How many are on their road to eternal ruin with the above words in their hearts, if not in their mouths! My mind was lately called to this subject by an accident which happened not far distant.

A man who had always appeared to be careless about his soul's eternal welfare, was approached by one who loved his soul, and was asked if he did not feel it to be his duty to give his heart to God, and try to secure his soul's salvation. His answer was, "There is time enough yet." This was on Tuesday; and on Saturday following, as he was on his way to the mill, his horse ran away, and threw him so violently from his waggon, that he never was able to speak afterwards, but in a few hours was ushered into the presence of his Judge.

How many are in the world, who, like him, are promising themselves time enough yet; and, notwithstanding they are entreated to come to Christ, they are saying, in the language of Felix, "Go thy way for this time; when I have a convenient season, I will call for thee!"

"Time enough yet," says the giddy youth "for me to think of death and make preparation for eternity: when I have partaken awhile of the pleasures of youth and have reached

manhood, then I will give myself up to God, and serve him with my whole heart."

"Time enough yet," says the man in the prime of life: "when I have reached the noontide of life, then I will give diligent heed to those things which pertain to my present and eternal happiness."

"And yet there is time sufficient," says the man who is now passing the meridian of life; "when I am clear of the cares of this world, and have reached old age, then I will repent, and give God my heart."

"Time enough when I am prostrate with old age," says the man whose head is beginning to blossom for the tomb; "when all my physical powers are exhausted, and death appears in view, then I will take God for my portion."

"Time enough once, but now for ever past," says the hoary-headed sinner as he is about to be launched into eternity, while Despair, with her raven wings, hovers over him.

And how many, in the dark regions of eternal night, have paved their way thither with such sentiments as these! Could we uncover the doleful regions of despair, how many should we see who had promised themselves that there was "time enough yet!" J. Y. M.

ISABEL. Sing them, my children, sing them still, Those sweet and holy songs! Oh, let the psalms of Zion's hill

Be heard from youthful tongues. It is many years ago since the following simple story was related by a kind friend to her youthful relatives.

Isabel was a poor little silk-winding girl, employed at one of our great factories. Every day, and all day long, except at the short intervals allowed for meals, she worked from the dawning to the setting sun, and sometimes even later. There were moments when she could not help envying those who were not obliged to toil so hard: but this did not often happen, for the little Isabel was blessed with a cheerful and contented spirit; and she might far more frequently be heard thanking God that she had health to labour, for she was an orphan, and had no one to work for her. Her parents both died when she was very young; they were poor but honest people, and taught her to love and fear him who had promised to be "the Father of the fatherless:" so that Isabel did not feel so lonely when they were taken away, as she would otherwise have done.

"A little while," said her mother, with her dying breath, "and we shall all be together again: thanks to that blessed Saviour who loved and gave himself for us."

"A little while," repeated the orphan child, afterwards, "only a little while." And she would often look up and smile as she thought of the heavenly home which Jesus had

purchased for her with his own life. This it was that made Isabel so cheerful and happy.

It was the bright summer time, when the master of the factory announced his intention of giving all the work-people a holiday: "A whole long day," as Isabel called it, "to do what they pleased in." Most of the young people had some friend or relative to visit; but the poor silkwinding girl was an orphan, and alone in the world. Having nowhere to go, she thought what a pleasant thing it would be to spend the day in the woods, and look at the blue sky, and hear the birds sing, and gather wild flowers as she used to do when a child. The eventful clear and sunny.

morning arrived, Isabel arose with of the long, happy

the lark, thinking day before her. But she did not forget, ere she went forth on her glad holiday, to kneel down and pray. Her heart was full of joy and thankfulness, and she longed to do something for him who had done so much for her. But what could she do? she was only a little child.

The clock struck six as Isabel went into the woods singing. She knew a great many hymns, and had a habit of singing them to herself when alone. Early as it was, there was one up before her-a pale, stern-looking man, who was crouching beneath the shadow of the trees as she passed: a second Cain, lying in wait to take away a brother's life. The song which Isabel was singing happened to be one learned years ago, at his mother's knee. The memory of his innocent and happy

childhood came back to him as though it were but yesterday. The little golden-haired brother with whom he used to play-how they loved one another then! How often had they wandered together, with their arms around each other's necks, singing that very hymn! The man's countenance changed as he recalled those old times; the weapon dropped from his grasp, and as he knelt down with clasped hands, his tears fell fast. A human life-it may be that a human soul-was saved. But Isabel knew it not, as she passed on singing.

Just within the wood there was a rude hut, inhabited by a poor old woman, who earned a scanty living in the summer time, gathering watercress, or making up nosegays of honeysuckle, sweet-brier, and wild flowers, which she sold at the neighbouring town; and managed to exist in winter by knitting coarse woollen stockings and comforters, which the villagers were glad to purchase of her for a trifling sum. But she was too ill now to gather flowers or watercress, or even to knit; but lay upon her bed helpless and hungry, and with a sad feeling of desertion pressing heavily upon her heart. She had forgotten as we are so apt to do-God's mercies in times past, and how he has promised that he will never leave nor forsake those who put their trust in him. But it all came back to her as Isabel went by, singing one of her sweet and cheerful hymns, one that the old woman knew well; for although now desponding by reason of her infirmities, she was a humble and sincere Christian.

The burden of Isabel's song was, "Trust in God."

"Yes," replied the poor old woman, crossing her thin hands, and lifting up her dim eyes to heaven: "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him.' 'Why art thou cast down, O my soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall yet praise him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God,"" Psa. xlii. 11.

Isabel passed on singing; and after a time, He who commanded the ravens to feed Elijah, when he sojourned in the wilderness, by the little brook Cherith, put it into the heart of one of his children to go and take some nourishing food to the poor feeble old woman, who lay sick and helpless in her little hut in the wood.

There were many sad hearts on that bright, sunny morning-there always are somewhere in the world. A bereaved mother stood by the death-bed of her little child-her only child-and her tears fell fast upon its pale, happy-looking face. The sun shone gaily into the chamber, but everything seemed very dark to her now that she had lost her sole earthly treasure, the sunshine of her life. Isabel, little dreaming of what was passing within, went by the pretty, rose-covered cottage, singing. What was it that made her choose, all of a sudden, an old hymn, about a little child whom God had taken away to be an angel in heaven, and how happy it was playing on its golden harp before the throne? It may be that God put it into her heart. The mother listened, and

was comforted. She no longer wished her child back again in this world of sin and sorrow; but, bowing down her head, said meekly

"It is well! The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord. His will, not mine, be done." From that hour, she sorrowed not as one without hope. "She may not return to me," was her constant thought, "but I may go to her: thanks to our blessed Redeemer!"

Isabel passed on singing, and dreamed not of the good which she had been permitted to do. All that long summer day she spent in the woods, lying under the pleasant trees, and looking up into the blue sky, or gathering flowers or listening to the song of the birds, or else singing herself, and thanking and praising God for all his goodness. Her hymns cheered the woodman at his task. A beggar girl stopped to listen, and shared with her her simple crust and ripe cherries. The deer came and ate out of her hand. The lord of the manor's daughter paused to hear her sing, and felt rebuked when Isabel told her that she was only a poor silk-winding girl, who worked from morning till night. "If she is so thankful and happy for her one holiday, what ought I to be?" questioned the lady of her own heart. "And if, as I suspect from what she says, it is religion that makes her thus, who would not be religious?"

Isabel went home at night quite tired out; and had no sooner ended her evening prayer, and laid her head upon the pillow, than she fall fast asleep. She told her com

panions, the following morning, that she had had a very happy day.

It is impossible to pass through the world, as Isabel passed through the wood, singing hymns. But if we watch and pray for opportunities, God will often let us say a word at the right season, and bless it; just as he did the word of the little maid in the house of Naaman the Syrian. Isabel was only a poor orphan girl; but before she went out she prayed to God. She longed, we are told, to do something for Him who had done so much for her; but she said within herself, "What can I do? I am only a little child." Even a little child may do something. We may all do something, if we try; so that, in passing, we may leave behind a track of light.

The verse of a hymn-a text of scripture a kind word - a good book-a christian letter-a passing warning-a cup of cold water, given in the name of Jesus,-all these have been blessed at various times, and will be unto the end of the world. Dear reader, will you not throw the weight of your talents or your influence, be it great or small, into God's treasury? If it should be only the latter, fear not, for he did not despise the widow's mite. His strength is made perfect in weakness, we have a loving Master; and if we sit at the feet of Jesus, making him our trust, and doing all in his name, and out of love to him, he will own our feeble endeavours, and say gently, in his own gracious manner, when the world or our consciences rise up to accuse us, as he said of Mary of Bethany, "Let

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