people gave them names, as if they thought of them as of two guardians of God's house; the one was called Jachin and the other Boaz, names which meant that they were strong and fixed.

Outside the porch was the great court, in which the people might assemble and in which the burnt sacrifices were offered; but the priests and Levites might pass through the porch, and lift the first veil, and then they stood in the Temple itself, "the Holy Place." This, too, was built of scented cedar overlaid with gold, and many jewels were set in the gold; and graven on the walls were holy and beautiful figures. Here stood the great seven-lamped candlestick, which burnt all night long, to show that God was the light of His people.

Here, too, was the shewbread, placed freshly every Sabbath morning, a sign of Him Who is the Bread of Life. Here they burnt sweet incense, and here the Levites chanted David's psalms.

But who might lift that second veil, that veil of blue and purple and crimson, and of fine linen, on which were wrought the figures of cherubim, and which hung at the farther end of the Holy Place?

If any one had asked this question, the answer would have been that no one must lift it except only the High Priest, and he but once a year, when he went in to offer an atonement before God.

This, too, was a parable. By this God would teach the people that the way into His near presence was not yet made plain; they were taught something of how holy and pure He is, so that we by our sins are shut out from Him, and they saw that the way to reach His presence was not yet fully open.

In this manner the Jews were taught to look on beyond the sacrifices offered by their High Priest, in order that when Jesus Christ came they might understand that here was the One Sacrifice for the sins of the whole world.

You remember that at the very moment when Jesus died on the cross the veil of the Temple was rent in twain: this was to show that through the death of Christ a way was now made into the presence of God.

But you must not suppose that the people in

It was a

Solomon's time understood all this. parable, but they did not read its meaning clearly; though perhaps, as they watched the walls rising silently, and saw the plan becoming more and more marked out, some few here and there may have pondered on the meaning of the teaching so plainly set before them. Summers and winters went by, and the work grew near to its end. All the metal-work had been cast in the Jordan valley, where there was plenty of clay for the moulds, and now it had been carried to Jerusalem, and set in its place.

One day there was great shouting and rejoicing, for the top-stone was being set in its place. This was the crown of all the Temple, the head of the corner, the stone which was a parable of Christ, the foundation and the crown of His temple.

It was finished; yet something was wanting before the priests could begin to offer sacrifices there, or the Levites to sing the psalms. They had built the house for God, and now the one thing to be desired was that they should be sure by some sign that God was willing to accept the offering.

Therefore Solomon and all the people thronged round the priests as they carried the ark, the sign of God's presence, into the Temple, and set it in the Holiest Place. And as all the people stood in the court waiting till the priests should come out, behold, a great Cloud filled the whole house.

Every Israelite knew what that Cloud meant ; they knew how the Pillar of Cloud had gone before their fathers in the wilderness, and each said to himself and to his neighbour that God was thus giving a sure sign that He would dwell among them. How glad and thankful they all were; with what full hearts they said "Amen" to the prayer which the king offered, and praised the Lord, singing, "For His mercy endureth for ever."

Then for fourteen days there was great joy and feasting through all the land; everywhere people met together in gladness of heart, and sang and rejoiced and praised God, because they knew that He had given a sure sign that, in spite of all their sins and their disobedience, they were indeed His people.

postulating against the annoyance of such an early dawn as the white light of the moon appeared faintly to suggest.

It was not a tempting night to choose for a ramble through solitary lanes and lonesome fields; and though Bertie, true to his boast, was as brave as most boys, and not afraid of the darkness, he shuddered as he looked out into the dreariness of the night.

Thoughts-self-accusing uncomfortable thoughts, always most busy in the hush and mystery of night, when nothing is able to thrust itself as a shield between a guilty conscience and an offended God --such thoughts now rushed through his mind with overwhelming force.

Why had he allowed his weak love of admiration to lead him into such error? Why had he been tempted into such a fatal network of falsehood and deceit? Why had he, so contrary even to his own interest, persisted in his foolish tale about the loss of the note?

Why, indeed? They were hard questions to answer, even to himself; yet, as he stood thinking, truth took up the answers, and began to tell her unvarnished tale with startling distinctness into his unwilling ears.

Why was it? Partly from his intense fear of ridicule, his old failing in moral courage; partly from a dread of detection and of his mother's displeasure; partly-mostly, indeed-that having once strayed from the safe path of truth and honour, falsehood had become easier to him than truth!

The thought was a sad one for Bertie, but it would not be silenced, and he hid his face in his hands, self-abased and condemned.

Yet his sadness was rather the remorse of wounded self-respect than of sorrow for his sin. There was no true repentance, no thought of instant and full confession to his mother, no humble and earnest prayer for forgiveness and Divine guidance out of the thorny and difficult tangle in which he had lost himself; his only thought was how to regain his footing with the least possible trouble and humiliation. At last he woke out of his reverie with a start.

It was no good to think, he must act. The note must be found, and that to-night. Whether he told his mother about it afterwards, or not, was another matter. If Willie Stevens were beforehand with him in the morning in regaining the paper-as the goodnatured little fellow was as likely as not to be-if it fell into the hands of any one besides himself, he would never hear the last of the ridicule and contempt which the whole village would deservedly pour upon him.

But how was he to get out? His mother would not have finished that vexatious shirt for ever so long; it was too provoking. By the time she had done and the kitchen was empty, the moon would be setting, and besides, it would be later than would be pleasant for his solitary expedition into the fields.

No, he must not trust to that, but contrive some other way, and what that way must be was clear enough.

His window was just above the little wash-house which jutted out into the garden, and he could easily let himself down to it, by tying a cord to the iron frame of the casement, and holding it as a support, whilst he used the strong branches of the rose as a support for his feet. Once on the roof of the shed, there would be no difficulty: it was so sloping he could easily jump from it; he had done so many a time, when his ball had lodged beyond his reach amongst the thick masses of ivy which covered it. It was no good stopping to think how dismal it looked-the sooner he started the sooner he would be back.

He opened the door and listened, to make sure his mother was out of hearing. Yes, he could hear the sharp click of her busy needle, and the little snatches of songs she often hummed to beguile her solitary work. She was not likely to look in at him, even supposing he were not back before she went to bed; it was not her way, as with many mothers, to visit her boy at night, and to ask for God's blessing on his slumbers. So he closed the door again, opened the window softly, dropped down with the aid of the cord, and in less than five minutes was safely landed in the little garden.

How odd everything looked! He had more than once run out in the moonlight, and down the village street on some necessary errand for his mother; but then he had left the cottage door open, and she had set the candle at the uncurtained window, to guide him safely home, though he had laughed to think he wanted a light, when he knew every stick and stone all the way there and back. Now all was darkness in the cottage, and the shadows of the shrubs stood out in startling distinctness.

He walked stealthily through the little lane, climbed the stile, and then crept quietly across the road, and turned into the fields which led to the Manor House. There was a public foot-path across them leading to Enderley; but it was but little frequented, except by the factory hands at certain times of the day. Not a soul was now to be seen; so after a moment's pause to listen, Bertie turned into it, trying manfully to crush the timidity he could not help feeling.

There was a hush in the storm-such a hush as

often comes before a fresh outbreak of strengthand Bertie thought the sudden silence was almost worse than the roar of the wind.

How different it all looked by night! The very trees and stones which had been most familiar to him from his childhood looked changed and unreal in the weird light and shade of the flickering moonbeams. Even the very silence seemed to mock him-it was to the boy's excited fancy as if Nature itself were holding her breath to watch his movements in silent contempt.

The lull was of short continuance; the gale swept forth again with redoubled fury, and Bertie was almost carried off his feet by the sudden gust of wind.

He struggled on bravely, however, and presently arrived within sight of the gnarled old tree which was the object of his walk. Only a hand gate separated him from the field in which it stood, and the boy paused and leaned against the rails, to rest after his battle with the wind.

There was the tree not many paces off! and grim and desolate enough it looked, with its white lightning-struck boughs shining out like long arms in the moonlight. But where was the note? Willie had been right in offering to get it for him. How was he to find it in the shadowy light, without any clue to its position in the branches?

He looked anxiously and eagerly, and as he looked, a wild feeling of terror took possession of him.

How cold and cruel the water looked in the stream below! How easy to lose his footing on the decayed wood, and even to drown without hope of human aid, in the seething flood! This then, was where poor Denny was drowned, the terrible event to which Willie had alluded. He wondered, but-what noise was that? not the wind, surely. Oh, if he were only safely at home again in his warm little bed in the attic !

And now another burst of wind, a groaning, creaking cry-a strange shriek-a mighty crash which made the very earth to tremble-dark forms crowding round him and encircling him— a sharp buffet on the cheek-all this was the work of a moment, and overcome with terror, poor Bertie fell unconscious to the ground.

When he recovered his senses he found himself propped against the trunk of a tree, supported by strong arms, and a friendly face scrutinising him intently.

"Ah, come, that's well!" said a cheery voice; "you'll be all right directly;" and withdrawing his arm, the owner of it plucked a handful of wet grass and pressed it on Bertie's hot brow.

"Well, you had a narrow escape, certainly. I

saw you before the tree fell, and more than half expected to find you killed; but the wind was in your favour, and you only got a bit of a brushing with the twigs. Whatever made a big boy like you faint off like that? there was nothing in a tree falling and a scratch on the cheek with a small bough to frighten you so, I should have thought. You don't look like a coward either, I should have said." "It was not the tree frightened me," faltered the lad, “but—but—I saw a figure—and▬▬”

Come, that's a good joke," interrupted the stranger. "I suppose you saw me. Well, I never laid myself out for being handsome, but I certainly didn't know I was so hideous and gruesome as to frighten any one. Look at me, boy, and tell me whether I am so dreadful !”

Bertie looked up, and saw a tall middle-aged man, with a kindly though rugged face, and keen grey eyes, which were full just now of irrepressible merriment. He was dressed in a kind of loose white overcoat, and appeared to be like a superior working man.

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"But," continued the boy doubtfully, "the figure I saw had a hump on its back. I saw it distinctly." Well, so I had a hump for that matter, though a movable one, and I don't know but that my hump isn't the best part of me." And the man pointed to a large bundle, which he had unloosed from his shoulder, and which now lay beside him. And then, without waiting for any answer or in any way explaining the meaning of this speech

"All I can say is, that I have had many a rough walk across uncommon lonesome places too in my life-places that some wouldn't cross at night if their lives depended on it. And," he continued in a graver tone, and laying his hand on the boy's shoulder, "no one need have much fear in ever such a lonesome place, if they would only remember the words: 'The Lord's eyes are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.""

He uncovered his head reverently as he repeated the words, and afterwards there was a pause, till Bertie, only half convinced, began again. "But there was such a shriek before the tree fell:" "So there was! A large screech owl fled away when the tree began to rock, and a pretty screeching it made too! But have you never heard an owl before? I suppose you aren't so used to being out at night as I am. What brought you into these lonely fields so late? Are you going to Enderley?"

"No," stammered Bertie; "I came-I lost a note this afternoon, and came to look for it," he blurted out, impelled to tell the truth by the man's searching glances bent upon him.

"Well, never mind. I only thought we could go on together if you were going my way;" and with

out waiting to ask whether Bertie had found his note, he said abruptly

"You haven't asked me what was in my hump, or what brings me on the road to Enderley so late. I am what is called a colporteur. I spend my life in walking from one place to another, distributing Bibles, and right proud of my calling I am. You needn't wonder at my not being afraid with such a shield as God's own Word to protect me. I must hurry on now, or I shall have little enough time for rest before I have to meet the factory hands on their way to work. I dare say I may never see you again, for I don't often visit the same place twice, but if you will only remember the text I repeated, and learn to feel its comfort, you and I will not have met for nothing." Bertie looked wistfully in his face, and the man noticing it, paused and added-

"Be sure it was not simple chance, but the hand of Him Who doeth all things well, which brought us together to-night. God often makes use of humble instruments in teaching His greatest lessons, and maybe He has sent you a life-long one by the wind to-day. You have had a narrow escape, boy, from the wind's wild fury, one for which you may well thank God; and if to-night have taught you to realise your Father's presence and protection, and helped you to lean upon Him more trustfully, you will have reason all your life long to bless the wind as God's messenger for the lesson it has taught you."

He grasped the lad's hand heartily, and was gone.

Bertie looked after him sadly and uneasily. To a certain extent the man had drawn his bow at a venture, only guessing what was the weakness of the heart he aimed at ; but how sure had been the shot! The arrow had made its way direct to the boy's heart, and had struck it to the core. How little his kindly adviser knew what other lessons the wind had taught him that day. It seemed, so far, to have brought unmixed sorrow; what would be the end of it?

He turned sorrowfully as his friend was lost in the shadow of the neighbouring wood, and remembering his errand, began to search under and amongst the shattered boughs for some trace of the missing note, but all in vain: great part of the boughs had sunk in the rushing stream, and as night came on rapidly, and the pale light of the moon grew dimmer and dimmer as she sank behind the hills, Bertie was forced to give up, and to decide reluctantly that the object of his search was for ever lost, carried far away by the babbling stream.

Cold, tired, and heart-sick, he retraced his footsteps, and regaining the now perfectly silent cottage, he swung himself up to his window in the same way he had descended, threw off his clothes, and covering his head under the bedclothes, endeavoured to forget his trouble in the blessing of much-needed sleep.

(To be continued.)