perhaps better translation is, "this very end." If we turn to the context we find that the apostle is speaking with reference to his hope of a heavenly life. It is to prepare us for a heavenly life that God is continually working upon us. Now here perhaps it may be important to make a distinction that has not been made in the previous remarks. In what has been already said, all the references have been made as general as possible; and that in order to indicate the belief-which to my mind it were blasphemy to contradict-that God our Father works upon all men-that the calls of His providence are made to the sinner as well as to the saint-that the offers of His love are made to those who do not, as well as to those who do, accept them. In this passage, however, it is plain that the apostle is speaking only of those who are already saved. They are those who "in this tabernacle do groan, being burdened:" they are those who "walk by faith" in the Saviour: they are those to whom has been given "the earnest of the Spirit." The statement of the apostle is, that upon these God works, by elevating them of course to a better life here, with the view always to their preparation for the heavenly life hereafter. Now let us divide these thoughts. Let us look first how God works for the production in His children of a better life here. It is not needful to speak of the necessity there is for this work to be done. There is not one of us who does not feel, painfully, how imperfect he is now that the work of God was by no means accomplished in him when he repented and believed-that his thoughts are still low and degraded, his affections still fickle and cold, his aims and his aspirations far too much limited to the things of time and sense. Now the teaching of the Bible is, that all God's working is intended to perfect us in all these respects. Already, by the blood of Christ, we are saved: by God's Spirit, working through His providence and in His word, by that Spirit we are to be sanctified. Now, all that working of which we are thinking to-day, has this end in view. It has secured this end, more or less completely, in all God's redeemed ones. There are thousands upon thousands with us now,-in our cottages and our kitchens, in our warehouses and our workshops, in the world outside and in the house of worship,-upon whom God has wrought wondrously: there is "a great multitude whom no man can number, of all nations and kindreds and peoples and tongues," upon whom His working has been completed, and who have been handed up to adorn and beautify the higher temple. Nor is it wonderful that in the case of so many the object should have been attained. The processes and the means are worthy of the purposes to which they are adapted. The thought of a good man sometimes is, that when he is saved it were better perhaps for him to be translated at once to heaven-that the time between his salvation and his glorification is time, for him at least, utterly wasted and lostand that when he on his part has uttered from his heart the words of penitence and faith and love, the loving Father might at once respond by calling His child into His immediate presence. But such a thought, if it be ever the thought of any of us, is in opposition to the prayer of our Lord, "I pray not that Thou wouldest take them out of the world:" it overlooks, too, the principle that an immediate removal would be a removal from those circumstances and that discipline which are meant to prepare us for the higher life. If any one might have prayed for the immediate removal of His disciples, one would think it was our blessed Lord Himself. When He prayed the prayer that has been so often quoted, it was when He had just made the solemn announcement, "Little children, I am with you yet a little while." That night, almost for the last time in this world, He had His followers around Him. They were all who had ever listened to His voice-all who had ever responded to His words of love and tenderness. A few days, and they would meet again, but He, their Lord and Master would have departed. What would become of them when He was gone? How would they bear the buffetings and the beatings of the world that hated Him and them? How must He have longed, at that moment, that they might be taken at once to be with Him where He was going, and at once to behold His glory! You have seen, perhaps, a mother dying, and gathering her troop of little ones to her bedside, her only sorrow being that she must leave them behind her, with no mother's heart henceforth to beat for them, and no mother's hand to protect and defend them, and no mother's arm to embrace them under the overshadowing wing of love :-just such, one thinks, must have been the feeling of our Lord. But no! "I pray not that Thou wouldest take them out of the world." Notwithstanding that they must be exposed to the world's hatred-notwithstanding that they must endure the world's scorn and contempt-notwithstanding that their course was to be one of persecution and suffering, in the case of many of them to end in a violent death-and notwithstanding that the Lord knew all this "I pray not that Thou wouldest take them out of the world.” Ah! my brethren, the Master knew that the world needed His disciples; He knew also, perchance, that His disciples needed the world. There were great things yet for them to do for their Lord: there were great things yet for the Lord, by His Spirit, to do also for them. I do not think that John was the same man, as he sat that day sadly at his Master's feet, as he was when afterwards he was in the isle that is called Patmos, for the word of God and for the testimony of Jesus. I do not think that Peter was the same man when he denied his Master thrice, though he did go out and weep bitterly, as he was when, in his old age, he confessed that Master by crucifixion at Rome. For during all these years-doubt it not, my brethren-God was working upon them. Under that process, Peter became brave, and the loving disciple became still more loving; Thomas surely lost his scepticism before he manifested a martyr's faith; and James and John cast away their vain ambitions before they drank of the Lord's cup and were baptized with the baptism that He had been baptized with. They, like their Master, became perfect through sufferings. They learnt to glory in tribulation also. As they all stand together before their Lord to day, listening with rapture to the same loving voice that once spoke to them by the brook Kedron, can we doubt that they thank Him for those years of trial, during which He was working upon them? And we ourselves, though we still remain in the battle, have we not cause for a similar thankfulness? What should we be now, but for God's working upon us in the days that are past? What hope should we have of the perfection we aspire after, but for the promise of His working in the days that are to come? If we are indeed God's children, we are already the better for our Father's discipline: if we are not the better for His discipline, we have reason to doubt whether we are His at all. But can we not join together to-day, in the words of praise for God's working and its results? Can we not say, “ Before I was afflicted I went astray; but now have I kept Thy word"? Can we not say, It is good for me that I have been afflicted, that I might learn Thy statutes "? There is no greater blessing on earth than sanctified affliction. Affliction that makes us better and holier, is God's best gift to man. To make us thus better, and thus holier, is the purpose of every affliction that comes to us; and if an affliction comes, and passes away, without our being the better and the holier for it, we have cast away one of God's greatest gifts, and refused one of His choicest mercies. Oh, how grand, and how noble, does this thought make these lives of ours! How poor they are, as mere lives of years, spent purely in the petty pursuits of mortal toil and ambition! How grand they are, as years of training and discipline, meant to make us better and holier, and more Christlike and more Godlike, more worthy of Him we serve, and by whose name we profess to call ourselves! I must not close without a brief reference to the ultimate purpose of God's working. If we are wrought for a better life here, if here we are perfected by our Father's discipline,-it is always with a view to that IMMORTAL LIFE which He has graciously promised. There is a time coming to us all-how rapidly comes it nearer and nearer !—when the groaning and the burden of the tabernacle will be over, and when faith shall be lost in sight, and when this poor mortality shall be swallowed up of an immortal life. A few more strokes from the allloving hand, yet a little more of our Father's working, and we shall be declared worthy, through infinite grace, to take our place in the upper temple. Oh, brethren, it will be found then, that God's working has not been in vain. It will be found that He was kindest when He seemed most unkind, most tender when He seemed most terrible. The gem will be the brighter for the Great Polisher's hand, the gold will be the purer for the Great Refiner's fire; and if the one should be fitted to adorn His crown, and if in the other He should recognise an image of Himself, how thankfully shall we acknowledge His love, and bless Him for ever for His gracious operations! Forand let it comfort us in the strife-that which we get by God's working, that and that alone will be ours always. There is no acquisition of goodness which by His working we obtain, which is not a permanent and eternal possession. All other possessions will fade and die away. The learning we gain will be forgotten with ourselves. The riches we hoard will be handed to our successors. The honours we get will help at best to decorate our tombstones. It is only goodness that is immortal. That only will survive, when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality! BURT'S MONITORS. FOR THE YOUNG. THERE was no use in talking.. Burt was determined to go. He wouldn't ask his father, for he was very sure his father would say, No. He didn't quite like to disobey a positive command, so he would say nothing at all about the matter. Burt was thirteen years old, and it was high time that he began to exercise his own judgment—at least, where his own affairs were concerned. He should like to know what harm his going down to the river for a quiet moonlight swim could possibly do to anybody. He would try it, at all events. Ned Sellars would be there, and Frank Peters. They didn't seem to care whether their parents liked it or not. Burt couldn't feel so, exactly; but still, where was the sense in a boy's going to his father every time he turned round.、 He was going. He had fully made up his mind to that. He went up to bed at the usual time, however; but his mother, coming into his little bedroom about half an hour afterward, was surprised to find him almost hidden by blanket and quilt, though it was a warm night in August. Why, Burt, you'll smother. Do let me pull off some of these clothes." But Burt held them tightly down. "I ain't cold, mother. I mean, I ain't away. "I don't know what you're made of, Burt." "And jacket and pants and stockings and shoes," thought Burt, as he snapped his fingers very softly under the weight of bedclothes. The beautiful moon looked in at the little window. There had been times when Burt, gazing at her pure pale face, had marvelled that any boy could have the heart to do wrong when her soft light was shining on him; but to-night she seemed to say: "Come on, come on; I tell no tales. The night indoors is warm and stifling. The river is cool and clear. My beams are there before you. Come on, come on!" It seemed as if the hours had never lagged so heavily. Eleven o'clock was the time agreed upon. Twice Burt found himself napping. Supposing he should go to sleep. The idea was not to be entertained for a moment. He sat up in the bed and listened, listened, listened, until at length the welcome strokes greeted his ear. He was tired and sleepy and stupid and very warm. He opened his door softly and went downstairs. He dared not unlock the front door, for grandpa's room was just across the hall, and grandpa always slept with one eye open. He crept through the kitchen, and found himself in the shed. Was ever anything more fortunate? The outer door was open. He took his hat from the nail, and just then a plaintive" mew " greeted his ear. "Hush! Be still, Cuff," said he in a whisper. But Cuff wouldn't be still. She was very glad to see him, and, being a demonstrative little pussy, was determined to tell him so. "Mew, Me-aw," cried Billy, the mocking-bird, from his cage above. "Dear me," thought Burt, they'll wake father up, as sure as the world." But it was not an unusual occurrence for Billy to sing in the night. Indeed, his midnight music_was sometimes overpowering. Burt stood very still for a moment, but could hear no one stirring. He walked on a few steps. Cuff purring loudly and rubbing her soft grey sides against him, in the exuberance of her affection. Prince knew his young master's voice, and, like Cuff, was delighted to be near him. He gave expression to his feelings in a succession of loud, quick barks. 66 Plague take it all!" thought Burt, impatiently, not daring to speak or move. "Hadn't you better go down, John?" asked Burt's mother anxiously. "I'm afraid some one is trying to get in.” "They can't get farther than the shed," was the careless reply. "I left that open." And in a few moments all was quiet again. Prince lay down at Burt's feet, and Cuff stretched herself out beside him. If he could only have administered to each of them a sleeping-powder or a mild dose of chloroform then and there! Time was passing. The boys would surely be there before him. Very carefully he crept toward the door, hardly daring to breathe, in his anxiety. But Prince had not been asleep. No, indeed! He started up at the first sound of his master's footsteps. It was very evident that something unusual was going on, and he was determined to be "in it." "I must cut as fast as I can," said Burt to himself. "Hit or miss. There's nothing else for me to do." He was preparing to suit the action to the word, when "Snow," the old family horse, who for a few days past had been allowed to wander about among the clover fields at her own sweet will, put her white nose just inside the door and gave a loud and fiercely-prolonged neigh. Hang it!" muttered Burt, between his teeth. "I shall expect to see some of the cows next. I don't care if all the animals on the place come. I'm going." 66 He was walking defiantly from the door, when he heard his mother's voice at her window. "I never can sleep, John, with a horse crying around. I wish you'd go down and see what the trouble is. And do lock the shed door. I haven't slept five minutes to night." What was Burt to do now? To go forward in the moonlight, with his mother watching from above, would be madness indeed. To remain in the shed, to be discovered by his father, seemed equally impolitic. He had very little time to think about the matter, for at that moment he heard the well-known footsteps on the stairs. He darted over to the shed-closet, pulled the door to, and tremblingly awaited the result. And the result was that, after standing painfully still for about ten minutes, during which Prince's significant sniffs and growls had thrice driven him to the very verge of disclosure, he was left unmolested in the dark old closet. He opened the door; but the shed seemed darker yet. No loving cat or friendly dog were there to cheer or to betray. Nothing but thick, black darkness. Was it possible that the moon was still shining outside? He wondered |