Does oil of gladness fill our breast?
'Tis Jesus gives His loved ones rest;
He strews earth's thorny path with flowers,
Earnests of heaven's celestial bowers.
He spreads a calm o'er life's dark sea,
Unveils "the rest where we would be."
And when, the troubled journey past,
We stand on Jordan's shore at last,
But mournful view the swelling tide
Which separates the fairer side,
Jesus will sweetly whisper, "Come-
Short is the passage to your home.”
Leaning upon His mighty arm,
Billows may toss, but not alarm!
How sweet to laud with Him on high,
Where love and peace can never die,
And there, through countless ages, sing
The praise of Jesus Christ our King!"

Murmuring and Reproof.

H

ERE, beneath these changing skies, My best joys soon fade away; Clouds and griefs and sorrows rise, Darkening life's serenest day.

Naught have I to call my own,

But the cross my God has sent; Oft I walk with it alone,

Worn with strife to be content.

Oh, my soul, what hast thou said,
Weeping in the ear of God?

Has He not thy spirit fed,

And sustained thee 'neath the rod?

Y. E. T.

"Walked alone!" What hast thou said?
When thy God has held thee up;
When the hands which for thee bled
Gave thee strength to hold the cup!

Lord, ashamed, I hide my face

'Neath Thy look of tenderness:

Thou art mine, with all Thy grace;
Thou hast died my soul to bless!

A Stormy Christmas Eve.

VERYBODY in Hilltown knew Mr. Clifton, the surgeon. There was a great brass plate on his door in Park Place, with his name engraved on it, and people could hardly help seeing it as they went along. But, what was a great deal better, his name was written in thousands of hearts. He was an able surgeon-indeed, he

was at the very head of his profession in Hilltown, and people went from miles round to consult him. For more than thirty years he had been one of the surgeons at the General Infirmary; and the patients who went there were always delighted when they found they were put under his care; for he treated them as kindly and showed them as much attention as if they had been the richest people in the land. If I had only time, I could tell of a great many generous things which he did to numbers of people, who, though not poor enough to go into the Infirmary, were unable, except with the greatest difficulty, to pay for help like his. Best of all, he was a sincere Christian, and he was never ashamed of his Master.

Anybody who had passed Mr. Clifton's house on a Christmas Day would have felt quite sure that if it were a happy Christmas anywhere, it was there. The boisterous fun and the merry music within could scarcely fail to be heard without; and there was not a room in the front which was not lighted up brightly.

It was Mr. Clifton's sixty-seventh birthday; and he had invited all his children and grandchildren, and a few other friends, to spend the evening. I felt it very kind of him to ask me; for I was then a medical student, and my friends lived too far away for me to go and spend my Christmas with them. That was why he invited me.

There was a picture in the drawing-room, which, from the freshness of the colours, was plainly a new one. Indeed it had been sent home only the day before; and scarcely any of his own family had seen it till that very Christmas Day. From the glances which some of them exchanged with one another, I saw that they had a pretty good idea what it meant; but none of them said anything.

It was the picture of a boy apparently about twelve or thirteen years of age, clad in very homely garb, with two baskets in his hand, just turning away from a door which some one was closing, and which, I could not help thinking, looked very like the door of Mr. Clifton's own house; only

there was a "D," which I supposed meant Dr.; and I did not quite understand that, for Mr. Clifton was not a physician. The night was wild and stormy; great long icicles were hanging from the window-sills, and the snow was falling fast.

I wondered whether it was just a fancy sketch, or whether there was any story connected with it; but I did not venture to ask. My curiosity was soon gratified without my asking.

Between eight and nine o'clock there was a lull. Some of the youngest of the party had been dismissed, and those that remained, to the number of about five-and-twenty, were seated in a somewhat irregular circle round the fire.

"Well, my dear," Mr. Clifton said, turning to his eldest daughter, a matronly woman of about forty, "you have not told me how you like my new picture."

"I like it very well indeed," said Mrs. Hastings. "I think I don't need to ask you what it means."

"What does it mean, mamma ?" asked Jessie Hastings. "If it were not for the baskets and the poor, rough clothes, I should have thought the boy was our Walter."

And the face was exactly that of Walter Hastings. Indeed, the artist, by Mr. Clifton's direction, without letting Walter know what he was about, had made it as like Walter as possible.

"Is it Walter ?" asked two or three voices.

Mr. Clifton and his dear wife sat evidently enjoying the perplexity; at length Mr. Clifton said,

"Well, it is Walter, and it is not; but if you ask grandmamma, she will tell you that she knew a boy a great many years ago as like Walter as two boys could be like one another; and the picture is meant for him."

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Oh, I know!" exclaimed Walter; "it's grandpapa; and that's the front door. But I don't understand about those

baskets."

"Would you like to hear about them?" asked Mr. Clifton. "Yes, yes, grandpapa, do tell us!" cried out a number of the young people.

I had heard that Mr. Clifton was originally a poor lad, who, through God's blessing, had made his own way in the world; but I had heard no particulars of his early history. Some of his family had heard the story before; but I think it was quite new to the young people and to some others besides who were present. At any rate it was all newto me.

"Ah, well," said Mr. Clifton, "it carries me back a long time-just fifty-four years yesterday. The picture represents me just as I was then."

As he said this, he glanced kindly at his wife, who said, "Yes, I think as like as could be."

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My father," resumed Mr. Clifton, "died when I was only twelve years old. He was a carpenter, in a small way of business; and he was just beginning to get on nicely when he took the illness of which he died. He was ill some months before he died, so that he left my mother in great poverty. Some kind friends helped her a little at first; but she was an independent, energetic sort of woman, and she resolved to burden neither them nor the parish; so she took in washing, and by dint of hard work, with the help of my two eldest sisters, she made a living.

"She would have liked to give me a little more schooling, but I wanted to help her, and a month or two after my father's death I heard that Mr. Mason, the fruiterer and poulterer in the market-place, wanted a boy. I told her about it, and we went together, and Mr. Mason hired me. Very proud, I can tell you, I was when I took my first week's wages-three-and-sixpence-home to my mother.

"I dare say some of you thought yesterday a rough sort of day; but it was mild compared with that first Christmas Eve after I went to Mr. Mason's. It was one of the wildest, stormiest days I ever knew. The wind blew keenly from the north-east; and, hereabouts at least, there is no point of the compass from which there blow keener blasts than from that. It was a biting frost; long icicles hung from the eaves of the houses; and in the afternoon the snow began to fall heavily. People were almost blinded as they went