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I do not think she will see me if I go to her; she has so often refused my visits."

"Oh! but do come, teacher; mother is so bad, and I'm sure she'll see you now."

I promised to go the next day; and when I paid my visit, a wretched scene of misery met my eyes such as is known only to those who have visited the courts and lanes of some of England's large cities. This poor woman I had known for some time, though she had hitherto rejected my visits. She was oftener to be met with in a gin-shop or at the corner of an alley than in her own room; nay, she had been in prison more than once, at which times her poor children attended the ragged school with more regularity.

"Well! Mrs. H——,” I said, on entering this abode, “I am sorry to hear you are ill; your little girl said you wished to see me."

"Ah! but I didn't think you'd come; I've often been rude to you; I cannot expect you to visit me now."

I took a seat by her bedside, and assured her, if my visits would be any comfort to her, I would gladly come and see her as often as she wished; and then, trying to turn the conversation to profitable account, I asked her what had brought her into the condition in which I found her.

"Sin! sin!" she exclaimed. "I have been a wicked sinner."

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But," I said, "there is mercy for you. Jesus Christ died for sinners."

"Oh! no, no," she interrupted me; "there is nothing but hell for me. I am too wicked to be saved."

I took out my Bible, and read to her some of the most precious of God's promises to the repentant sinner-the story of the thief on the cross and others; but she could not receive the comfort I offered; and after praying with her, and providing some earthly comforts, which she sadly needed, I left her.

Every day, or nearly so, I went to her, and week after week passed without any token of the change of heart I

longed and prayed for. She used to say, "Ah! wonderful promises, but not for me. I'm too vile; there's nothing but hell for me. But oh! do try and teach my children, that they may not follow in my steps. I've been a wicked mother; they have never seen anything but what is bad in me; but oh! do keep them at school when I am gone, and do not let them grow up in scenes of wickedness such as I have lived in."

Thus days and weeks passed; until one afternoon I was reading to her the parable of the Prodigal Son, and as I dwelt slowly and emphatically upon verse 20, " But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him," she exclaimed suddenly and joyfully, “That's me! I'm a long way off, but I think my Father sees me."

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Yes, my dear friend," I said, "He does indeed; and He is preparing, even for you, the fatted calf, and offering you His loving forgiveness for all your past sins." Then I knelt beside her in prayer; and most earnestly she joined with me in praying that she might be enabled to behold Him through Jesus as her reconciled Father.

In answer to prayer she was indeed taught of the Spirit, and tenderly led on to rest entirely in the one perfect and sufficient atoning sacrifice of our precious Saviour, Jesus Christ. Marvellous it was to watch the progress of grace in her soul; and from having been one of the coarsest and roughest of her sex she became gentle and loving, nay, I may say refined. Her room was now made clean and tidy, and she herself so altered in appearance, though wasting in decline, that she could hardly be recognised as the same woman to whom I went, almost with fear and trembling, only a few weeks before. Her illness, however, was of long duration, and her neighbours had throughout performed for her self-denying acts of kindness, which those who visit amongst the poor know are so constantly shown the one to the other; but as she became more and more helpless, she desired to be removed to the workhouse infirmary.

Her husband, alas! was altogether indifferent about her,

and after her removal thence seldom, if ever, went to see her. But she had found One who did not leave her nor forsake her in her time of need. That beautiful hymn,

"Just as I am, without one plea,

But that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou bidst me come to Thee,
O. Lamb of God, I come!"

was her especial favourite; and she had it constantly on her bed, asking now and then one of the inmates of the ward to read it to her, for she could not read herself. She said, "It is just as though it had been written for me."

I visited her as usual here; and many a lesson of faith and patience did I learn from that dying woman. One day, as I was sitting by her bed, she said, "Before you go, I have a great favour to ask you, I wonder if you can grant it me ?"

I assured her that if it were in my power I would.

"Well, it is this: I want to see my poor boy before I die. Oh! I cannot die till I have seen him; I led him into sin, and I want to ask him to forgive me, and to beseech him to lead a better life than his poor mother has done."

The lad was in a reformatory; but upon the case being represented, the governor most humanely sent him, under a proper escort, to his mother's dying bed.

I was not present at the interview; but the nurse told me that a more touching scene she had never witnessed than this meeting and parting between the dying mother and her son.

When the last kiss had been given, and her boy was gone from her sight, she fell back upon her pillow, saying, "I want nothing more." She clasped her hands in prayer, and continued thus throughout the night, taking a little cold water now and then; for since her change of heart she would drink nothing but tea and water, lest she might be again ensnared. Towards daybreak, a change was observed in her; and in the afternoon, without a struggle or a sigh, her spirit went, as we humbly trust, to her God and Saviour, who

had indeed called her "out of darkness into His marvellous light."

Let none, then, despair. Who shall limit the the long-suffering of our covenant-keeping God?

mercy and

To the visitor and the teacher I would say, "Sow beside all waters;" only take care that the seed is "the Word of God;" substitute no other book for this; bear this assurance in mind, "My Word shall not return unto me void." Fellowlabourers, have you proved this Sword of the Spirit? If so, then you will not be weary in well-doing, for "In due season ye shall reap, if ye faint not."

"Call them in !'--the poor, the wretched
Sin-stained wanderers from the fold;
Peace and pardon freely offer:

Can you weigh their worth with gold?
'Call them in !'-the weak, the weary,
Laden with the doom of sin;
Bid them come and rest in Jesus;
He is waiting; 'Call them in!'

'Call them in !'-the broken-hearted,
Cowering 'neath the brand of shame;
Speak love's message, low and tender-
"Twas for sinners Jesus came.'
See the shadows lengthen round us,
Soon the day-dawn will begin;
Can you leave them lost and lonely?
Christ is coming; 'Call them in!'"

Waiting for the End.

N any fine sunny morning in spring, summer, or autumn, you might have seen Richard Booth sitting on a bench in front of the Wellworth

Union. He was a privileged pensioner, and had scarcely even nominal work to do. He was very aged, very feeble; and by common consent it seemed understood that he was to be allowed to see the sunset of life with the least possible anxiety and toil.

It always refreshed my heart to talk with old Richard; and many a Monday morning have I spent with him, looking out on the noble landscape which the front of the Union commanded, and listening to his conversation, which had always in it the quickening power of a long life's experience, brightened by a good hope of heaven. As he sat upon the bench, looking at the distant river winding its way through the country like a silver thread, or as he suddenly ceased talking, in the middle of an interesting anecdote, to catch the note of a bird in the wood close by, he seemed to be one who was simply waiting the Master's call to exchange earth and its cares for the sweet rest of heaven and its eversatisfying joys.

The first time I saw him was not in the morning but in the evening, when the sun was going down. With a face that carried behind it many secrets which would never be made known, he was watching the sun slowly dipping beyond the river. "That's like life, sir," he quietly said, in a tone that harmonised with the silent grandeur of the scene. "We sink to-day, but rise again to-morrow."

"A joyful rising, I trust, old friend," I replied. After this, for a moment or two, we were both silent; then, as the sun sank lower and lower, the hills became empurpled, and a glory was communicated to common things, while the placid river flowed on like a stream of gold. Rising from his feet, the old man pointed with a trembling hand to the sinking sun and the glory which surrounded its departure. "Behold!" he said, "the sea of glass mingled with fire; but ah! there our sun will never more go down, and the days of our mourning shall be ended!"

There was a music in the words, the sound of which was sweet long after they had been uttered; and catching hold of the old man's hand, I sat in silent sympathy with him while the twilight grew feebler and the night came on.

Are you often here ?" I asked, in going away.

Always on a fine morning, sir; I am allowed to sit here until the end comes; and very glad indeed I am," he added,