courage to own it to yourself, the God you thus worship you in reality hate, and would, if you had the power, utterly overthrow." * Again doing and suffering God's will is identical with our own welfare. If we do His will He will do ours. For what, we would ask, is the wish or "will" of all? Happiness, peace, joy. And how is this secured? "Blessed are they who do his commandments." "If ye know these things, happy are ye if ye do them." "Great peace have they that love thy law." These words are true, true for all time and for all men. Selfishness carries a curse with itself; selfabnegation never fails to reap a harvest of light. The late Canon Kingsley gives us directions as to "How to be miserable. Think about yourself, what you want, what you like, what respect people ought to pay you, what people think of you, and thus you will spoil everything you touch. You will be as wretched as you choose." Notice the last part of the prayer on which we are meditating: "As it is in heaven." Do not we ever think of "heaven" as the abode of perfect tranquillity, and the scene of unbroken gladness? Is it not always associated in our minds with everything that is attractive and beautiful? And why? The reason is not far to seek. Paradise is what it is because there God's will is perfectly and promptly done. Entire sympathy with His purposes and operations is the explanation of future "glory, honour, immortality." Nine-tenths of life's troubles arise from not saying, " Thy will be done." Here are two pieces of wood, one short, the other long. Lay one over the other, and it forms a cross; lay them side by side, and there is no cross. So if our little and finite wills go contrary to the great and infinite will of God, there is a cross; put the one parallel with the other, and there is none. "He that saveth his life shall lose it, and he that loseth his life for my sake shall find it." My brother, think less of yourself; don't be so absorbed in your own affairs. Become a real follower of Christ by imbibing His Spirit of sympathy with God and God's ends. Then you will be blessed. Without purpose or plan on your part, peace will spring up within you as a well of water. Self-sacrifice means self-satisfaction and joy. Let us not forget that in doing God's will help will be given through prayer. Jesus Christ would never have said, "Pray ye," if aid had not been forthcoming. He is always genuine, and cannot mock us. Now, nothing makes us more submissive than prayer for submission. Dr. J. McLeod Campbell points out why "Love your enemies" is immediately followed by "Pray for them that despitefully use you." The reason is that the latter assists the former; prayer for foes enables us to see in them something that may be loved. It clears the mental vision of those beclouding prejudices which passion raises, preventing our recognition of the brotherhood and Divine sonship *"Memorials of the Rev. Henry Wonnacott, of Hull." Edited by his Wife. Hodder and Stoughton. of even our worst foes. In like manner, as already remarked, the very cry for submission will tend to make us submissive. Have you never found it so? When in very deep distress you have fallen at the Master's feet, and asked Him to make you patient and trustful, how did you feel afterwards? Ah! you rose from your knees quite another being; you felt marvellously resigned, and, as the hymn has it, 66 Ready for all Thy perfect will." A little child, losing a toy, kneeled down and asked God that she might be be able to find it. She failed to do so. "What good has your praying done?" asked a companion. "It has made me willing to do without my toy." Yes, there are many toys and other possessions which, if needs be, prayer will make us willing to do without. Colombo, Ceylon. "Renew my will from day to day, SEVENTY-SEVEN. FOR THE BOYS. "WHAT is that you say, Robert ?" "Little things don't count." "Don't they? Now my belief is that there never was a little duty done, or a kind word spoken, which did not bring a long train of blessings. You may not see them, but somewhere and somehow they are there; just as you plant a seed and go away, and the roots spread, and the tree grows, and goes on growing, and the birds come and sing in the branches-long after you are dead. I'll tell you a story about that," said the old man, settling himself on the heap of warm hay, while the boys gathered about him. "Two boys went out to fish one day. If you clear out the barn,' their father told them in the morning, you can have the afternoon for play.' "Let's make a quick job of it,' said Charley. "So they worked steadily and actively, and earned their holiday. As they started, they halted by the gate, their rods over their shoulders. "The pond or the creek?' asked Bill. "Charley was a good-hearted fellow. 'The creek; and then we can take a basket of apples to old Aunty Stannix,' he said. "So they brought the apples, gave them to the old woman, and went down to the creek. Under a big walnut was a dark pool, the very place for perch. They hardly spoke for an hour. Just as Bill had a nibble, a step was heard on the dry grass above, and a man appeared and looked down at them. His clothes were shabby, his face strangely bloodless and pinched.. "It's too bad!' muttered Bill. 'He's driven that fellow away, and he was a two-pounder. The sneaking old tramp! I'll shy a stone at him if he comes any closer!' "You'll do nothing of the sort, Bill Pardee,' said Charley. The man looks hungry, poor fellow!' "I believe he's escaped from the lock-up,' persisted Bill. If he comes down, I'll tell him to go back to jail, where he belongs, see if I don't.' "The man was slowly and unsteadily making his way towards them. He watched the boys with a strangely-eager, imploring glance. A few feet from them he stopped, twirling his hat in his hand. "Been a-fishing, boys?' he said. Can I come down?' "Before I tell you what they said, I must go back a little.. 64 Fifteen years before, a dead man was found in the woods, a mile from this creek. He was the son of one of the neighbouring farmers. There was a bullet-hole through his heart, but his watch and money were untouched. The object of the murderer had been revenge, not plunder. 66 Suspicion fell on a companion of the victim, with whom he had had a quarrel. They had been seen on the road together a week before, and the murdered man was never seen alive again. This friend was arrested and tried. The circumstantial evidence was strong against him. He was found guilty, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. Fifteen years of his confinement had passed when he received a pardon, and was released. "On the morning and just at the hour when our boys went to clear the barn, he came out of the prison gates, and stood looking up and down the busy streets, as though he were half-blinded. "The gatekeeper followed him kindly. Where are ye goin', Seventy-seven?' he asked, calling the man by his prison number; for he never had heard his name. "Jackson stood beside him. Take a cigar,' he said, in token of their new equality. "I have never smoked.' "Where are you goin', anyhow?" "Seventy-seven stared vacantly up and down the street. When he had gone in at that gate, he was a young and handsome man. He had been a lawyer in fair practice, with a mother who made an idol of him, and hosts of friends. "Now he was bent and whitehaired. There was not a man whom he could call friend, or a house where he had a right to shelter, in all the world. "I'd like to go back,' he said, with a miserable smile. "Can't do that, my boy. You were in for". Murder!' 'Yes!' 666 666 666 I was innocent,' muttered Seventy-seven. And then, suddenly, as if the free air and sun accused him afresh of his crime, he rose and stretched out his arms. "Before God, I was innocent!" he cried. 666 Yes, of course, of course,' said Jackson. You all say so. But I believe you, Seventy-seven. Got no kin?" "My mother died eight years ago. My brother lives in the old homestead. I don't know whether to go to him, or-what would you do?' turning in his bitter solitude to Jackson as a friend. "Got the money to go?' "Yes. The Prison Society gave me these clothes, and money to pay my way home. But' "How's yer brother treated ye? Has he gin ye the cold shoulder?' "No. After he married, ten years ago, I never would see him when he came to the prison, I wanted him to feel clear of me; I was a cursed black spot in his life. He does not know I'm out. I thought I'd keep clear of him; but oh, I can't! I can't!' "Yeh. Dem's his boys a-fishin' in de branch yunder. Stranger in dis country, sah?' "The man shook his head and walked on. A stranger! Why, there was not a stone or a tree which he did not remember and love! "He came to his brother's gate and opened it, and then, ghastly as death, turned away. He could not risk it. to me, "If John should speak roughly it would kill me!' he said. Where are his boys? I'll go to them. Whatever they say to me, I'll take it for a sign.' "He climbed down the bank. If the boys spoke harshly to him, he would turn his back on the old home -for ever. "Seventy-seven sat down. He could not speak. The boys dropped their lines in the water. Presently he laid his hand on Charley's arm. It seemed as if he must caress the boy, if but by a touch. "What is your name?' 666 Charley, sir; Charley Pardee.' "It was his own name! The blood rushed violently to his heart. "Who-who were you named for, Charley?' "My uncle, sir. You've heard of him, may-be?' colouring hotly. 'I never saw him, but my father says he was the best man he ever knew, and the most ill-used. Oh, here comes papa!' "The man staggered to his feet and stood trembling, not looking up. "He stood irresolute on the bank above them. Bill saw him, and "Well, boys, what luck?' came made up his mind to fling a stone in Jack's old hearty voice. Then at him. The man caught the boy's there was a terrible silence. scowling glance, and stopped. 666 Charley !' What was the use? His life was a wretched wreck-why should he intrude it into his brother's happy home? "There seemed no place for him in all the world--but the prison-cell which he had just left. He looked at the dark deep water rushing by, and made a step towards it. Then "Jack had his arms about him. 'Oh, Charley, is it you? Thank God, thank God!' and he sobbed like a child. "The winter passed quietly. Charles Pardee found his brother's house a happy home, but he feared to go outside of it. Public opinion squire.' "I am a magistrate, aunty,' said the doctor. held him as a murderer. A few old a squire? I must say it fohr a friends came to see him, but he shrank from every strange face. "Now little Charley had a habit of taking some trifling gift to old Aunty Stannix on his way to school. The old woman was crabbed and sour beyond her wont, being ill that winter, but the boy persevered. One night he was roused out of bed by his father. "I wants to say fohr de squire, dat dis boy's uncle, Charles Pardee, was as innocent as a baby of George Tygart's murder. It was my son Oaf as done it-Oaf, de barber in Dover. "I kep' it quiet, 'cos I didn't want Oaf hung. But when he was shot in dat fight las' summer, an' I knowed he'd got to die, I made him write a paper 'bout it, an' swar to it befohr witnesses. 666 'Hyah's de paper. I gib it to yoh, Charley, kase you've bin good to me. I don't want folks castin' up to yoh dat yoh's got a uncle what's grazed de gallows. Yoh've bin good to me, Charley.' "Before morning she was dead." "Grandfather," said the boys, after a pause, "is that a true story?" The old man's eyes grew dim. "Boys," he said, "I was Seventyseven!" FACING THE FACT. SPEAKING with an invalid friend of ours the other day in regard to his physical condition, he remarked: "I do not feel weak, but I realise constantly the possibility of being weak." It was a very neat bit of descriptive rhetoric. A good many of us who have been mentally or physically overtaxed, or have been prostrated by acute disease, understand what it means. We are haunted by the consciousness that upon the least exertion, by the least inattention to the imperative demands of our physical nature, the strength which, for the moment, seems sufficient for the day, may suddenly fail us. Often it has suddenly failed us, and that experience compels us to realise that at any time it may. The realisation is a painful one, especially to a person who has enjoyed such rude and vigorous health that he hardly knew what weakness was. But painful as it is, it is by no means unhealthfal. If we are liable to sudden prostrating weakness, it is well that we are not suffered to delude ourselves, by any seeming and momentary strength, into the forgetfulness of the fact. Realising the liability to |