grace, "Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and bless what Thou hast provided." A little fellow looked up and said, "Do tell me why the Lord Jesus never comes. We ask Him every day to sit with us, and he never comes." "Dear child, only believe, and you may be sure He will come, for He does not despise our invitation." "I shall set Him a seat," said the little fellow; and just then there was a knock at the door. A poor frozen apprentice entered, begging a night's lodging. He was made welcome; the chair stood empty for him; every child wanted him to have his plate, and one was lamenting that his bed was too small for the stranger, who was quite touched by such uncommon attentions. The little one had been thinking hard all this time, "Jesus could not come, and so he sent this poor dear boy in his place; is that it?" Yes, dear child, that is just it. Every piece of bread and drink of water that we give to the poor, or sick, or the prisoners, for Jesus' sake, we give to Him. 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."" The children sang a hymn of the love of God to their guest before they parted for the night, and neither they nor he were likely to forget this simple Bible comment.-Illustrative Gatherings. 66 I WAS ONCE YOUNG. Ir is an excellent thing for all who are engaged in giving instruction to young people frequently to call to mind what they were themselves when young. This practice is one of the most likely to impart patience and forbearance, and to correct unreason able expectations. At one period of my life, when instructing two or three young people to write, I found them, as I thought, unusually stupid. I happened about this time to look over the contents of an old copy-book written by me when a boy. The thick up-strokes, the crooked downstrokes, the awkward joinings of letters, and the blots in the book, made me quite ashamed of myself, and I could, at that moment, have burned the book in the fire. The worse, however, I thought of myself, the better I thought of my backward scholars; I was cured of my unreasonable expectations, and became in future doubly patient and forbearing. In teaching youth, remember that you once were young, and in reproving their youthful errors endeavour to call to mind your own.-Selected. JAMES FAITHFUL: HOW HE LOST AND WON. BY THE EDITOR. (All Rights in this Story are Reserved.) CHAPTER XIV. THE MORNING AFTER. WHAT a blessed thing sleep is! How many heart-breaking sorrows have been forgotten while those who have had to bear them have been wrapped in "balmy slumbers!" It has helped the criminal, who had but one night more to spend on earth, to dream, perhaps, of that happy childhood ere crime had been committed, or the conscience burdened with guilt. It has enabled him to go back to that quiet village home where a father's and a mother's love combined to make him happy; where the pet lamb was reared, the faithful house-dog caressed; where with brothers and sisters equally innocent with himself, he romped and played as the setting sun shed its glory on the landscape, and the lowing cattle and the bleating flock gathered to the homestead, as if to share the quiet and the joy of the evening pastime. To-morrow there would be the gallows, the masked executioner, the hooting crowd, and the stern officials round him to vindicate the majesty of the law; but for one blessed night the prisoner has slept soundly, the more needful this to help him on the last journey he would ever take in this life-the journey from his cell to the drop. Sleep comes to the relief of the "naughty boy" whose evening rations have been cut short, and who has been sent supperless to bed, to wait the developments of papa's anger in the morning; and the birch rod has been banished by the child's sleep from the visions of the night. Oh, blessed sleep, that ever it should be broken by sobs of grief, by heart-ache and anxiety, by the fever that burns the brain, or the wasting consumption that eats away manly or womanly vigour, is a consummation most devoutly not to be wished. James slept; his moistened pillow did not prevent him. His sobs and self-reproach for the indiscretion he had committed did not prevent him; and he awoke in the morning, as we commonly all do, with a sweet feeling of happiness, for it is with sleep as it is with velvet, the soft feel of it does not wear away all at once, and James was for some time after his night's repose forgetful of the painful experiences which must crowd themselves into the day which had just dawned upon him. His toilet was rather hurried, and his breakfast was taken with a nervous haste which warred greatly with the swallowing faculty-in short, his breakfast nearly choked him. His landlady looked at him in her motherly way, spoke to him kindly, and advised him, whatever happened at the office that morning, when he encountered "Spicer and Co.," to tell the truth, keep his temper, and not answer again. Excellent advice this, which older folk than James sometimes need in the affairs of life, and which we record for their advantage, if any of them should by chance read this story. To the office he went, and settled down to his work as usual, as if nothing had happened. Frank was not there, in fact the limbs of the law had laid hold of him, and he was where I hope none of my young readers will ever be in the lockup at the police station. His employers came at the usual time-about one hour after James had gone to his work-to whom the head clerk reported Frank's absence. But as he knew nothing of the cause of this, for James had said nothing, Mr. Spicer summoned James into the inner room to ask about Frank. "James," said Mr. Spicer, "do you know anything about Frank?" For a moment James hesitated; but remembering the advice of his landlady to tell the truth, he related all that had happened on the previous evening, and the part which he had taken in the transaction. It is hardly possible to describe the feelings of Mr. Spicer when he heard what James had to say. He was evidently angry, and his first words expressed that anger in no very measured terms. So, then, James," he said, "you are a companion of thieves. By your own account you have consorted with them in their disreputable proceedings, and perhaps you are as guilty as any of them." James's face flushed with passion at this taunt, and he was about to reply in a tone which, if it might indicate somewhat of a manly temper, would only add fuel to the fire, and remembering again the advice of his landlady "to keep his temper, and not answer again," he calmly but firmly said, "No, sir, I am not a companion of thieves. I never was, and I never will be; and I do not deserve such an imputation. I have acted imprudently in complying with the request of a young man whom I found in this office, and who I supposed had your confidence, and who I had no reason to suppose would lead me into anything that was wrong; but beyond that I have nothing to reproach myself with; and I hope you will not judge of me more unfavourably than the circumstances warrant." Mr. Spicer felt that the appeal to his better feeling-that is, his sense of justice-was not unreasonable, and he merely added, 'Well, it may be as you say, but the affair must be looked into. |