fire, for more than an hour, he suddenly halted before the old-fashioned mahogany book-case. In a kind of dreamy mood, he glanced at the backs of the books there imprisoned. They were mostly well and handsomely bound volumes, which had descended to him as a part of his inheritance. He knew them all well enough by their titles, and some few of them he had looked into ; but that was a long time ago, when a short-lived ambition to be a reader had taken possession of him.

Glancing, as I said, at the backs of the books, first on the lower shelf, then raising his sight to those on the next, and carelessly reading their titles also, his eyes travelled still higher. In a moment his hand was in his pocket, and he drew forth the bunch of keys, selected the right key, unlocked the glass-door, and slowly opened it. Then, with a reluctant hand which required a strong mental effort to make it move, he selected a volume, turned away, and sat down near the bright fire, with a table before him, on which he laid the book.

"It was her gift," he said, sorrowfully and tenderly; "Poor, darling Mary! And yet, why should I say 'poor?' Yes ; it was her gift; but I have never had the courage to open it since she died. Can I now ?"

His hand trembled a little; but he did open it. It was a handsome book, bound in morocco, very slightly soiled with use, but somewhat dulled with age. He turned back the lid, as he would have called it, and read on the fly-leaf the simple inscription in a feminine hand-writing, the name of the giver and recipient, with the date of the gift. That was all, but it moved Westwood very much, though the ink was faded; and the date carried him back thirty years.

He soon recovered himself, however; and almost despising himself for his weakness, he was about to close the book again, and re-place it on the shelf. when a silken thread from between its leaves arrested his attention. Opening the book at that place, a narrow ribbon, once white, but now yellow with age, was seen. On one side of the old book

mark (for such it was) was a perforated card, with these words worked upon it in blue silk :—

"We spend our years as a tale that is told." On the other side was another card, with this inscription:

"Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it."

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William Westwood sank down in his chair, resting his head on one hand-the elbow on the table, while the other hand held the relic with a tenacious grasp.

Had any

one been present, unknown to him, it would have been seen how his breast heaved with convulsive sobs, and how, at last, tears of relief trickled between his fingers, and fell upon the Bible beneath.

The old book-mark was one of the latest gifts he had received from his betrothed; though strange to say, perhaps, placed between the leaves of the Bible, the memory of it had faded from his mind, in the shade of his deep and lasting affliction. Now, however, the whole scene and circumstances of that simple love token rushed back upon his memory. It was in the confinement of her sick room-while the fatal termination of her illness was yet unapprehended-that his Mary had occupied a few hours in working this book-mark; and when he next visited her, she put it into his hands.

There was design in the mottoes she had chosen ; William had felt this at the time of receiving the gift; he felt it more strongly now. The only point on which he and his chosen one differed, was on the subject of personal religion; and that difference (as he fancied then) was more in degree than in kind. The truth, however, is, that Mary was an earnest Christian; while he sometimes thought that her earnestness was needless enthusiasm. He himself paid attention to what he called religious duties; was moral in his outward conduct, harboured no gross hidden vice, paid respect to the Bible and the Lord's day, and the recognised ordinances of religion. What more was required of him?

Mary thought and knew that more was required of him. Happy as she had ever been to acknowledge and admire

and love William Westwood's manly qualities-his generosity and integrity and sincerity, she had at times been concerned and she told him so-to know from his own lips that he had really and honestly given his whole heart to Christ.

All this, and much more, came to his recollection now, as he bowed his head over the open Bible and the old, long forgotten book-mark.

"She knew me better than I knew myself," these were some of his reflections; "and she would have made me what I never was, what I never have been-like herself, a true, honest, outspoken Christian. Those were times when she hoped I was one. She told me when she gave me this Bible that she was sure I could not help loving the Saviour she loved, and prizing the book she prized, though I was too backward to speak of it before the world, as if it was a weakness. And she begged me then not to be ashamed of my religion, which would, she knew, cause me to be laughed and jeered at. Ah! but she did not know, and I did not suspect then, that it was not God and the Bible I cared for so much as her. And she did not know"- -we will not follow out Westwood's train of reflections in his own words: they were very bitter, very self-reproachful.

"We spend our years as a tale that is told." He thought how true these words were. The thirty years nearly, which had passed away since his great trouble-how short they seemed on looking back! One single backward step in his memory brought before him the very scene of that New Year's Day when he was committing his dearest treasure—his lost bride-" ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

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And what had he been doing since that time? He knew too well what he had been doing. Nothing worth the doing much which could not be undone. He had all those years been, in heart, rebelling against the God who had snatched from him that coveted possession, when he had all but called it his own. He had been turning his back upon the Saviour. He had been hardening his heart against

the gentle admonitions, and invitations, and remonstrances of the Holy Spirit. These things he had done, which he ought not to have done. The things which he ought to have done, he had left undone. Alas! there was no health in him. "Whatsoever He saith unto you, do it." The consciencestricken man knew of whom these words were spoken; and that they were spoken at a marriage feast. A singular coincidence with the current of his thoughts, perhaps ; though there was nothing in that. But he knew of these words what a general application they had; and it was brought home to his convictions that, for Christ's sake, he had done nothing that Christ had commanded. True, a certain limited form of godliness had been kept up by him; but where had been the power? He had paid a decent outward respect to Christianity; but where was the inward reverence ? In reality, instead of taking up the cross, and following Christ, as Christ had said; he had hated that cross, and gone away from the great Cross-bearer. Christ had said, "If ye love me, keep my commandments." Which of

Christ's commandments, had he, from love to Christ, even endeavoured to keep? Once there was a time when he had been almost persuaded to be a Christian; but now! now!

The snow without continued to fall; but William Westwood no longer heeded it; gentle and soft as the snow, but not cold, a softening influence was descending on his heart. "Behold, I stand at the door, and knock," says the glorified Redeemer : "if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me." Who shall say that this declaration and promise were not fulfilled then? He who had waited long, was waiting still; and at last, his voice had prevailed.

"I will do it ; God helping me, from this day, from this hour, I will do it," exclaimed William Westwood, roused from the reverie into which he had been beguiled by the old book-mark-" Whatsoever He saith unto me, I will do it! Lord Jesus, what wouldst thou have me to do ?"

Encouragements to Pray.

Do not know what are your habits about prayer. Many persons never pray at all. Many only say a form of prayer, while their heart is thinking of something else. I hope you are not one of these. You ought to pray; and if you pray you ought to pray earnestly.

I am going to tell you some of the encouragements there are to pray. If you never prayed before, I want to show you that you may begin at once. If you do pray, but are tempted to think it is of no use, I want to give you reasons for persevering.

There is every thing on God's part to make prayer easy, if men will only attempt it. All things are ready on his side. Every objection is anticipated; every difficulty is provided for. The crooked places are made straight, and the rough places are made smooth. There is no excuse left for the prayerless man.

There is a way by which any man, however sinful and unworthy, may draw near to God the Father. Jesus Christ has opened that way by the sacrifice he made for us upon the cross. The holiness and justice of God need not frighten sinners and keep them back. Only let them cry to God in the name of Jesus, only let them plead the atoning blood of Jesus, and they shall find God upon a throne of grace, willing and ready to hear. The name of Jesus is a neverfailing passport for our prayers. draw near to God with boldness, God has engaged to hear him. encouragement?

In that name a man may and ask with confidence. Think of this. Is not this

There is an Advocate and Intercessor always waiting to present the prayers of those who will employ him. That Advocate is Jesus Christ. He mingles our prayers with the incense of his own almighty intercession. So mingled they go up as a sweet savour before the throne of God. Poor as they are in themselves, they are mighty and powerful in the