came and set up against him, and got away nearly all his business.

Poverty, misery, and vice now hung about the once beautiful cottage of Henry Blain. The rose hung down, the fence was broken, the thatch was off, the gate hung on the ground. Hal's mother sat working in the window; she never went out except to church, and could not speak to her neighbours. They all saw how much altered she was, and tried to comfort her; but she always kept her feelings to herself, and did not like to see them.

One day Hal came in drunk and fell upon a chair, which gave way and threw him heavily on the floor. The fall made him sober, and when he rose he saw his mother going back to her seat at the fire, which she had left to help him. He looked at her and saw that she was deadly pale.

"Mother," he said, "what is the matter?"

She did not answer.

"Are you ill, mother? What is the matter?" "You," she said.

"I know, but I am afraid you are ill."

"Yes, I am ill. I am dying, and you are killing me." As she said this she leaned back in her chair and seemed to faint. Hal was now frightened and went out for help. He could find no one. His neighbours, who had seen him drunk just before, did not answer him, and it was some time before he could get any one to come with him. At last an old woman who was a nurse came, and he sent a lad for the doctor. When the doctor arrived he found the nurse fanning Hal's mother, and rubbing her hands. He looked at her and felt her pulse, and shook his head. She was dead.

For some days after this the neighbours thought that Hal Blain would destroy himself. He would speak to no one, and seemed to have some horrible plan in his mind. Mr. Forley was away when this happened, but as soon as he returned he went over to the cottage and found Hal there. He did not rise up to speak to the

Vicar, but only said, "Good day, sir," and kept his eyes shut, leaning his elbow on the table. It seemed as if he was turned into stone, and Mr. Forley thought of Nabal.

After a time Mr. Forley succeeded in getting Hal to speak, and found that he was in despair, that he had no hope of mercy, and hated his life. He cursed himself, though he had brought curses enough upon his soul already, and was as a man lost.

In a few days Mr. Forley's constant warning and advice was suffered to make a change in him. Hal was softened and cried like a child. He could hardly bear any one to speak to him. Everything was like a dagger to him. His state caused the Vicar much anxiety, and made him offer many prayers to God for his poor wandering sheep; and at last he had the great happiness of seeing that Hal was truly penitent. Still, he knew what a fickle and changeable heart the poor man had, and he could not but fear lest even then he should fall away.

Often and often therefore he entreated him to be watchful; he bade him think of the dreadful words about those who fall away; to remember, when he was in danger of yielding to the laughter or persuasions of his bad companions, the Saviour's words, "Whosoever is ashamed of Me and of My words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when He shall come in His own glory and in His Father's, and of His Holy Angels."

Another trial assisted to humble Henry Blain, one which would have been heavier if he had not been penitent: his business had so fallen off, owing to his course of life, that he could not keep it up any longer, and he was obliged to work as journeyman to his old rival. Even his yard was let to him, and all that remained was the empty cottage, desolate and void of father and mother, but full of bitter and shameful thoughts and feelings.

Henry Blain is now an altered man: he looks old

beyond his years, and scarcely ever laughs; he has never married, and probably will not; he works hard for his livelihood, and what he saved by years of labour he spent in putting up a gravestone to his parents, which has on it these words

Here lie the bodies of

HENRY BLAIN, aged 42, and MARY, his Wife, aged 35.

HENRY BLAIN,

Who broke his Mother's heart, put up this stone,

In gratitude and sorrow.

It was not long since Mr. Forley, who was reading the second lesson in church, containing the account of our Saviour's Crucifixion, saw Henry wipe the tears from his eyes more than once. He did not know exactly why, but Henry's thoughts were these: "They set at nought my Redeemer and mocked at Him for me, and I could not bear to be mocked for Him. They pointed at Him as he hung on the Cross for me, and I could not bear the finger of scorn. The thieves derided Him, and I have been ashamed of Him. O that I might never laugh again. I ought to be ashamed to laugh, since I have been so often ashamed of Christ for the laughter of fools."

There is one human being, and only one, who is much with Henry. He is not unkind or selfish, he is sad and silent; but he has one friend. The orphan child of a neighbour who is lodged near him, was once being led away as he himself was. Henry heard what was passing, and took the child home; he told it all his past life and all his present sufferings; and by God's grace saved the boy from following in his steps. Henry hopes to get his young friend to lodge with him; but, as it is, he has him often at his cottage, and reads to him from the Bible, and teaches him to be bold, to say No in the fear of God, and Yes in the fear of God, and to be ashamed of nothing but evil sinful words or deeds.

If Edward Canning lives and grows up, as we now may hope, he will be a happier man than ever poor Henry Blain can be again in this world; for false shame brings true shame and long, long sorrow.

(By permission of Mr. Masters.)

THE WATCHMAN CRYING THE HOUR

AT HERRNHUTH IN GERMANY.

VIII.-Past eight o'clock! O Herrnhuth, do thou

ponder;

Eight souls in Noah's ark were living yonder. IX. 'Tis nine o'clock! ye brethren, hear it striking; Keep hearts and houses clean, to our Saviour's

liking.

X.-Now, brethren, hear, the clock is ten and passing;

None rest but such as wait for Christ's em

bracing.

XI.-Eleven is past! still at this hour eleven,

The Lord is calling us from earth to heaven.

XII.-Ye brethren, hear, the midnight clock is humming;

At midnight, our great Bridegroom will be coming.

I.-Past one o'clock; the day's from darkness breaking,

Great Morning-star, appear, at our awaking!

II. 'Tis two! on Jesus wait this silent season,

Ye two are so related, will and reason.

III. The clock is three! the blessed Three doth

merit

The best of praise, from body, soul, and spirit.

IV. Tis four o'clock, when three make suppli

cation,

The Lord will be the fourth on that occasion.

V.-Five is the clock! five virgins were discarded, When five with wedding garments were rewarded.

VI. The clock is six, and I go off my station; Now, brethren, watch yourselves for your salvation.

ELIHU.

ALICE CAREY.

“O SAILOR, tell me, tell me true,

Is my

little lad-my Elihu—

A sailing in your ship?"

The sailor's eyes were dimmed with dew.
"Your little lad? your Elihu?"

He said with trembling lip;

"What little lad-what ship?"

What little lad?- -as if there could be
Another such a one as he!

"What little lad, do you say?"
"Why, Elihu, that took to the sea
The moment I put him off my knee.
It was just the other day
The Gray Swan sailed away."

The other day? The sailor's eyes
Stood wide-open with surprise.

"The other day?-the Swan ?"
His heart began in his throat to rise.
"Ay, ay, sir; here in the cupboard lies

The jacket he had on."

"And so your

lad is gone!