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"Rutie," said a penitent baby morning, Rob?" said Johnny, voice," don't c'y any more. Robbie confusedly. be good. He sorry he make 'oo feel so bad."

"Dear little brother," she answered, tearfully, "I was crying because I felt so naughty myself." "Oo is never naughty," said he, seriously, wiping her eyes with his chubby hand. "Now I be's good, and put on my shoes, and play with my blocks."

She thought in her heart of these words: 66 Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, ye shall receive it." Another than herself might also have thought of these: "He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city."

So Robbie played quite contentedly and silently, for him, all the rest of the morning, and, notwithstanding her sorrows that such wicked thoughts found place in her heart in the midst of her good resolutions, Ruth had a quiet joy and peace within her, and a loving trust in the Lord.

She went busily and quietly about the work of the house, doing the best she could, making a mistake now and then, and working to make it right again; putting things in order, making things comfortable. At half-past twelve she had the dinner ready, and called her mother, father, and "the boys." She had a long burn on her arm, and flushed, hot cheeks, but after all it was a happy face she carried to the dinner-table that day.

Her father said smilingly, "Really, Ruth, you are quite a little housekeeper. Your mother will have to look to her laurels."

Johnny, between huge bites of bread and meat, said, "This dinner suits me tip-top, I tell you, and I was awful hungry! I'm the champion eater in this house on all occasions."

"We are perfectly well aware of that, John," said his mother.

"What have you been up to this

"Robbie was bad boy to Rutie, an' make her c'y once. He sorry now, and so he good now too."

They smiled at the sweet, quaint speech, but grew serious when Mr. Huntington spoke.

"I think there is much true philosophy in what Robbie has just said," said he. "Real repentance is not merely being sorrowful over wrong we have done, but leads us always to turn to the right. If Robbie did not prove his repentance by being good now,' we might be very certain of his not being truly 'sorry now.' By their fruits ye shall know them.'

As they rose from the table, Mrs. Huntington said to Ruth, “As soon as you are through with the work come to my room. I shall want you to do an errand for me.”

So, after arranging everything neatly in the dining-room, Ruth went to her mother. She was sitting by baby Maud, rocking her gently; and when Ruth entered she turned quickly.

"Has it stopped raining?" she inquired.

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'Yes, ma, just a little while ago." "Then get ready to go to your grandmother's for me. She has a decoction that I want for the baby. Don't be slow, now, Ruth."

She was ready in a little while; and she looked very sweet and dainty that rainy day, robed in her dark blue waterproof, with the jaunty hat and blue bird's-wing, and feet neatly shod with goloshes, as she went out softly into the chilly air, over the muddy wet road to grandma Morton's.

Mr. Huntington's nearest neighbour was James Smithson. Their two houses were but little over half a mile from each other, and the dividing line between their two farms was Deer Creek, a small stream of water. Four or five years before, the two had had a diffi

culty about some cattle, in which, road was muddy and dreary, and according to Mr. Huntington's the transparent creek was changed opinion, Mr. Smithson had shown to a turbid stream, with driftwood an undisguised disposition to cheat rapidly whirling and eddying down and take advantage, in a manner, its surface. too, peculiarly dishonourable.

Mr. Huntington was a very good man, but he was also a very just one, and belonged to that class of people who cannot be imposed on with impunity. He had told James Smithson his opinion of the transaction; and the law had settled the matter with justice to both parties, but greatly to the dissatisfaction of Mr. Huntington's opponent.

Since that time there had been no intercourse between the two. Smithson had become very angry, refused to recognise Mr. Huntingdon when they met, and annoyed him and his family in every way possible. Mr. Huntington, on the other hand, though he would gladly have been on friendly terms with his neighbour, was sternly conscious of being in the right, and would make no advances towards a reconciliation.

Ruth was half-frightened as she saw how near the water was to the foot-log. She stopped a moment before venturing, and then began carefully to cross.

She had reached the middle of the log in safety, when suddenly she heard a loud, quick, warning call:

"Look behind you, girl! Run for your life! Run! Run!"

She looked around wildly. She was overcome with fright, and in her excitement she lost her balance and fell.

It was almost a miracle that she was not precipitated into the rushing stream. But falling parallel with the log, with an instinct of self-preservation she caught by a rough projection, and finally with great effort, drew herself up in an agony of terror.

When she looked up, she beheld James Smithson regarding her with a malignant leer on his face.

The one object that Smithson and his wife seemed to have any affection or interest for was their "Came pretty near wetting your daughter Lily, a little golden- little feet didn't you, my dear? haired, blue-eyed fairy; she was There isn't anything behind you, so petted, flattered, and had every don't embrace that log any longer. childish whim gratified if possible. It isn't a becoming position. Get Ruth's journey to grandma Mor-up and go home," he added, "and ton's led over the creek, and by the tell your father his daughter is house of the Smithsons. In fair pretty nearly as much of a coward summer weather it was a beautiful as he is himself." walk. The "dirt road" went winding gracefully down to the stream; then those who rode went splashing through, over a pebbly bed that shone up clear and bright through the crystal water; those who walked went over the foot-log, placed a little above the road, where the stream was narrower and deeper, and where a tall walnut-tree cast its dense, cool shadows.

But now it was very different. The trees and grass had not yet donned their robes of green, the

Her fear was gone in an instant, and a white heat of passion glowed instead. She rose firmly to her feet, and, looking him steadily in the eye, walked over the remainder of the log towards him.

"I'll make you sorry for this, if I am only a little girl!" she said, her voice quivering with passion.

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Pretty good! I'm badly scared! Think you will have revenge?" "Yes, I do," she answered, in the same quivering voice.

He was really quite angry then,

and I don't know what he might have done, had he not seen a man at some distance down the road. As it was, he laughed a scornful, contemptuous laugh, that followed Ruth as she went on her way; he then waited till both she and the man were out of sight, looking carefully up and down the road. He had an impression that he heard a noise near the clump of elder bushes, and he examined, but found nothing. After all this, he moved the foot-log just a little, so that it would turn with one walking over it, and then went in a roundabout way to his home.

If John Huntington's favourite child in returning home should chance to fall, of course he would have nothing to do with it. He hardly thought she would gain her promised revenge. And if no one should rescue her from the swollen stream-well, it would be the bitterest drop he knew of in his neighbour's cup of prosperity, and he would have had nothing to do with it-in the eyes of the world.

As Ruth pursued her way, how the passion boiled and surged within her at the utter meanness of the man! It was the silent, voiceless anger that grows the hotter because it has no vent; and she was hardly conscious of passing over the road, nor when she went in at her grandmother's and knocked at her door. She told her errand, got the decoction for the baby, and was starting back, when grandma Morton said, "Ruth, dear, your face tells me something unpleasant has happened to you. Can I help you? Can you talk to me about it ?"

She considered a moment, and then answered with a shadow of a smile, "You are always sorry to hear me talk when I am angry."

And now Ruth began to come to herself. The atmosphere of that house was unfavourable to passion or excitement. That sweet, saintly presence, that gentle, kind voice, had begun the work of exorcising the evil spirit the moment she had entered the house, though she knew it not; and, as she went on her way, there came back to her the memory of those resolutions of the night before. What fruit had they borne ?

Her heart became very sad; she almost feared to ask forgiveness for the sins of her lips, and the still more grievous sin of her heart. But at last she did dare, and sent up a petition, at first feeble, but gaining strength as she thought that "He knoweth our frame, and remembereth that we are dust." A sweet peace came to her soul; peace with the world; peace with her Saviour-even that peace which passeth understanding.

The sunlight gleamed out from the clouds for a moment, full and bright, even as the light had come again into her heart. As she looked up, she saw Lily Smithson standing by the brink of the stream, in her white dress, bareheaded, and the golden hair falling around her shoulders.

Ruth was about fifty feet distant when she saw her, with a baby's fearlessness, start to cross the footlog; she saw the log roll half over, heard a frightened, childish scream, and the little white-robed form was down in the swift water.

Did she think of the child's father, who but a short time before had nearly caused her to fall into the same rushing current? Yes, for an instant the thought flashed through her mind, but even at the moment her feet were hurrying swiftly to the rescue of the daughter of her persecutor.

"Walk soitly, my darling," said her grandmother seriously. "There Down to the brink of the stream are many pitfalls for young feet like-she catches at the white dressyours. Remember you are one of she almost has it she reaches the workers in the Lord's vineyard." | farther eagerly-she has caught it→

but there is a misstep, a strong wave, and now two forms are clasping each other in the fearfully swollen water. On they speed; now the branch of a tree strikes them, then another, and they are in the midst of some low, horizontal branches that stretch Over the stream. Ruth catches wildly at them-there is a frantic struggle for life-and the two forms are upon the shore, speechless, breathless, overwhelmed with fright, but saved!

The first sound Ruth heard was of rapid footsteps, as of a man running, and the next moment James Smithson had clasped little Lily, with her dripping garments, close in his arms.

that have rung through my ears ever since I saw her save my child so nobly; it was what the Bible says about heaping coals of fire on the heads of your enemies. Coals of fire! To think that your child should repay my persecutions by saving the life of mine! And all the thanks I can give you is to beg for your forgiveness, and I ask you to pray that God will give me His. I wonder at myself for saying this, as much as I can see you wonder at me; and yet how could I do less, when my baby might have been cold and dead at this moment if it hadn't been for her?"

The strong man's eyes were full of tears; for God had spoken to his heart through His providence, and filled it with a genuine repentance and conviction of sin. Yes, the eyes of all in that group were dim; for the two families, so long enemies, were reconciled.

He had seen the child from his gate, just as she stepped into the trap he had laid for another; and although he started to her rescue in breathless haste, before he had passed over the long stretch of road he had witnessed the whole scene. An hour afterwards Ruth lay on the sofa in her own house, wrapped in warm shawls; for although she assured them that she felt well, they had insisted upon doctoring her, "to keep off a cold." A tearful group surrounded her. Could it be that the trembling voice that spoke be-“ Blessed are the peacemakers, for longed to James Smithson? they shall be called the children of

Later, when the house had settled into its usual quiet, and the twilight was fast turning into night, Mr. Huntington laid his hand gently on Ruth's head, and said, "My daughter has done a good work today in the Master's vineyard." And after a little pause, he added softly,

"I can tell you, Mr. Hunting-God." ton," he was saying, "of the words

OLIVET.

THERE was one spot on earth which Jesus seems to have especially loved. It was "His wont" to go there. As John was His favourite disciple, the family of Lazarus His favourite household, Galilee His favourite water, so Olivet was His favourite mountain. An oriental city, with its crowded and filthy streets, could have no charm for such a spirit as His. When duty called our Lord into Jerusalem, He went there; but as soon as He could escape from its dirt, its dogs and its din, He bent His footsteps over the valley of Kedron to the quiet Mount of Olives.

It afforded Him a blessed asylum from noisy traffickers, churlish scribes, and insolent Pharisees. Olivet always treated Him kindly.

Olivet cast no stones at Him. Her ancient trees gave Him cool shelter from the noonday heat and the heavy night dews. Her flowers talked to their Creator-Jesus, and her verdant turf spread a couch for His weary limbs. It is hard to identify more than three or four places now on which we are certain that Christ set His foot. One of these is the well's mouth at Sychar. A second is the hill-top above Naza

reth. The third is that still beaten road that leads over Olivet to the ruined village of Bethany.

It was on that roadside that Jesus was sitting when He beheld guilty Jerusalem and wept over it. It was about that same spot where He sat and delivered that wonderful prophetic discourse (in the twentyfourth chapter of Matthew) on the Tuesday of His passion week. He slept that night at Bethany, on the eastern slope of the mountain. On the next day, as the conspirators were lying in wait for Him, He did not enter Jerusalem at all. Probably He passed it in deep retirement upon Olivet, communing with His Heavenly Father, and preparing silently for that tremendous tragedy which should soon cast its pall of midday darkness over the city's streets and Calvary's altar of sacrifice. He needed repose. That day He dwelt apart. And as Dr. Farrar eloquently says: "On that Wednesday night He lay down for the last time on earth. On the Thursday morning He awoke never to sleep again. We must not think of Jesus as living with His disciples after the manner of men during the forty days between His crucifixion and His ascension. His public work was over. He only gave His disciples an occasional interview, and His last appearance among them was that memorable and sublime moment when He parted from them on the eastern brow of Olivet, and a cloud received Him out of their sight."

I have reviewed this connection of our Lord with that sacred spot, not only for its historic interest, but its spiritual suggestion. If Jesus sought a place for quiet meditation and for retirement from the city's bustle and Babel noises, every Christian should have his Olivet also. Those of us who live in large towns are apt to live at high pressure. The rural Christian has the scenery and the solitudes of God's great wide country about him. But in the bustling, bewildering, driving, roaring city, how difficult it is to "dwell apart.' Where and how can we escape the roar and the contagion of excitements ? Where shall we find a Hermon, or a Horeb, a brook Cherith, or a Mount of Olives?

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From early morn until bedtime we city folk are exposed to the whirl. The world meets us at the breakfast-table in the columns of the morning journal. We snatch the records of fires, and floods, and telegrams, and trials, with our cup of coffee. After a hurried meal we launch out into the crowded day. Engagements press. Care collars the tradesman, the lawyer, and, and, in fact, every man, as soon as he gets into the street. When he reaches his place of business his table is probably piled with letters demanding prompt reply. Cus

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