moto, for he was ever striving to climb higher in things. pertaining to this life, as well as in that which is to come. His employers noticed this, and they saw, too, that, with all this ambition, there was nothing but the most perfect rectitude of life. He was not one of those who made haste to get rich by dishonest means; in all his transactions, principle-a right principle-guided him.

What was the consequence? We will see.

Many years have passed by since then, and Harry Baynham has prospered for both worlds. He is a rich man now, having succeeded in winning the fullest confidence of his employers, and in making himself competent for business life. But, better than all this, he has proved himself one of the most devoted labourers for Christ to be found in New York City. He is always busy in some project for the good of others; always occupied in some plan for the ameliora tion of human woe or the diffusion of gospel truth. He is greatly honoured and beloved by those who know him; but, amidst it all, he never forgets that Sunday evening open-air service on the village green, nor the truths he learnt there. And many a time, when faint-hearted and disappointed in his own works of usefulness, he recalls that labourer and his efforts in the far-back days when he was a careless, godless youth. That service in the still Sabbath evening has been productive of many good results. Harry Baynham owes everything for this world and the next instrumentally to it; and by him many other poor forlorn waifs of humanity have been rescued from the mire of sin. The humble, plodding, prayerful man, who in the face of persecution and contempt set up a "standard for the Lord on the village green of Combe Hadley, little imagined what a mighty harvest of good would follow. Many souls have been. led and taught by Harry Baynham in the New World who otherwise might never have heard the joyful sound. Is it not an encouragement to sow beside all waters"-to sow in the morning "the good seed of the kingdom," and "in the evening to withhold not the hand," seeing that the

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again; and concerning spiritual things was as thoughtless as the rest of us.

But a stranger came in our midst with a heart on fire with the love of God, yearning over souls, that they all might be saved. We met for prayer and quiet, serious talk; and ere long a spirit of earnest inquiry manifested itself amongst us. What might be most fitly called an awakening" took place amongst the girls of our academy, so that many who were thoughtless and prayerless learnt to pray for the salvation of their souls, with streaming eyes and broken hearts. Among these was our beloved Marian; and although to all appearance her life had been irreproachable as a girl's life, yet, under the convicting power of the Spirit, she cried, "God be merciful to me a sinner." As God's Holy Spirit brought to her remembrance her past sins, and set them in order before her eyes, she felt herself so utterly lost and ruined, so full of shortcomings, in view of the perfect law of God, that she confessed herself to be undeserving and helpless-powerless to remove an iota of the stain of past transgression, or fulfil the perfect law of God.

But "whoso confesseth and forsaketh his sins shall find mercy." Marian proved the truth of this promise. She was made to feel that she, too, was pardoned and accepted through Christ; that she was cleansed from her sins in the blood of Christ. This is not an impossible thing to know. John says: "We know that we have passed from death unto life." Paul says: "I know in whom I have believed." Marian Micheau, after turning to the Lord with full purpose of heart, deep repentance, and saving faith, received that assurance of pardon which enabled her to say: “I know that I am Christ's, and Christ is mine." From that time she sought to consecrate her life to the Lord whom she loved. She conversed with the rest of us, prayed with those who had not yet found peace of soul, and in every available way tried to serve the Lord.

About this time her school days closed, and she was

summoned home to assist in the training of her younger sisters. Willing and eager to be useful to her parents, she went home to be, as she fondly assured us, "her mamma's right hand." And this she did become. The change was wonderful, even to her parents; the little head seemed to become the very brains of the household; and Marian was wanted everywhere and by everybody. But her active spirit was not content. She wanted a distinct work to do for Jesus, and looked about most earnestly for it. After a little while she was invited to take a class in the Sunday-school, and undertook the charge with joyful earnestness of purpose. Sunday by Sunday she was to be found in the midst of a little attentive band of children, who, although young, could understand the lessons of Bible truth as they fell from her lips. But yet, in the evenings, she possessed leisure hours, and the ardent young spirit desired to utilise these for the glory of God and the good of souls. A factory stood near her home, where many men obtained employment; but during the hours after work much drinking and lounging was carried on, to their great moral detriment. Marian obtained the loan of a suitable room, and opened an evening class for workmen, teaching them not merely the letter but the spirit of the Word. The novelty of the thing attracted many men, and induced them to become members of the class. But after this novelty passed off, they still attended from love to it and their teacher, who, on her part, was happy and successful in her work. Many of the men became, ere long, better fathers and husbands, and more valuable workmen, because of the lessons they learnt at the evening class. There was one man, however, who was her constant anxiety; and although ostensibly a member of the class his face was rarely seen there. His besetting vice was drunkenness; his darling companion, drink. It was well known that William Brown had dealt his poor ailing wife such a brutal blow in one of his drunken fits that she was never well afterwards. She failed more and more, until she took to her bed. and finally passed away

herself and her little babe filling one grave. After that William Brown became a prey to bitter remorse. He had loved his wife deeply in the far-off days of youth, and would have made a good husband had it not been for the drink; but now, as he looked back on the past, his conscience smote him as with a whip of scorpions. Still, there seemed to be some possibilities of good in him, and a few friends tried to their utmost to wean him from the tavern, and to lead him in a better way of life. Among these was Marian Micheau. She would not give him up. So one evening, in response to an oft-repeated invitation, William came, and seating himself at the end of one of the forms, seemed brooding over the dark past. Marian prayed for strength, and during the lesson resolved to speak a word to him, which might, by the power of the Holy Spirit, prove to be a word in season.' As she was endeavouring to apply it to the consciences of her hearers, in her timid, appealing way, she said: "Poor William! I am so sorry for you. God must shut you out of His kingdom if you don't repent." With an oath the man turned and left the room; the arrow had found a lodgment. Poor girl! frightened lest the conscience-stricken man should do himself some harm-for he had frequently threatened suicide-Marian flew after him, intending to bring him back; but, as she passed rapidly down the steps, she fell, and the force of the blow struck her senseless. Kind hands took her up and carried her home tenderly, but it was long ere consciousness returned. When it did, she lay helpless upon her couch, unable to move or lift herself, from the effects of a spinal injury received in the fall.

Poor Marian! She lay for some weeks thus, before the medical man broke the sad news to her that she would never walk again! Then all the fountains of feeling seemed broken up, and she rebelled against the trial. Long and bitterly did she weep, bewailing her utter helplessness and uselessness in God's vineyard. Was this, could this be God's appointment for one who had so longed for a "dis

tinct work -a work which should absorb all her energies and glorify Him? This could not be the "distinct work." He had called her to suffer; it surely meant not this. And so Marian mourned, and doubted, and struggled, finding her only refuge at the throne of heavenly grace; until at last light broke, and she realised that the trial, though bitter, was her Father's chastening.

As for William Brown, who was, humanly speaking, the cause of this accident, he suffered exceedingly in his mind. It seemed as if this affliction were about to be the means of doing for him what her words never could. His distress led him to pray; but no entreaties could prevail on him to visit Marian's sick-room. He reproached himself constantly with his sins, and never failed to accuse himself of having been the means of shortening the life of this dear girl. And although she sent him message after message, telling him of her forgiveness and inviting him to come to her sick-room, he hung back, conscience-stricken and miserable.

All this while Marian was learning the hard lessons of submission and quiet resignation. Among all the lessons learnt in the school of Christ, these are some of the hardest; but when the sufferer had learnt them, "perfect peace" filled her soul. The promise says, "Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee;" and Marian proved the truth of it. Then Marian's sick-room became the most frequented spot in all the house; and parents, brothers, sisters and servants, as well as occasional visitors, learnt from the lips of the dear patient sufferer, such lessons as bore glorious fruit in years that followed. After this had continued for about a year, William Brown mustered up resolution to call upon his youthful, but now dying teacher -for dying she undoubtedly was. The spinal disease, which had developed itself, was sapping the springs of life, so that her days were numbered; but still she felt she could not die without one more parting word to the poor drunken sinner. This time he obeyed the message and came. She looked up earnestly in his face as he stood, hat in hand.