dressed youth, his intelligent face beaming with eager interest, and his hand instantly laid upon that of the dirty ragged creature at his feet. Thus Walter and David, in contrast stronger than ever, met once more.

"Once more I have found you, Davy," said the young man; "you cannot hide out of my search, you see.”

"Wal, an' aint yer a fool for yer pains? D'yer see where yer've got to this time?" surlily asked David. "'Spose I just gives a whistle, an' who'll ever find yer again ?"

"I know it all, Davy; but I know, too, that you won't do that. I've never forgotten the boy who found me a broom and a crossing when I hadn't a friend in the world. I've searched for you, and found you many a time, Davy, in hope to get you to give up this way of life; but now I'm come for the last time."

66

Eh! is yer now? give up old Davy at last, then !"

"I'm going abroad, Davy. I've got charge of a lot of young men from our institution who are going to work on a fine estate, where they'll get homes and wages and honest work, and I'm to see them settled, and then find my sister Maggie. But what are you going to do, David? you don't look comfortable."

"Comfortable!" ejaculated David, scornfully, "why, I'm goin' to do anythink as turns up that I've a mind tostarving to-day, thieving and supper to-night; no good sweeping crossings now, the gemmen allays asking why one ain't at work reg'lar. They knows a lot about it! Why, I might get work reg'lar a looking after their plate baskets afore they knows what's what." And the boy chuckled with something of his former glee.

"David," said Walter mournfully, "I could have a hearty cry over you this minute. I've prayed for you, I've followed you in your sin and wretchedness where nothing else could have taken me, and nothing has kept me from hoping, till now. Must I give you up, David? Will you be the devil's child for ever? Perhaps I shall never see you any more. But, Davy, dear old Davy, don't forget that I've loved you

The monarch who ruleth the winds and seas

Is the Lord, the King of heaven,

And 'tis from the hollow of His right hand
Their mighty power is given.

No harm can happen unless He wills,

Their strength has no leave to smite;

Though He dwelleth in power He dwelleth in love,
And His dealings are always right.

Like the smallest atoms His hands have made,
They bow to His sovereign will,

Winds and waves are calm, and their rage is stayed,
When He speaketh, "Peace, be still."

S. P.

How Edward Foster Remembered his Sundayschool and the Lessons he Learned there.

T was midnight in Australia. In a garret in Melbourne, three or four stories up, a young man, just twenty-five years of age, sat, pondering and weeping. At intervals he examined a handsome gold watch, lying on the table beside him, with keen and eager interest; and at these times his distress seemed to abate, and a spirit of indecision and uncertainty appeared to creep over him. Then, he would glance at an open Bible lying beside the watch, and weep again. It was evident that a serious matter was trembling in the balance that night. What did it all mean? What was the cause of his distress?

Edward Foster was a prodigal son. Many years before this, he had been a scholar in an English Sunday-school, and had listened to the great verities of the Word of God, as expounded and placed before him by his teacher. This teacher was an earnest, affectionate man, and a true Christian. He laboured in his work with a single eye to God's glory, and the salvation of his scholars. He espe cially looked upon Foster with trembling, for he discerned

HOW EDWARD FOSTER REMEMBERED HIS SUNDAY-SCHOOL.

in his character the seeds of those follies which had now ripened into fruit. Even in his boyhood he was weak to resist temptation, reluctant to say No, to tempters, and fond of that glitter and frivolity which strands many a fair young life. These things boded ill for Edward Foster's future; but the teacher watched and prayed over him, as one that must give an account, one that must meet his scholars at the judgment-bar of the Most High.

Thus time went on, until Foster grew up to young manhood. Of a restless, roving disposition, he had rejected the idea of settling in England, and had unceasingly importuned his friends to supply him with the means to emigrate to Australia. At last they did so, though with a protest, for, with the young man's habits and tendencies, the future bore no promise in it for him. True, he had, up till that time, been preserved from gross outward faults; he had steered along fairly, but, away from home and the restraining influence of his parents, there was reason to fear that he would speedily grow worse.

Foster went away, and reached Melbourne in due time. His first two or three letters were filled with all bright pictures. He had found employment, friends, amusements and excitement, and life seemed to be full of pleasure. Afterward, his home-ties grew more dim to him, his newly-found engagements more enticing, for he wrote only seldom, and then very hurriedly and briefly. Finally, as he grew more unsteady, and mingled more freely in dissipation, he ceased to write at all, only too conscious that this conduct would not bear the scrutiny of home. So his friends could only follow him with their tears and prayers, leaving him to the watchful mercy of God. More time rolled on, and Foster became known among the habitués of the publichouses, theatres, and gambling-saloons of Melbourne as a reckless, spendthrift young fellow, who would revel in extravagance and reckless indulgence at one time, while at another he would toil and work just as eagerly and recklessly, undergoing great hardships in the process of securing

funds sufficient to purchase a few days' drunken and gambling enjoyment. As long as his funds lasted, he was a constant visitor at the theatres; and here it was that the Spirit of God met with him. It came about in this

way..

At one of the lowest theatres in Melbourne, the proprietor, in order to increase his gains, announced that he would, on a certain night distribute prizes to all those who would, on the spur of the moment, solve certain riddles, then and there to be propounded. The bait took, and on the night in question an immense number thronged the theatre. Among the crowd was Edward Foster, full of eager curiosity as to the riddles and prizes, and resolved to try to gain one, for he had frequently been complimented on his ability in solving conundrums. As this part of the evening's programme drew on, he gathered up his courage -for dissipation had shaken his nervous system-and made one or two unsuccessful trials. The hardest conundrum was reserved until the last, when a gold watch was offered to whoever should solve it. As it was propounded, Foster thought of a passage which he had learnt at the Sundayschool, in the far-off days of his boyhood, and, singular to say, gave it at once as the answer. It is a remarkable fact, that the passage in question, one from the Book of Proverbs, was deemed by those who were the judges to be the best solution; and to Foster the gold watch was immediately awarded, amid the applause of the onlookers. No sooner, however, had the prize been secured, than Foster became the prey of reproach and remorse. His conscience stirred within him, as he recollected that he had dared to profane God's Word, by using it for such a purpose, and in such a place. How it all rose up before him: the old-time Sundayschool, his faithful teacher, his praying-parents' home! and, hurrying to his cold and cheerless lodgings, he gave vent to his feelings. His horror of soul was great; he looked with loathing upon his success in winning the prize, while he remembered too, with a feeling of despair, that he had

persuasion of mine could make it go again. In vain I gently shook it; a few feeble ticks was all the answer that it gave, and then it was quiet again. What could be the matter with it? It didn't want cleaning, I was sure of that, for only a short time before it had been thoroughly done by an experienced workman.

I did not pretend to know much about watches or clocks, but I thought if I opened it and looked at the works I might see the cause of its stopping. But no, the wheels were all so bright and apparently in order that it seemed as if it ought to be ready to perform its work properly, so I shut it up and carefully tipped it from side to side for a moment, and eagerly listened for its familiar ticking; but it was all to no purpose, it utterly refused to go, and at last I gave it up in despair.

I must take it to the watchmaker some day; I made up my mind to that, and meanwhile, not to be annoyed by the sight of it, I put it away in a cupboard where it would be perfectly safe till I had an opportunity of taking it to be mended. After a day or two I ceased to miss its striking, and in a little time I really almost forgot it.

so, and in doing "I will just try

One day, nearly three months after this, I had occasion to go to the cupboard in which I had placed my clock, and when I opened the door the first thing that I saw was my old friend. I don't know what made me take it down and look at it again, but I felt as if I must do it I knocked down the key belonging to it. the key," I thought; and I did so. Very carefully, at first, I turned it; round it went-once-twice-three timesagain and again I turned it, till the clock was wound up, then I put it on the table. Tick, tick, it went, and in a minute or two, it being near the hour, it struck as plainly and clearly as ever.

For a moment I was overcome by surprise, and then I began to think how it could be that the timepiece was run down. Was it possible that, when it had stopped, it had done so for want of winding up? I didn't like to confess