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herself thus to the declared ability and willingness of God to save her, she found"him faithful that had promised." Love for her good and gracious Redeemer, sorrow for her sinful neglect of him, gratitude for his assurances of pardon, now filled her heart; and a new-born peace spread over her young face. Rumour and gossip soon sent the account from house to house.
A neighbour called on Squire Gale to talk the matter over. "It's all nonsense," said the man, "for your Clara to think she has been converted. She's just like a little angel always. I don't believe in religion's making her any better; she's good enough before. If Dan Hunter, now, could be turned round, and made a Christian of, I'd believe in it." Clara heard this conversation, and her heart beat with pity and desire for poor Dan, whom she well knew to be one of the worst of sinners. He was idle, profane, thievish; and a miserable cripple besides. As soon as the neighbour referred to had left the house, Clara sprang to her father's side. "Papa, may I go and see old Dan Hunter?" "What for, my child?" "I want to tell him Jesus died for him." The father could not, dare not oppose her wish. Speeding along with all a child's alacrity and hopefulness, and with a silent prayer to God for help, she reached the comfortless shanty which Dan Hunter called his den. Once before she had been there, with her father, when the miserable man lay ill with his broken leg, and had carried him food and medicine. He was surprised then to see her, but more astonished now. "Did you s'pose I was sick again, little lady ?" was his first greeting, and a more civil one than Clara had dared to hope for. "Yes," said the child, "I knew you were sick. I've been sick myself, and I've come to tell you how I was cured, and to beg you to be cured too." And opening the little Testament which she had brought in her pocket, she read of him who came to heal the sin-sick soul. She told the wicked man before her what a sinner she had felt herself to be, and how the blessed Saviour had made her to trust in him. And with loving heart and tender tones, she asked him "If he was not a sinner too, and if he did not need the same Saviour whom she had found ?" Poor, old Dan! nothing, nothing had ever so touched his heart. He fell upon his knees to the ground, he smote upon his breast and cried out, "Lord, ha' mercy on the worst of sinners, the worst of sinners!" God heard that earnest penitent cry; and when Clara left the old man's den, she left him praising the mercy which could save a wretch like him. Dan Hunter went from house to house, to tell the story of saving grace. And to all he met, he would say, "It's the same gospel, the very same gospel that so blessed little Clara Gale. You wouldn't think it could be-such a dreadful sinner as I've been-but the same good Lord who takes little children in his arms and blesses 'em, saves the chief of sinners too. It's true, it's true, 'Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.'"
In a few days Cranberry Meadow was the scene of a blessed revival.
THE STAFFORDSHIRE MINER.
"I AM too ill to attend to you, child," said a poor suffering workman, in one of the iron mines of Staffordshire, to his daughter Susan, a little Sunday school girl, who had learned the way to heaven, and who was repeating to
her apparently dying father, 1 Tim. i. 15, and other passages. "I am too ill to attend to you, child." A sigh escaped from the child as she sat down by the bed-side, apparently in prayerful thoughtfulness. I moved forward so as to engage her attention. She looked up, blushed, immediately rose, and said,
"I'll call my mother, sir."
Taking a chair at the side of the bed, I spoke to the poor fellow, who, though evidently better, was still suffering very much. He seemed surprised at the sound of my voice, and turned himself to gaze at me, but the bandages which enveloped his head prevented him from discerning my features. I replied to this movement by saying,
"You do not know me, but I called last night, soon after your accident, and felt anxious to see you again."
Thank you, sir," he said. "I am very bad, and don't know how it will go with me, but it was well I was not killed; I am afraid I shall lose my eyes. It would have been a sad thing for them poor things if I had been taken."
"And how would it have been with you," I asked, "if you had been called so suddenly into the presence of God? You know, I hope, that there is no salvation for the soul, save as we repent of sin, and look to Jesus Christ, the sinner's friend?"
The countenance of the man again expressed surprise, and, as if speaking to himself, he said—
"It is he: it is his voice."
Then turning again towards me, he asked,
"Is your name Mr.
"Yes," I replied, " that is my name; but you are a stranger to me, as I am almost a stranger in this neighbourhood."
"I thought I knew your voice," he said "as soon as I heard it, and your words just now brought back to my mind when I last saw you."
My interest in him was now increased, and I asked with some curiosity, "When and where was that?"
"Do you remember, sir, teaching a class of boys in London, many years ago? ?" “Yes, very well," I replied,
then quite a young man."
"but it is certainly many years ago, for I was
"Well, sir, and don't you remember a dark-haired boy of the name of William, who used to give you a good deal of trouble, and whom you used to teach in the week at your own house sometimes?"
"I do very well remember him," I said; " and is it possible that you are that same lad? I often made inquiry after him, but never learned more than that the family had gone away; and had long since forgotten the sur name, though I remember the boy William."
"I am the same lad, sir, lying here now; and very glad I jam to see you again."
Exhausted with the
With this he stretched out his hand to welcome me. excitement and the conversation, he fell back on the bed, whilst I, deeply interested in this unexpected recognition of my long-forgotten scholar, retired
from the bed room to the little room below. Mrs. Penley and two or three of the children had come into the room during our conversation. In a few minutes she followed me. We talked together a little upon the singularity of this meeting, and I learned from her that they had been married about fourteen years, and that they had lived in the neighbourhood of their present dwelling nearly the whole of the time. Penley was a sober and steady man, had constant work, except during the strike. He was a good husband, and kind to the children, but she added, with tears in her eyes,
"He doesn't give his mind to better things, and that grieves me very much."
One evening-(the writer is speaking of the same man, recovered from his accident, and of the family)-one evening early in the spring, I was visiting several families in the neighbourhood of Penley's house, and about half-past eight o'clock had my hand on the latch of Penley's door. The sound of some one reading made me pause before I entered. Through the side of the blind I could see Penley, his wife, and five children, seated round the table, each with a Bible, from which they were reading in turn, apparently from one of the gospels. I dared not interrupt them; and I stood while a verse or two of some hymn was sung, and then all knelt before God, whilst the father presented the family prayer. Joy and gratitude filled my heart; and, on entering the room after all was finished, I could not help expressing the pleasure it gave me to see them so engaged, and to inquire if it was a usual practice with them.
Penley was a little confused as he replied, "I endeavour, in my poor way, sir, to keep it up at nights when I am at home. But my words are very poor, sir. I wish you had stepped in a bit sooner." "It is the heart, William," I replied, "that God looks at; and if that be sincere he will not regard the poverty of the words we use. However, I shall be very happy to join you some evening when I am passing this way. Is this the usual time when you have it ?"
"Rather later than usual, sir, we've been to-night, for the boys stopped out longer than they ought. We like to have it carly, sir, because of the little one, for she is very fond of her book, and, with Susan's help, can spell out the words very well.-Family Scenes.
MORNING WITH THE CHILD.
A MOTHER sat in tears by the bed-side of her youngest-born and best beloved. Six days had passed since the hand of fever was laid upon him, and, ever since, the life-fountains had been drying up under the fervent heat. Many times daily had she entered into her closet and bowed herself before the Father of Mercies, praying that the destroyer might pass by her dwelling. But prayers and tears availed not. Steadily the disease kept on its fatal course, and now scarcely a hope remained. Friends gathered around, offering words of consolation, but they were only as idle murmurs in her ears.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away-blessed be the name of the Lord," said the good pastor, who, only a year before, had lifted the
sweet boy in his arms,and,in the presence of angels,touched his pure forehead with the waters of baptism.
But the mother made no sign, She could not accept this affliction as a blessing-she could not offer up thanks. Her very life was bound up in the life of her child, and the thought of separation was so terrible, that no place for consolation was left in her grieving spirit.
"It is appointed unto man once to die," added the minister, still seeking to penetrate the mother's heart, and pour in oil and wine; we must all pass by this way-must all enter this valley-must all go down into the dark river. How much better, then, to die in the morning of life, ere fierce sunbeams have drank the fragrant dews, or the green leaves have withered on the sapless branches."
Still the mother made no sign.
"You will have a treasure in heaven; and where the treasure is, there will the heart be also."
But all availed not. The tears fell like rain.
Sadly, at length, the minister turned away, and left the weeping mother with her friends; for her ears were closed to all the words of consolation he could offer.
An hour later, and the mother still bent over the frail body of her little one. There was no hope in her heart, for she saw upon his wan face the signet mark of the death angel. One friend remained with her; and, until
now, this friend had offered no words of comfort. The grieving mother was bending over the pillow upon which the sick child lay, and gazing down upon the countenance she was soon to see no more, when she felt a hand laid gently upon her own, and with a touch that sent a new impulse throb
bing through the heart.
It is very dark here, sometimes," said the friend, very softly, very tenderly, and with a meaning in her voice beyond that contained in the words she had uttered.
The mother answered only by a returning pressure of the hand.
"Even the light of this world is darkness when compared with the light of heaven. Here the best and most highly favored do little more than grope their way. There, every one walks in noon-day clearness.
She had gained the mother's ear. Her words had gone inward to the region of thought.
"I have passed through these deep waters, my friend," she continued, "and have heard their terrible roaring. I have held a dying babe in my arms, and clung to it with an agony of grief that seemed as if it would snap my very heart-strings. But, after the keenness of affliction was over, I had this consolation, and it has remained ever since. When the night with me was at the darkest, it was morning with my child. Yes, it was then that the morning broke on him which shall never go down in night. Blessed morning of celestial glory! Oh, how often and often since, when I have walked in darkness, have I thanked God, with a true heart, fervently, that it was morning with my child!"
The mother's tears ceased to fall, and she turned her wet eyes upon her friend, and looked into her face earnestly.
"There is one question," said the friend, after a pause, "that every mother should ask herself. It is this-' How do I love my child—selfishly or unselfishly? If unselfishly, then, whatever is best for the child, will give to her heart the deepest pleasure. I had a dream on the very night my precious one was taken away from me. I believe that it was imaged to my fancy while sleeping, by a loving angel sent to comfort me in my great affliction. There had always been something very fearful to me in the idea of dying here, and awakening to consciousness in a new and strangely different existence; and the thought followed my child. That dream was to me a revelation, and as such I accepted it thankfully. I saw, in my sleep, two scenes the one contrasting with the other, as we sometimes see them in pictures. One scene represented the saddest of my life experiences. I saw, myself sitting in darkness and in tears, as you sit now, my friend and sister, bending over my precious babe, clinging to it as the miser clings to his gold-aye, and with an intenser passion. But only a veil dropped down between that scene and another, which quickly enchained my vision, and caused my heart, heavy with grief, to throb with a new-born pleasure. An angel, in form like a chaste young virgin, was clasping to her bosom a babe, in all the ecstacy of a new-born joy. No mother, when she feels upon her breast the first pressure of her first babe, ever felt more delight than I saw pictured in the face of the angel as she held my babe to her loving heart. Yes, my babe, just born into heaven, and given into her care by the Divine Father of us all.
"For a time I could not withdraw my eyes from the face of the angel. Never had I gazed upon a countenance so full of love; so radiant with celestial beauty. And the babe nestled on her bosom as lovingly as it had ever nestled on mine. From this scene, after gazing upon it until tears ran down my cheeks-tears of gratitude that it was so well with my babe-1 turned to look at the darker one-at the sorrowing earthly mother and the suffering child! Poor babe! Wasted with sickness and writhing with mortal pain. How yearningly and pityingly my heart went towards it, and I prayed for its deliverance! even as the words went up from my heart, the darker scene faded until it became no longer visible; but the brighter one remained. When I awoke, and grief for my great loss revived in my heart, I recalled the precious dream, and took comfort. What if I did walk in darkness? It was morning-eternal morning, with my child!"
As the mother listened, to her mind was also pictured the two scenes. Her tears had ceased to. flow, and her countenance showed a visible interest. A little while she sat musing, and then, as she turned her eyes, full of tenderness, upon her sick boy, said:
Oh, it is hard, very hard, to give him up! How can I do it? How can I resign him, even to the care of an angel?"
The friend said no more. Her words had found a way into the heart of the sorrowing one, and she left them to do their own work.
A little later, and the hour of deepest darkness came-the hour of sepa. ration. Over the mother's spirit a pall of blackest gloom was spread. The words of her friend had faded from her memory. She saw not the beautiful beyond, but gazed only upon a dark, gloomy abyss, into which her