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heaven with such mocking ridicule, and how unkind to their dear Lord who had given them such a beautiful example of godly reverence and love. Several of the boys looked penitent, but Tom laid down his head on his hands and sobbed aloud. This tender conscience of his invariably shewed itself when any direct appeal was made to try and persuade them to be gentle, and yet brave with the Christian boldness of young soldiers in the Lord's service. Tom's parents were hard working people, and at that time Bibles were not by any means cheap; so, as he had only a small New Testament, gave him a Bible as a reward for his regularity and attention. Soon after this the Esplin family left the parish, and only now and then did I remember my blue-eyed friend, Tom, who had so often looked at me in the quiet country church, and quietly 'said his verses' in the class.

Fully ten years after, I heard very unexpectedly of my favourite scholar. He had gone to a large seaport town as a carpenter: and, after a neglected cold, he began to show signs of consumption. He worked on-poor fellow-long after he ought to have had rest and medical care; so by the time that he was compelled, by his distressing cough and pain, to remain in his humble lodging, the doctor plainly said to him, 'there is no hope.' Then Tom begged to be taken to the infirmary, for he had no home. His mother had died soon after she went to live in town; and, the father soon marrying again, the family became scattered. A benevolent gentleman, who used to go and read to the Infirmary patients, found Tom the day after he was taken there. The nurse introduced him as 'a fine lad and a good listener.'

When Mr M- expressed sympathy for the sufferer, he was much pleased by the polite and cheerful thanks of the young man; who, apparently, was near the 'Happy Land.' On offering to read a few verses of a psalm, if he wished, Tom said:

'O, I like the bonny psalms, an winder I can mind sae mony o' them I learned lang syne. You'll get my Bible below my

pillow, sir; if you're to read to me.' Mr M- took the book, and on opening it said,

6 You are Tom Esplin, and I see you got this Bible from Mrs. K-, as a prize when you were a boy.'

'Aye, that I did. Do you ken her? If she only knew hoo the things she explained at that time a' come back to me lyin' here, tho' I forgot a' about them at the time!'

Then Mr M explained that the lady was his married sister: and he knew how it would rejoice her to know that the little Bible she had given him had lain beside his pillow, and brought comfort to his heart in the quiet infirmary ward.

Months after, I met my brother, who told me of the unexpected meeting, and gave me Tom's message. It was very precious; for by that time the poor lad was at rest, and had been laid in his lonely grave in the church-yard by the sea.

Thirty years have passed since then, but when the minister's class meets in the old country church, and I see the earnest brown faced lads, I look back and remember the boy who used to sit there, and liked the bonny psalms.'

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M. E.

A YOUNG man, dying in a tent, sent

for a Christian friend, and told him he had been very wicked; he could not die so, his parents were Christians.' Said he, I have read and prayed a great deal. The great, great question is, what shall I do to be saved? I cannot get hold of it.'

'All you have to do is to believe. Just trust all to Jesus.'

'Is that all?'

Yes; can you do that?'

Waiting a moment he answered, 'Yes, I

can.'

Soon his confidence in Christ became very strong, and at last he said, 'Yes, if I had a thousand souls, I could trust them all to Jesus;' and he sank away and died.

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THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

world; and how, at last, his little boat was blown into the windy bay, driven deep into some cove of sand which lay among the rocks; and how the weary monk was glad, and how he thought he would rest here, and how he buried the Apostle Andrew's bones on the lonely sea-shore.

St. Regulus, or St. Rule, was the name of the monk. To-day we climbed the old Saxon tower which still bears his name. For he lived here all the rest of his life, and here he died and was buried.

You see St. Andrews was a stormy bay, even then as now; unsafe for little ships, which kept far off it when they could.

Two nights ago the storm was wild. We heard it shrieking through the little city, shrieking along the shore. For the waves of the German Ocean were breaking, with fierce fight, on the old brave battered cliffs, and drifting in long clouds of foam along the moaning sand.

The poor ships!' said little Lucy Home. She is a fair-haired little child with a wondrously sweet voice. Her eyes have a kind of music in them-soft, like caressing words.

We sat, a quiet circle, round the blazing fire, Lucy beside my knee. At each wild shriek of the wind she nestled closer and closer, now and then with trembling tears shining in her dark fearful eyes.

We did not speak much because of that wild storm. Through the darkness we saw the white crests, like storm-birds, on the waves, and the waves that came in unbroken on the shore in great dark walls of water. Soon our quiet circle broke up. 'Let us go down to see the storm,' said one. 'I too shall go,' said another. ' And I.'

So we were left alone, Lucy and I, in the dark. Lucy went to the window, and pressed her face against it, looking out through the fearful blackness; I close behind, watching the racking storm with the same child-like helplessness. moon broke

While we looked, the through the clouds, and gleamed down on the sheltered castle and the old sea-tower. Strips of torn, ragged clouds floated over

it, and then dense bars of blackness. Then they passed, and the light of the moon lay a long track upon the waters.

Perhaps it was a waking dream-but a sweet spirit stole through the moonlight. It had no form: I only felt its presence.

But it had a clear, sweet voice, and it spoke through the pauses of the storm.

It said: The storm must come; but the storm is in God's hand-the storm and the night and the dark. It was on the stormy water that Jesus walked of old. Through the storm He comes still; His sweetness breaks through the dark.'

Yet why should I write thus to my young and happy Jean? What though the wind whispered it: it was only for my

ear.

It said: "The storm will come in life for you and for Lucy and for Jean; but if your sails be set heavenward, every wave will bear you more swiftly home.'

Then came a long shriek of wind, and a rush of waves on the sea-tower, and it seemed as if the very sky were torn to shivers by the blast.

Again spoke the clear little whispering voice: God is as the wings of the storm. Meet Him in the storm; meet Him in the mystery of darkness: for God is surely here.'

Lucy had slipped from the window-she was curled upon the rug by the fire; and, lulled by wind and water, she was soon fast asleep.

And when the morning broke, the bay lay all in sunshine. And I heard, from my high window, a child's voice singing a psalm.

Is this worth writing in a letter? I do not know, little Jean, and I have not asked Lucy-who perhaps would say 'no.' Perhaps when I write again, I shall have something more to tell-meanwhile I bid you good-bye.

THIS

Lovingly, H. W. H. W.

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN. HIS little picture tells its own story. The wandering Ishmael-his hand against every man, and every man's hand

THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

against him-is a type to all time of those who leave a father's loving home to go out to the far country, in whose desert wastes it is often hard to find a cup of water to cool their parched lips. Desolate and sad at heart they wander, till like Hagar, they hear a voice from heaven which recalls the father's home and assures them of a father's love. And so, returning, they find that love unaltered and become like Ishmael, heirs of a goodly heritage.

It was so with this younger son. When he grew up to manhood, he turned his back on his father's house, and went to the far country, carrying with him only the portion of goods which would have been his when his father died. He left behind him the precepts and lessons which he had learned at home. He forgot the prayers which long before he had learned at his mother's knee, and in the gay and merry life he now sought to lead, he tried to forget the father whose love still yearned over him. There can be no doubt that a great shadow fell on the old home, when, as the years rolled on, no tidings were heard from the younger son who had gone away. Hope died at last even in the father's heart: the brightness of his home was gone. He missed the merry laugh and kindly smile of the child of his affections, and the hardest part was that the boy whom he had loved so well, seemed to have forgotten him. He could not know the whole truth; he could only fear that all was not well. How many years went by we know not; but at last his father settled in his own heart that his child was lost, and considered his son dead.

And so he was, although he didn't know it. The old, good life, of his early days was left behind, and the strange new life on which he had entered, was a living death. A wise man once said, 'he that liveth in pleasure is dead.' And this young man lived for nothing else. For years, life was to him a perpetual sunshine, and he dreamed that like the gay butterfly he had only to wing his way from flower to flower, and to enjoy himself. But at last the sun went down, and the dream was at

21

an end. The storm broke, and with drooping wing he was dashed to the ground to find no shelter from the pitiless blast which bore him to destruction.

Of all the friends that gathered round him in the heyday of prosperity, not one would help him now. At last he sank down to the lowest depths. For very want he took the only occupation that was open to him. He became servant to a hard master, who sent him to feed his swine, and in whose service he was often so hungry, that he would gladly have eaten some of the beans which the swine eat, but they were kept from him. It was God's own mercy that in this extremity he remembered his father's house. Even the servants there had plenty to eat. My father would not grudge me a portion of their food, and I would gladly now be servant to one so good.' With downcast look he treads the weary journey back. But when he draws nearer to the old home-while he is yet afar off-the old man sees him and hastens to meet him. He runs to his son and falls upon his neck and kisses him. The son had feared a father's frown, but when he looks up he sees his father's smile. It is the old kind voice that bids the servants bring the best robe and put it on him, put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and bring hither the fatted calf that they may eat and be merry. Nor does he ever remember sweeter tones than those in which his father sings the glad song that celebrates his return: For this, my son, was dead and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.'

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This loving story, or parable, was intended by Jesus Christ to teach us that God is our Father, and that He loves us with an everlasting and unfailing love. There is joy in the presence of the angels of God, over one sinner that repenteth. May God our Father draw the hearts of all who read this story to Himself. Clothed with the spotless robe of His righteousness may they abide forever in the house of His love.

Sin took off my garments, every kindly fold,
Leaving me to perish in the bitter cold.

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