should never know Jesus to be his Intercessor? and as that thought flashed through his brain he could scarcely keep from crying aloud for time and mercy. It was a week before Ted Carroll was permitted to leave the infirmary, the medical men pronouncing it unsafe for him to do so until then; and it was with no small pleasure Ted took possession of his own rooms once more. As he entered the sitting room he fancied he had never seen it look so comfortable before. Mary Edmonds had remained behind, whilst Nelly came to fetch him back, and had prepared tea against his arrival. All appeared ready and waiting for him, even to a pillow in his own arm-chair to lean against, lest the wooden rails should hurt his bruised side. Nelly hovered about him, anticipating all his wants, and Mary smiled and made everything brighten beneath her influence. Ted could scarcely believe he had only been absent a week; it seemed as if months had passed since he left his home. That night he would have begun reading the Bible, but Nelly forbade him. "No, father," she said, "I will read to you to-night, and you shall spend as much time over it as you like to-morrow." She had her way, for Ted was in no mood to contradict her, and listened with marked attention to the fifth chapter of Romans, which she had chosen to read to him.

Day after day found Ted searching the Scriptures. He was no half-hearted person; the very peculiarity of his disposition made him anxious and dissatisfied unless fully persuaded in his own mind on any subject. "All or not at all," was his motto in earthly things, and now he applied it to spiritual things. Saved or lost he knew he must be; and until that question was decided, he felt he should never have rest or peace. The hoping system he put away from him; he could never be satisfied with only a bare hope. If Jesus saved him he was sure he ought to know it, and could not be content until he did. But he had lived so long in neglect and unbelief, that he had to go through fearful struggles between the enemy of souls and his new desire. Satan now came forward with all his powers to keep his late captive from escaping entirely from his net. He tried to make him despair of mercy: then he pierced him with past remembrances; on every side temptations seemed to rise and strive to cast him down. But

Ted fought on. He took unto him the armour of God, and wrestled night and day in prayer until he got the blessing.

It was a Sunday morning when Ted first realized his adoption. Nelly had gone to church by his express wish (he was not strong enough to go with her), leaving him reading his Bible. He had been sadly depressed for several days, for he thought he was no nearer to the end of his search than when he first began to seek the Lord. He was going regularly through the Gospels, and that morning he began St. John. He had read to the twelfth verse; when he came to that one he read slowly and aloud. The words are: "But as many as received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God, even to them who believe on his name." As he read, suddenly he felt he did believe on Jesus, that he had received him as his Saviour, and that therefore he was a child of God. He looked in the margin of his Bible and saw that the word power meant right or privilege, and in an instant, by faith, claimed it. Bursting into tears, with his heart beating with delight and joy, he exclaimed, in the words of Thomas, "My Lord and my God."

The victory was won, grace had triumphed, the unbeliever was savingly converted, and another trophy of redeeming love added to the Saviour's jewels. The bread of prayer cast upon the waters of faith had been found after many days, to the praise and glory of Him who had watched over and kept it, and to the strengthening of those who in much weakness had scattered it.

But let not my readers suppose that because Ted had found Jesus to be his Saviour, his work was done. No! oh no! They who have grown old in any pernicious habit know full well how hard it is to overcome it; and so Ted found. He had constantly to watch against his grumbling, irritable temper. As often as he thought he had got the complete victory, something occurred which convinced him to the contrary; but he strove manfully against it. He began to count up his blessings, and as he did, his grievances lessened, and a cheerful smile chased away his old moody expression.

Six years slipped quickly by, and Ted Carroll no longer considered Mr. Elstone's church too far off, or that one church was as good as another, but twice every Sunday he might be seen going thither, leading by the hand a darkeyed prattler of five years old, Nelly's eldest child (for Nelly, with her father's full consent, married Tom Hopkins). Ted is no longer jealous of Jim and Mary Edmonds,

but places Tommy between himself and Jim upon the bench at church, and the boy can scarcely tell which of his granddads he loves the best. Charlie Carroll was apprenticed, when he left the city school, to a carpenter, and is going on well, to the joy of all, but more especially Mary Edmonds; whilst Nelly, happy in her husband, father, children and friends, proclaims to all that they who sow in tears shall reap in joy; and in every case of doubt or difficulty encourages the desponding one with, "Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days," Eccl. xi. 1.

HOW DO WE KNOW?

BY MRS, H. B. STOWE.

It was a splendid room. Rich curtains swept down to the floor in graceful folds, half excluding the light, and shedding it in soft hues over the fine old paintings on the walls, and over the broad mirrors that reflect all that taste can accomplish by the hand of wealth. Books, the rarest and most costly, were around, in every form of gorgeous binding and gilding, and among them, glittering in ornament, lay a magnificent Bible-a Bible too beautiful in its appointments, too showy, too ornamental, ever to have been meant to be read-a Bible which every visitor should take up and exclaim, "What a beautiful edition! what superb binding!" and then lay it down again.

And the master of the house was lounging on a sofa, looking over a late review-for he was a man of leisure, taste, and reading-but, then, as to reading the Bible, that forms, we suppose, no part of the pretensions of a mere man of letters. The Bible-certainly he considered it a very respectable book-a fine specimen of ancient literature an admirable book of moral precepts; but then, as to its Divine origin, he had not exactly made up his mind: some parts appeared strange and inconsistent to his reason; others were revolting to his taste: true, he had never studied it very attentively, yet such was his general impression about it; but, on the whole, he thought it well enough to keep an elegant copy of it on his drawing-room table.

So much for one picture. Now for another.

Come with us into this little dark alley, and up a flight of ruinous stairs. It is a bitter night, and the wind and

snow might drive through the crevices of that poor room, were it not that careful hands have stopped them with paper or cloth. But, for all this carefulness, the room is bitter cold-cold even with those few decaying brands on the hearth, which that sorrowful woman is trying to kindle with her breath. Do you see that pale, little, thin girl, with large, bright eyes, who is crouching so near her mother?-hark! how she coughs! Now listen.

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Mary, my dear child," says the mother, "do keep that shawl close about you; you are cold, I know;" and the woman shivers as she speaks.

"No, mother, not very," replies the child, again relapsing into that hollow, ominous cough: "I wish you wouldn't make me always wear your shawl when it is cold, mother."

"Dear child, you need it most. How you cough tonight!" replies the mother; "it really don't seem right for me to send you up that long, cold street, now your shoes have grown so poor, too; I must go myself, after this."

Oh, mother, you must stay with the baby-what if he should have one of those dreadful fits while you are gone? No, I can go very well; I have got used to the cold now!" But, mother, I'm cold," says a little voice from the scanty bed in the corner; mayn't I get up and come to the fire ?"

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"Dear child, it would not warm you; it is very cold here, and I can't make any more fire to-night."

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Why can't you, mother? There are four whole sticks of wood in the box; do put one on, and let's get warm once."

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No, my dear little Henry," says the mother, soothingly, "that is all the wood mother has, and I haven't any money to get more."

And now wakens the sick baby in the cradle, and mother and daughter are both for some time busy in attempting to supply its little wants, and lulling it again to sleep.

And now look you well at that mother. Six months ago she had a husband, whose earnings procured for her both the necessaries and comforts of life; her children were clothed, fed, and schooled, without thought of hers. But husbandless, friendless, and alone, in the heart of a great, busy city, with feeble health, and only the precarious resource of her needle, she has gone down from comfort to extreme poverty. Look at her now, as she is to-night. She knows full well that the pale, bright-eyed girl, whose

hollow cough constantly rings in her ears, is far from well. She knows that cold, and hunger, and exposure of every kind, are daily and surely wearing away her life. And yet what can she do? Poor soul! how many times has she calculated all her little resources, to see if she could pay a doctor and get medicine for Mary-yet all in vain. She knows that timely medicine, ease, fresh air, and warmth might save her; but she knows that all these things are out of the question for her. She feels, too, as a mother would feel when she sees her once rosy, happy little boy becoming pale, and anxious and fretful; and even when he teases her most, she only stops her work a moment, and strokes his little thin cheeks, and thinks what a laughing, happy little fellow he once was, till she has not heart to reprove him. And all this day she has toiled with a sick and fretful baby in her lap, and her little shivering hungry boy at her side, whom Mary's patient artifices cannot always keep quiet; she has toiled over the last piece of work which she can procure from the shop, for the man has told her that after this he can furnish no more; and the little money that is to come from this is already portioned out in her own mind, and after that she has no human prospect of support.

But yet that woman's face is patient, quiet, firm. Nay, you may even see in her suffering eye something like peace. And whence comes it? I will tell you.

There is a Bible in that room, as well as in the rich man's apartment. Not splendidly bound, to be sure, but faithfully read-a plain, homely, much-worn book.

Hearken, now, while she says to her children, "Listen to me, dear children, and I will read you something out of this book. Let not your heart be troubled; in my Father's house are many mansions.' So you see, my children, we shall not always live in this little, cold, dark room. Jesus Christ has promised to take us to a better home."

"Shall we be warm there all day?" says the little boy, earnestly; "and shall we have enough to eat?"

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Yes, dear child," says the mother; "listen to what the Bible says: They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; for the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them; and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'

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"I am glad of that," said little Mary; "for, mother, I never can bear to see you cry."