nevertheless, I can quite understand that a Christian believer, brought very close to the threshold of God's kingdom,-so as almost to hear the voices on the other side the door, and very sincerely desirous to enter His awful presence, under the assured protection of the Redeemer,—may feel a kind of disappointment at being sent back again into this wilderness-world—just as the Israelites were when they were on the very confines of the promised land. But all we have to do in such case is to submit, and to trust; and I think this little hymn very experimentally teaches us our duty." Then, in a very feeling, calming voice, he read :

"It is thy will, my Lord, my God!—
And I, whose feet so lately trod

The margin of the tomb,

Must now retrace my weary way,

And in this land of exile stay,
Far from my heavenly home.

"It is thy will!—And this, to me,
A check to every thought shall be,
Which each might dare rebel.
Those sacred words contain a balm,
Each sad regret to soothe and calm,
Each murmuring thought to quell.

"It is thy will!-And now anew,
Let me my earthly path pursue,

With one determined aim;
To thee to consecrate each power,
To thee to dedicate each hour,

And glorify thy name.

"It is thy will!-I ask no more;

Yet, if I cast toward that bright shore

A longing, tearful eye,

It is because, when landed there,

Sin will no more my heart ensnare,

Nor Satan e'er draw nigh.' *

Do you like it?"

"Oh yes! very much."

"Carry shall copy it for you then. This little volume is my vade mecum. You may always find my Bible in my right pocket, and this in my left. It is rather too dear for the poor, which I regret; but its circulation is already very extensive."

I found that it was the "Invalid's Hymnbook," and that my favourite Sabbath hymn, which I had erroneously attributed to Hugh White, was, as well as this, by Miss Elliott.

*These hymns have been inserted by the kind permission of the publisher of "The Invalid's Hymn-book."

"Will you let me offer you a glass of wine?" said I.

"Thank you, I shall like a glass of wine-andwater and a biscuit very much, if you will have the same."

"I will, then."

I believe it was partly on my account he had it. As we partook of our refreshment, he spoke so pleasantly and interestingly, that I was completely lured away from all my sad thoughts; and, after offering up a short, fervent prayer, which was full of tempered thanksgiving for life, and faith in the life to come, he left me quite composed and cheerful. And here have I been living the happy half-hour over again.

I must just note down something else that he said to me.

"I sometimes hear people," said he, "deplore their living in vain. No one lives in vain who does or bears the will of God. Where there is little or nothing to perform, there may be something to endure. A baby can do nothing, and is only the object of solicitude to others, but I suppose no one with any sense or feeling will say

that babies live in vain. Even if they answer no other purpose, they are highly useful in creating sympathy, watchfulness, and unselfishness in others. A paralyzed person, a person shut up in a dark cell, may, by patient endurance, eminently glorify God. And, as long as He thinks it worth while we should live, we may always find it worth while to fulfil the purposes of living in things however small. Only the bad, the slothful, the selfish, live in vain. We may have our good and evil tempers without speaking a word. We may nourish holy or unholy wishes, contented or discontented dispositions, without stirring from our place. Since trifles make the sum of human things,' even a bit of liquorice given to a servant-girl with an irritable throat, going out in a cutting wind, shall not be in vain.

"No one can say, my dear Mrs. Cheerlove, that that good and great man, Sir Isambard Brunel, lived in vain. Towards the close of his life, however, days of weakness and helplessness supervened, when he was drawn about his son's garden in a Bath chair, on sunshiny mornings. Well, Lady Brunel told me that on those occa

sions he would often bid them bring him one of his favourite blue and white minor convolvuluses, and he would then examine it with his magnifying glass, till he espied the minute black insect which he was sure to find in it, soon or late. 'See here,' he would exclaim, this little creature is so small as scarcely to be discernible, and yet the Almighty has thought it worth while to give it every function requisite for life and happiness.' He did not think it lived in vain."

Harry has had tea with me for the last time, though he does not go to London till the day after to-morrow. We have promised to correspond, which, I saw, pleased him; for, poor boy, he feels very homesick, now that he is actually going, and will be glad of any little glimpse of his family that I can give. I said, "How is it that you, who thought anything better than your monotonous life, are now sorry to leave home?"

"Ah! what can be more monotonous than a solitary lodging will be!" cried Harry.