-house, a mile off, the family were driven within doors by the increasing storm. They found everything as it had been left-the broth on the fire, the cat on the window-seat, the whiting and flannel on the table; but not a spoon was there!

"Where's the spoons cried Mrs. Simpson, to the entire family, who stood

by the fire drying their wet garments. Nobody could tell. Nancy had left them on the table when she ran to the hay. No one had been in the house, they were certain, for nothing was disturbed. The drawer was pulled out, and the empty stocking exhibited. Every shelf, every corner was searched, but to no purpose; the spoons had disappeared, and the state of the farm-house may be imagined. The widow ran through it like one distracted, questioning, scolding, and searching. Robin, Nancy, and the farm-men were dispatched in different directions, as soon as the rain abated, to advertise the neighbours, under the supposition that some strolling beggar or gipsy might have carried off the treasure, and would attempt to dispose of it in the parish. Nobody thought of Geordy Wilson: he had not been espied from the hay-field. Lost, the spoons were, beyond a doubt, and the widow bade fair to lose her senses.

The rich relation came at the appointed time, and had such a tea that he avowed never again to trust himself in the house of his entertainer.

But the search went on; rabbits' holes were looked into for the missing silver, and active boys were bribed to turn out magpies' nests. Wells and barns in the neighbourhood were explored. The criers of the three nearest parishes were employed to proclaim the loss; it was regularly advertised at kirk-gate and market-place; and Mrs. Simpson began to talk of getting a search warrant for the beggar's mealpouch.

Bathgate was alarmed through all its borders, concerning the spoons; but when almost a month wore away, and nothing could be heard of them, the widow's suspicions turned from beggars, barns, and magpies, to light on poor Nancy. She had been cleaning the spoons, and had left the house last; silver could not leave the table without hands. It was true that Nancy had borne an unquestionable character; but such spoons were not to be met with every day, and Mrs. Simpson was determined to have them back in her stocking. After sundry hints of increasing breadth to Robin, who could not help thinking his mother was losing her judgment, she one day plumped the charge, to the utter astonishment and dismay of the poor girl, whose anxiety in the search had been inferior only to her own. Though poor and an orphan, Nancy had some honest pride.

She immediately turned out the contents of her kist (box), unstrung her pocket, in Mrs. Simpson's presence, and ran, with tears in her eyes, to tell the minister.

As was then common to the country parishes of Scotland, difficulties and disputes which might have employed the writers and puzzled the magistrates, were referred to his arbitration, and thus lawsuits and scandal prevented. The minister had heard-as who in Bathgate had not? -of Mrs. Simpson's loss. Like the rest of the parish, he thought it rather strange; but Nancy Campbell was one of the most serious and exemplary girls of his congregation. He could not believe that the charge preferred against her was true; yet the peculiarities of the case demanded investigation. With some difficulty the minister persuaded Nancy to return to her mistress, bearing a message to the effect that he and two of his elders, who happened to reside in the neighbourhood, would come over the following evening, hear what could be said on both sides, and, if possible, clear up the mystery. The widow was well pleased at the minister and his elders coming to inquire after the spoons. She put on her best mutch (that is to say, cap), prepared her best speeches, and enlisted some of the most serious and reliable of her neighbours to assist in the investigation.

Early in the evening of the following day-when the summer sun was wearing low, and the field work was over-they were all assembled in the clean scoured kitchen, the minister, elders, and neighbours, soberly listening to Mrs. Simpson's testimony touching her lost silver, Nancy, Robin, and the farm-men, sitting by till their turn came; when the door, which had been left half-open to admit the breezefor the evening was sultry-was quietly pushed aside, and in slid Geordy Wilson, with his usual accompaniments of staff and wallet.

"There's nae room for ye here, Geor

"Weel, mem," said Geordy, turning to depart, "it's of nae consequence. I only came to speak about your spoons." "Hae you heard o' them?" cried Mrs. Simpson, bouncing from her seat.

"I couldna miss bein' blessed wi' the precious gift o' hearin', and what's better, I saw them," said Geordy.

"Saw them, Geordy? Whar are they? and here's a whole shillin' for ye;" and Mrs. Simpson's purse, or rather an old glove used for that purpose, was instantly produced.

"Weel," said Geordy, "I slipped in ae day, and seein' the siller unguarded, I thought some ill-minded body might covet it, and jist laid it by, I may say, among the leaves o' that Bible, thinkin' you would be sure to see the spoons when you went to read."

Before Geordy had finished his revelation, Nancy Campbell had brought down the proudly-displayed, but never opened Bible, and interspersed between its leaves lay the dozen of long-sought spoons.

The minister of Bathgate could scarcel command his gravity while admonishing Geordy on the trouble and vexation his trick had caused. The assembled neighbours laughed outright when the daft man, pocketing the widow's shilling, which he had clutched in the early part of his discourse, assured them all that he kenned Mrs. Simpson read her Bible so often, that the spoons would be certain to turn up. Geordy got many a basin of broth and many a luncheon of bread and cheese on account of that transaction, with which he amused all the fire-sides of the parish. Mrs. Simpson was struck dumb even from scolding. The discovery put an end to her ostentatious profession, and, it may be hoped, turned her attention more practice.

to

Has the story no moral for you, dear reader?

"WHO GAVE HIMSELF FOR OUR SINS."

WEIGH diligently every word of Paul, and especially mark well this pronoun our; for the effect altogether consisteth in

the well applying of the pronouns which we find very often in the Scriptures, wherein also there is ever some vehemency and power. Thou wilt easily say and believe that Christ the Son of God was given

for the sins of Peter, of Paul, and of other saints, whom we account to have been worthy of this grace; but it is a very hard thing that thou which judgest thyself unworthy of this grace, shouldst from thy heart say and believe that Christ was given for thine invincible, infinite, and horrible sins.

Except thou be found in the number of those that say 66 our sins," that is, which have this doctrine of faith, and teach, hear, learn, love, and believe the same, there is no salvation for thee.

Labour, therefore, diligently, that not only out of the time of temptation, but also in the time and conflict of death, when thy conscience is thoroughly afraid with the remembrance of thy sins past, and [ the devil assaileth thee with great violence, going about to overwhelm thee with heaps, floods, and whole seas of sins, to terrify thee, to draw thee from Christ, and to drive thee to despair-that then, I say, thou mayest be able to say, with sure confidence, Christ the Son of God was given,

not for the righteous and holy, but for the unrighteous and sinners.

Wherefore if thou be a sinner, as indeed we are all, set not Christ down upon the rainbow, as a judge, for so shalt thou be terrified and despair of his mercy, but take hold of his true definition, namely, that Christ the Son of God and of the Virgin, is a person, not that terrifieth, not that afflicteth, not that condemneth us of sin, not that demandeth of us an account for our life evil passed; but hath given himself for our sins, and with one oblation hath put away the "sins of the whole world" (Col. ii. 14), hath fastened them upon the cross, and put them clean out by himself.

Learn this definition diligently, and especially so exercise this pronoun our, that this one syllable being believed may swallow up all thy sins; that is to say, that thou mayest know assuredly that Christ hath taken away the sins, not of certain men only, but also of thee, yea, and of the whole world.-Martin Luther.

A MISSIONARY'S ARGUMENT. WHEN a missionary in India preaches to a mixed crowd of people, he is almost sure to find among them some more acute than their fellows. These will raise objections, and the audience will listen with intense interest to the discussion which ensues. These discussions range over a wide field, and embrace the most trifling as well as the most serious topics. It may help our readers to understand both the nature of the missionary's work, as well as the mode in which he carries it on, if we lay before them the following interesting discussion on the doctrine of the atonement. Mr. Hobbs, one of the missionaries in Jessore, has given us so vivid an account of it, that we will narrate it in his own words. It took place during a recent tour.

At three .p.m., he says, we reached the large village of Sharandee, on the Kalegunga River, and sending Madhob and Mandari into the interior of the village, I took my station near the ghat, and in a few minutes had fifty people pressing around me. Many of them belonged to the higher classes, and paid great attention. They seemed clearly to apprehend the plan of mercy through an

atoning Redeemer, but remarked that they could not receive it, for it seemed such an injustice to punish a great and good person like Jesus for the sins of other people. "I would not do such a thing myself," remarked a young Brahmin, "and God is more intelligent than I am." I proceeded to show him that it was just because God was so much wiser than men, that such a means had been devised, and read to him the language of Paul, "What the eye hath never seen," &c., &c. I endeavoured to show him that the doctrine of substitution, so far from being considered unjust by men, was brought into active exercise in every-day life. He said he could not recollect a case in point. I asked him if he had ever known one person become bail for another, and if it was not a common occurrence for the rajah or zemindar to save the ryot from arrest by paying the expenses connected with his law-suit.

"Oh! yes, sir," he replied, "all that sort of thing is common enough; I have done it myself."

"You have? What, have you too been subjected to such injustice? Why should you smart for the faults of others? Do you

not think that the laws which allow this need a most searching revision ?"

He seemed a little disconcerted, but replied, "I am not aware, sir, that there was any injustice in the matter; what I did, I did of my own accord."

My good friend," said I, "you are putting arguments in my mouth; see how your words apply. You pay the law-suit expenses of some of your ryots to prevent them from being sent to prison; and when I suggest that the law be revised which thus allows such a system to operate, you say there is no injustice in it; what I do, I do voluntarily; the claimant gets his money, and what more can he or any one else wish for? Now listen, Brahmin. When Jesus gave himself for our sins, he did so voluntarily. God wanted not money, but atonement for past transgression, and obedience for the future. This we could not give, but Christ could, and he gave it ; what more can anybody want? Therefore where is the injustice?"

He replied, "Sir, what you say is forcible; but it would never do to apply it to matters of life and death."

I replied, "Your objection has but little force. You admit the principle upon which the atonement of Jesus rests (substitution), but deny its application. Do you not see that anything that is morally just, cannot be unjust, because it is extensively developed ? Suppose you are a kind, merciful man; people would regard you with complacency, would they not?

If you

become very much kinder still, would you expect people to deny that you were kind at all? Surely not. Come, let us examine this matter a little more closely. Do you believe that God hates sin, and that he will punish sinners ? "

"Yes, I believe both."

"Sir, if respect goes, all goes."

"When your boy has acted naughtily, if you knew a way of securing respect without beating him, would you beat him?"

"I scarcely know what to say, sir; I think, perhaps, I might then pull his ears, and let him go."

"Very good, my friend; you are one of the frankest Brahmins I have ever met. Now see what your answers lead to. God is our Father; but more, he is our Governor. He hates wrong-doers, and threatens wrong-doers with punishment. It is necessary for him to punish, for the world is his family; and, as you observed, 'if respect goes, all goes.' He punishes not because he hates, but because punishment is the proper penalty for sin, and because it acts as a warning to others. But he is wiser than men, and what they could never originate is easy work to him. To show his power, his wisdom, his mercy, and his justice, he has devised a means by which he can maintain his respect without heavily chastising his subjects. This is fully revealed to us in the Bible. God's adorable Son obeyed his law for us; and God has kindly consented to regard it as though we had done it ourselves; whilst his unspeakable condescension in becoming man, joined with his disgrace, suffering, and death, exhibit the determination of God to have his commands regarded, much more than if every sinner had suffered the punishment due to his sin. The result is that God is now willing to forgive sinners, and save them from everlasting misery; and all those who believe in and love their great Deliverer meet with no other punishment than a little distress in this present world, which exactly agrees with your remark, ‘I would pull his ears, and let him go.' Now where is the injustice in this? Can you

66 Sir, I scarcely know what answer to give you; you take hold of my words and use them against me. I cannot receive what you say, and yet it seems to be true: I must consider the matter more fully. But, sir, I cannot yet understand how one man could make an atonement for so many millions. Can you make it plain to us,

sir?"

"To be sure I can; listen. You are a Brahmin, are you not?

"Yes, sir, I am; and a Kuleen (highest caste) Brahmin.”

"Now suppose I give you a good beating with my shoe, and afterwards go to that