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are defeats which in effect are victories. They rudely knock away a rotten prop, and cut off a corroding cancer. Do not many of us know this: We succeeded and we lost; we lost and we succeeded? So it is in the experience of the individual; so it is in the history of the Church. Bunyan is a greater saint for lingering so long in the valley of the shadow of death. Persecution produces a Philadelphian, success a Laodicean Church. A Church goes away for its base of supplies and gets horribly beaten, but its beating only drives it back upon that base with more desperate tenacity. It is driven from the cistern and the river right out into "a dry and thirsty land, where no water is." Its members so driven out have had no sanctuary, no public worship, no written Bible. "The ark of God has been taken," but they have only thereby been thrown more inwardly and dependently upon the fountain as it gushes crystal from the root of the throne. They have only been thrown upon Him who is the living and everlasting mercy-seat; and avarice and pride and selfishness and fleshly indulgence being by the same blow slain or sent sneaking back into the world to which they belong, these defeated martyrs have become refined and greatened into a sublimer faith, whereby they have "subdued kings and waxed valiant in fight, and turned to flight the armies of the aliens."

Ah, beloved, God can afford to let His ark be taken; for, although the ark of God be captured, the God of the ark is never outwitted nor overreached. Rejoice in this. Some of you may be feeling like these Israelites upon this dark and fatal day. You have suffered bereavement. You have suffered disappointment. You have suffered defeat. You are in a state of religious depression. For you there is no sweetness in the promises; no power in prayer; no music in Psalm or Canticle. The throne of grace is under a cloud. "The ark of God is taken." Only look then the more earnestly and cling the more tenaciously to HIM. That is what He means. He says, "I have allowed that to be removed that you may run for refuge to Me, and cling the harder to Me. I have broken off the horns of the altar,' that you may feel for and nestle within the everlasting arms. I have destroyed an asylum, that you trust a Saviour, and gather yourself together under the shadow of His wings.'

CORINNE'S MISTAKE.

FOR THE YOUNG.

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THREE merry girls entered the arranging her skirts and her books car at the terminus of a city road. comfortably, They were bright-eyed, intelligent,

and full of fun.

"Oh, I do hope," said Anne Welsh,

single passenger from here to Haight Street. I just want to talk and laugh, and act exactly as I

please, without the presence of a critical fourth."

"Unless it should happen to be a very nice young gentleman," laughingly supplemented Corinne Baker.

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Anything but that," said the first speaker, with a grimace, adjusting veil and curls, however. "I'm brimful of mischief, and in such case I know I should do something detestable."

"I do hope we shall be alone, though," said little Lottie Deering, the youngest of the three, as she placed her books on the cushion at her side. "It's such fun to have the carriage all to ourselves."

"I'm afraid the fun must go by the board, then," exclaimed Anne, "for I see the fussiest, plainest, homeliest old woman coming right straight this way. Oh, misery! she will spoil everything.'

Corinne, possessed, as she had said before, with the spirit of mischief, took up one of her school-books, and, with a wink aside at Anne, began to read in a low tone,

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'She was the scrawniest, weirdest-looking object, with a wart on the bridge of her nose, and a crinkle crankle bonnet of an uncertain age like its owner. All she needed was a broomstick and a black cat to make a veritable witch."

Here the mirth of the thoughtless girls became so audible that the reader was forced to put some restraint upon her fun-loving proclivities, and lay the book aside.

"Here's Haight Street,' said Anne. "Corinne, I never thought to tell you, uncle Hal brought us two Spitz dogs yesterday, white as wool, and as cunning as they can be. Come home with me and see them. It won't take five minutes more, and perhaps I'll give you one of them."

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"And look at that antiquated hand-bag-a century old, at the very least," Corinne cried. "Did "But mamma expects company, you ever see such a relic of Noah's ark? And how ridiculously she is dressed! I'm not sure but we can have our fun after all."

and.

"Oh, bother! I tell you it won't take five minutes longer. Come, there's a darling!"

And the old lady sat looking after them, as the girls trppedaway in high spirits, a sad expression on her careworn face.

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Meantime, bowed down by some infirmity, dusty with a day's ride, and really antiquated in garb and manner, the old lady drew nearer and nearer to the carriage. When Corinne," she murmured, "I she had gained it, her face bright- thought I knew the face. I hope ened visibly at the sight of the fresh it was only thoughtlessness," she young girls, and in the kindness of added, and her lips trembled. her heart she nodded, as much as "But perhaps I looked for too to say, "My dears, you are all strangers to me, but I am very glad to see you."

much from Corry's child. And young folks can't be expected to enter into the feelings of the aged. But it is hard to be so disap pointed." And she shook her head dejectedly.

Meantime Corinne had seen and admired the dogs, and the girls were about parting.

They did not, however, return the nod; but one by one they smiled, looked in each other's faces, and at last tittered audibly. The poor old woman seemed shocked at this incivility, and drew herself as far from their vicinity as possible, while she "Come over to the house soon," turned her keen eyes, that almost said Corinne to Anne, as they stood disproved her years, so large and on the steps. "I want to introduce black they were, from their faces you to one of the grandest old to other objects outside. Suddenly ladies-my mother's aunt! I have

aunt Eunice--a little, brisk old lady

never seen her myself, but I know I shall love her, for she saved in a satin dress, with a wart on the mamma's life, at the risk of her own. Mamma has often told me about it-how that she was in the third storey of a burning house, and when the strongest men drew back, this aunt, then an invalid, ran through the flames with wet blankets, and dragged her out of a horrible doom. She was fearfully burned, and sick for years afterward Never before had she felt so from the effects of her exertions; humiliated; and now that aunt and mamma thinks all the world of Eunice had cleared away all traces aunt Eunice. So do I. By the of the dust and fatigue of the way, it was mean of us to make journey she saw how noble and fun of that old lady. What pos- sweet was the face, despite the dissessed us? figuring wart, and how really grand was the spirit that illumined it, and that led her to say, in manner at least, that all was forgiven and

bridge of her nose. No wonder Corinne turned pale and sick at heart as her mother introduced her, with a loving smile. Not but she understood that low and gentle "Never mind, my dear," which reached her ears alone, as the old lady kissed her and pressed her hand.

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"I couldn't help it," said Anne, laughing, "though I knew it was wrong.' And the friends made their would be forgotten. adieus, and parted.

"Has she come, mamma ?" cried Corinne, flushed and breathless from rapid walking.

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Corinne has never failed, from that day to this, to treat old age with respect, no matter whether she meets it clad in purple and fine linen, or in the garb of poverty and misery. One lesson was enough for a lifetime; one recognition of the beauty of a Christian forbearance under great provocation sufficed.

AIDS TO COMMUNION; OR, SACRAMENTAL

MEDITATIONS.

BY THE REV. W. P. BALFERN.

IV. THE DANGERS OF SORROW.

"Sleeping for sorrow."-Luke xxii. 45.

SORROW Sometimes makes us sleep; it is often God's opiate for pain which might otherwise prove too severe for us; so He who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb has mercifully interwoven this beneficence and help into the very texture of our physical being, to exert its influence as occasion may require. We see this illustrated in the little incident above as recorded by Luke, the beloved physician, whose knowledge of such things took him beneath the surface in narrating the experience of his brethren. And here we see the advantage of real knowledge; ignorance makes many mistakes, and often conducts

us to cruel conclusions both respecting ourselves and those whom we love, and we do well ever to watch its influence. Sleep, then, is beneficent; that which a great poet has written of hope may well be said of it: "The miserable often have no other medicine." And God

no doubt often uses this medicine as a balm for the relief of His overwrought children; "for so he giveth his beloved sleep." And cer tainly on the awful night referred to, on the human side, the disciples seem to have had little else left them to "bring them relief." They were like little children in a wood; the night was dark about them, their Lord at a distance, and to them, doubtless, so enveloped in the mys tery of some great overshadowing grief which they could not understand, that their hearts were so oppressed that, while they were willing to watch, nature would assert her supremacy, and they fell asleep from over-sorrow. This much we are told of the failure of these loving men in the hour of our Lord's extremity; but doubtless, as in the case of all tried disciples, they had each and all of them a secret biography in relation to it fully known only to the great elder Brother. He at least at that time was in deep waters, and it may be that in the exercise of His wisdom and love He permitted some few drops of the surging ocean of His grief just to touch them, and they were too much for their physical strength, and hence, while their great Master was in sore travail for them, their merciful Father permitted sleep to come and bring them a little help, and thus revived them that so in the thicker darkness about to envelope them their little strength might not utterly fail. God is ever good and makes even our weakness to illustrate His constant care. And perhaps this healing influence of sleep, especially in relation to great sorrow, has led some other disciples to advocate a dreamy mysticism, a sort of sleep called by many "saintly indifference," while passing through this vale of misery, suffering, and sorrow. See," said one of them, "see, this life is filled with crosses. And multitudes, in misery, or fear of misery, made answer, It is true.' Then,' urged the self crucified to it, and it cannot harm thee. care, any aim, any hope or fear, save Christ. passive and dead to this life into His hands who Then the sufferers dried their tears, and strove hard to forget time and self in contemplating Christ." There may be a measure of truth in these counsels, and they may have brought a certain kind of relief to some; but certainly the Master Himself in the throes of His great anguish sought no relief in "saintly indifference," for is it not written that being in agony he prayed more earnestly, and from the knee of prayer He arose to minister to His disciples, carrying with Him words of love and warning?

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Comforter, be thyCease to have any Yield thyself utterly is Lord of a better."

Sleeping for sorrow." How touching to see a child asleep on the bosom of a weak, worn, exhausted, and broken-hearted mother; while she, faint and weary, exerts all her little strength to hold up the frail Thomas à Kempis.

burden of her sorrow! How much more to behold Christ holding up, with strong cries and tears in the midst of His terrible conflict, those poor weak and imperfect men who can only sleep at such a time at a distance from His sorrow! It had been written " many waters cannot quench love, nor floods drown it; Christ in His deepest agony illustrated the truth of this, for while with trembling hands and quivering lips He took His bitter cup, draining it even to the dregs, He held His disciples fast and spread over them the mantle of His unfailing love and care even while fast asleep. We have read of a poor mother who with her babe on her breast was washed overboard in the midst of a dreadful storm; while struggling with the waves her child was washed out of her arms. A wave however bore it towards her again, and with all the strength of her dying anguish she clasped it to her bosom, and both sank together beneath the boiling ocean, never to rise again until the voice of the archangel and the trump of God shall awake the dead. So Christ in the extremity of His anguish, and while sinking beneath the surging billows of our sin and sorrow, weakened by conflict, forsaken, desolate, and alone, yet in His extremity held His Church to His heart nor once loosened His grasp, and though for a time He seems to sink beneath the proud waves, yet does He rise, drenched with the crimson dew of His anguish, but with the one object of His love still secure; and though, even with Him near, still exposed to the sleep of over-sorrow and infirmity, yet for ever preserved from the dread sleep of ignorance, enmity, and everlasting death. Oh, how this fact should emphasise His own words through the lips of His servant in the experience of His slumbering people: "Awake, thou that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee light." Surely such love should quicken our cold hearts now to say with the poet,

Brighton.

"O Love, who once in time wast slain,

Pierced through and through with bitter woe;
O Love, who wrestling thus didst gain
That we eternal joy might know:

O Love, I give myself to Thee,
Thine ever, only Thine to be.

O Love, who thus hast bound me fast,
Beneath that gentle yoke of Thine;
Love who has conquered me at last
And rapt away this heart of mine:
O Love, I give myself to Thee,
Thine ever, only Thine to be.

O'Love, who lovest me for aye,

Who for my soul dost ever plead;
O Love, who didst my ransom pay,
Whose power sufficeth in my stead:
O Love, I give myself to Thee,
Thine ever, only Thine to be."

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