(Concluded.) By L. E. D. NEVER in all her life had Mrs. Grey gone to church in the same mood, or in the same spirit, and she indeed found help and comfort there. It was such a comforting thought that the few present, gathered in Christ's name, were all praying for her dear husband. Then, too, the thought of her previous neglect of her many opportunities; of her constant failures, and her many sins, and in humble confession to God,-they all came before her. Sweet were the words of absolution as they fell upon her ears: "He pardoneth and absolveth all them that truly repent, and unfeignedly believe His holy Gospel." The collect, too, seemed to suit her wonderfully "O God, our refuge and strength, who art the Author of all godliness; be ready, we beseech Thee, to hear the devout prayers of Thy Church; and grant that those things which we ask faithfully, we may obtain effectually; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." God alone knew what were the many "things" which Mrs. Grey asked that night. Whatever they were they were asked faithfully, that is, believing in God's almighty power to grant her prayers, in His love to do so, and above all in His wisdom to withhold the answer for a time, or even not to grant them, if He saw fit to do so. Faith is needed in prayer. Faith not only to believe that God lends a willing ear to our smallest petition, but faith to trust Him and His great love for us if we do not get the prayers granted. Answered they always will be, sooner or later. Day by day went on, and year by year, and Mrs. Grey was now often seen at the quiet evening hour going across to the old church, and slipping into her place near her friend, Mrs. Lane. Troubles had pressed hardly and heavily upon Mrs. Grey, and life had seemed beset with difficulties, many and great. But there was a calmer expression on her face than there used to be, and a greater rest in her soul, which no eye but God's could know of. She had learnt many things in those hard years, many lessons which are only gained by trial and experience; and one thing she had learnt, that was the value of prayer. It was no longer a form or a duty to her, no longer a thing she dared neglect; it was a privilege and a joy and comfort to her, and she loved the church prayers more and more. They seemed to meet her in every separate difficulty and sorrow; they seemed to fit into her hours of joy, and to add to any gladness that came into her life. For every time and season she found them helpful, and the teaching of the Church's year was become part of her life. Time fails me to tell you in how many ways she found the prayers all that Mr. Barnard had told her they would be; only one instance shall suffice me. As the different Ember days came round, and prayers for those to be ordained were specially made, Mrs. Grey joined in with the rest. Years afterwards she heard gratefully of one answer to her prayers. Her son Johnnie, who ran away to sea when he was nineteen, met some years afterwards a clergyman, whose ministrations were of the greatest help to him; bringing him back not only to a sober life, but to be a really consistent Christian man; and long after Mrs. Grey heard that he had been ordained at the very time when she was just beginning to appreciate the Church prayers, and to make them her own. Sally and Jane, too, were, after a time, changed in many ways, and in a few years Mrs. Grey's house was brighter and happier than it had ever been. She often looks back to the time of trouble that first led her to the services which are now, indeed, much valued by her, and never is she heard to say that there is no use in going to church on a week-day evening because it is "ONLY THE PRAYERS." I ONCE knew two dear little boys, the children of an officer in the army; the elder was called Cyril, a family name, and the younger, Fitz-Gerald. Their parents sent them home, as they were growing too old to remain in India. They were placed under the charge of some distant cousins, and I, as an old friend, was present the day they arrived from Calcutta. At the time I speak of, the boys were about seven, and four years of age. First of all, I shook hands with a great brown Ayah, dressed in a scarlet gown, gold bangles on her ankles, crimson carbuncles adorning her nose, and long silver earrings hanging down at either side of her dark neck. Her hair was very black, and streaked, here and there, with grey; and when she smiled, she displayed a very white row of teeth, which prevented her face from looking fierce. Then I turned and looked at the children. I noticed Cyril was fair, with long golden curls, deep blue eyes, and black eyelashes, while his bright cheeks were as rosy as Ribston Pippins. "Just like his mother," I heard their cousins say; "and FitzGerald resembles our family;" he was pouting, and clinging like a frightened fawn to the Ayah's dress, and was smaller, and more babyish than bonnie Cyril. England must have been a great change to them after Calcutta. I dare say you all know it is the capital of Bengal, and Allahabad, of Agra. Most of the natives-who are Hindoosare black; much darker than the Persians. It is built on the Hooghly, one of the mouths of the Ganges. The Europeans have most beautiful houses, and the native merchants are immensely wealthy. Calcutta is the seat of the Governor General and Council of Bengal, and it has, also, a Chief Justice, and three judges beside. But there is one very sad story connected with the city. In 1756 it was attacked by the Soubah, or Nabob, Surajah Dowlah, of Bengal, with an army of 70,000 horse and foot, and 400 elephants. The garrison bravely defended themselves, but at last they were obliged to surrender, and were all, to the number of 146, crammed into the Black Hole Prison, a dungeon about eighteen feet square, and only twenty-three came out alive in the morning. The Indian boys (as I called them) settled into their new home wonderfully quickly, considering the difference between their past and present life, and the quiet old house became the constant scene of childish merriment. Cyril was a tremendous romp. And how he hated lessons. He was quick and intelligent, but had no perseverance; and the blotted copy, and half learned task, were the cause of many, many tears. He was passionate, but the fits did not last long; and when they were over Cyril would kneel down and pray to God to give him strength to overcome his temper for the future, and then go and ask forgiveness for the unkind speech, or hasty blow. Alas, none of us are perfect. But in Cyril's case we made some little allowance as he had been accustomed to order the Hindoo servants, and treat them very roughly; so that he found the lesson of obedience he was obliged to learn very difficult. Dear, merry, little fellow! I can see him as he stands in his dark blue serge sailor dress, with his white neck open to the keen, fresh breeze, and caresses a noble Newfoundland dog, and screams loudly to Fitz-Gerald, who follows him at a distance. I have one treasure I do not think Cyril's mother will ever miss-a golden curl. It was cut off on a summer's evening, before he bid me good-night, and the little, loving lock kept resting against my dress as I wished him happy dreams. Cyril's face was close to mine, and he whispered : "Do you know, Pussy," (his pet name for me) "what I think of every night when I lie down in bed after I have said my prayers ?" 66 No, darling," I replied. "How pleasant it would be to wake in heaven; where Dolly is waiting for me (a little sister he had lost). "I have no fear of death." And then he repeated: "And when mine eyes I close in sleep, Thine holy arms around me keep," with the little hands clasped tight, and the soft, fair face, purity itself, as he stood upright in his night-dress, and murmured sweetly: "But I am content to stay, because dear рара, and mamma, and Fitz-Gerald would be lonely if I were gone.' The next time I saw Cyril he was in full chase after Rollo, or swinging down the banisters with merry shouts of joyous laughter. Two or three years passed away; my little friend was now at school. I saw him often, and listened to his accounts of the cricket club and gymnasium to which he belonged, and sometimes he would tell me of the great difficulty he had in controlling his temper, and what a help he had always found in a short prayer when the temptation was too strong, and he had given way. His masters spoke of him as truthful, honest, gentle, and loving, studious and painstaking, a character which pleased me much, knowing how bravely Cyril struggled against his besetting sin. One evening before the holidays commenced, I found Cyril poring over a French Grammar. "You don't look well," I observed. "Only a sick head-ache,' think I have been working too hard." was the answer, "I Why did my heart sink at the news. Boys are often subject to such maladies, and perhaps I was needlessly alarmed. After a few minutes' conversation I left him, saying, "Good night, dearest, next week it will all be over, and your school troubles at an end." Prophetic words! Alas, that night Cyril's throat became painfully sore, his symptoms were unsatisfactory, the sickness increased, the doctor pronounced it to be scarlet fever, but still they hoped with care he might recover. On the following day somebody told me abruptly, Cyril Harcourt was dead. I felt stunned and bewildered; my darling never to run about again, to bring me flowers, and cheer me with his merry voice; and yet I knew how blessed the exchange must have been to the sweet young child whose preparation had begun so early. Afterwards I heard some details of his illness. He had caught the infection from a school boy who was his constant companion. The sick friend recovered, but our poor lad never rallied; he was delirious from the beginning, and did not know any of the sorrowing relatives who stood around his bed; once only, they heard the words breathed very low: Dear Saviour, receive me, and the text, "Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life," then his lips parted in a happy smile; he sunk from exhaustion, but thank God his end was peace. Dear children, have we begun our work of preparation? and are we fighting through God's grace against our besetting sin? Death comes to young and old; oh may we be ready, like Cyril, to pass from earthly care and sorrow, into heaven's eternal joy. * There is a little grave I tend most carefully for the memory of the dear one whose sweet companionship I have lost; it has a marble cross, and the name of little Cyril written in gold letters, and underneath "Suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto Me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” G. M. A. See that poor inebriate as he stands looking into the cottage-yard that was his a year ago. He wants sympathy. He feels as though his last friend has forsaken him, as though no one cares whether he lives or dies. Go to his rescue. Take him by the hand-call him brother. Tell him you love him, and feel an interest in his welfare, and manifest that interest both by words and actions. |