story of the Hall was a mass of flame. George hesitated for a moment, then seemed to leap through the blaze, and the next minute was at the window.

"Cling to my neck, Master Alfred,' he said, 'and, please God, I can save you.' The boy did as he was told; then holding Master Edgar under his arm he began to descend as rapidly as possible, while the people on the lawn shouted with excitement. Mercifully, as he approached the second story, from which the flames had been fiercely issuing when he went up, a strong wind blew them with such violence away from the ladder that he had nearly a clear path. He descended in safety; but had no sooner placed the boys on the lawn than his strength failed him, and he fainted away.

"Poor George was delirious for days, and his life was despaired of. Even in his delirium, however, he would sing many of his favourite psalms, and now and then offer a short prayer for the salvation of the family at the Hall. The Squire, who seemed to have grown ten years older since the fire, was unremitting in his attentions to the faithful servant who had risked his life to save him and his children from a dreadful death. The feeble remnant of conscience left him was deeply touched as he listened to the prayers which George in his delirium offered on his behalf. He never left the little room over the stable without feeling that his coachman was a happier and better man than himself. And this was the beginning of a great change in the Squire's character. He was a proud man-too proud to show what was at work within his mind; for months and months he kept his secret, although as George got better he would, in a roundabout way, encourage him to tell the story of his religious life. I need not say that there was no talk about his leaving now; and seeing how thoughtful his master had become, the faithful fellow cherished the hope that a good work had been commenced in his heart.

666 Penrose,' said the Squire, one day, 'I owe my life to you, and the lives of my children.'

"I was the instrument in the hands of a gracious God,' answered George, reverently; to Him be all the glory!'

"But you will remember that I offered a thousand pounds to any one who would save my children.'

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“I never heard anything about it, master; and if I had it would have made no difference to me.'

"But the reward shall be yours all the same.'

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'I couldn't touch it, master; I couldn't indeed; oh, don't think so meanly of me as to imagine that I did what I did for money.' Then he added reverently, 'It was the Lord's doing, and marvellous in our eyes.' More moved than he had been for years by his servant's disinterestedness, the Squire refrained from pressing him further at that time to take the reward he had promised. He returned to the subject several times, only to receive the same answer, "I couldn't touch it, master; indeed I couldn't.'

"The Hall was rebuilt in the form in which you see it now. There were no more dinner parties on Sunday evenings; and it began to be whispered that the once jovial Squire, was turning Methodist. The whisper grew louder, until everybody heard that Trevanion of Trevanion Hall. was a changed man. His former gay acquaintances dropped him, a fact which afforded him the greatest delight. He set himself faithfully to discharge the duties of a father and master; and his two boys, having been carefully educated both at home and at school, have turned out to be young men of sterling worth. They never forgot their brave deliverer; and years ago would have gladly placed him in a position of independence, as their father would have done before them, had George but consented. George, however, said he was perfectly independent already. He spent years of quiet usefulness; he visited the sick; he comforted the dying; he even preached sometimes in the outlying villages. He was respected by the whole town; beloved and honoured in his old age by the family whose lives he had saved; and he has been gathered to his rest to-day like a shock of corn fully ripe."

THE doctrines of the gospel are professedly mysterious: only the humble can understand and enjoy them.

Who is wisest, God or myself? This is a controversy in which sinners often indulge: it will be decided against them.

The precepts of God's word flow as immediately from the love of God as his promises; he that despises either precepts or promises insults the love of God.

All Christ possesses as Mediator is for your use and benefit: all things are yours, and ye are Christ's.

If your cause is good, be sure you do not injure it by a bad spirit: if it is bad, give it up at once.

Dare to change your mind, confess your error, and alter your conduct, when you are convinced you are wrong: it is manly, it is scriptural.

The more you think of yourself, the less will wise and holy man think of you: you will find it hard to believe this: vain man would fain be wise.

How wonderful the sympathy of Jesus! He says, "He that toucheth you toucheth the apple of my eye."

Fiery trials are God's furnace, by which he purges away the dross of his people the fruit of all his dealings is, to take away sin.

When the last reed on which you used to lean, breaks, then God will interpose his strength, and enable you to rely upon himself: "He giveth power to the faint."

Christ is the way to holiness, happiness, and God: you are to walk in him; not sit still, much less lie down.

T had been a cold, cheerless winter day. As night fell on the city, the weather became more unpleasant, the cold more intense and penetrating, and there was a drifting sleet, which rendered the streets dirty and disagreeable. It was one of those nights when all who have homes hasten to their shelter, and those who have not envy those who have.

I certainly should not have turned out that night to brave the weather had not a positive engagement compelled me to do so. I had not far to go, and soon reached the house of my friend, which stood in one of those squares which, at night, always seem to me to look most dreary and dismal. As I ascended the steps, I saw, in the corner of the doorway, and on that side where they were in some degree sheltered from the drifting sleet and piercing wind, two little children huddled together. As they heard me approach they started up, thinking, no doubt, that I was one of the police, by whom, in their short and miserable lives, they had been so often bidden to move on.' Though they had no right to be there, I could not help feeling regret that I was obliged to disturb these little ones, who had been able, perhaps, for a while to forget their misery in sleep.

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Speaking kindly to the children, I soon found out who they were just such children as we have thousands of in this great city-children who have no homes, no friends, no one to care for them, and no one for whom they care. Inexpressibly sad is the lot of these neglected ones. These children, who stood shivering in the cold, were a brother and sister-orphans--who earned a precarious and insufficient livelihood by the sale of matches and cigar-lights, or rather, which is much more probable, made their little merchandise an excuse for begging. They told me-and though I have often been sadly imposed on, I believe that those children told me the truth-that they had not earned

enough that day to pay either for supper or lodging; and that, hungry and tired, they were sheltering there for a little ere they went forth again, hoping to earn a few pence in the neighbourhood of the theatres. I gave the children a trifle, enough to buy them some supper, and pay for their lodging, and bade them good night. Thanking me, they went their way, turning round more than once to look at me, with eyes wide open with grateful astonishment, wondering, it may be, in their little hearts, what good angel it was who had thus wakened them from their short slumber, and sent them on their way rejoicing. Soon were the children swallowed up by the darkness, and I saw them no more.

I knocked at the door at which I had been standing, and it speedily opened to my summons. A very different scene now presented itself; I was in a large, handsomely appointed and brilliantly lighted hall. The genial atmosphere within pleasantly contrasted with the searching cold without. Everything around me was suggestive both of wealth and taste. As soon as I entered, I was greeted by a group of healthy, bright-eyed children, who were being indulged with a romp in the hall before going to their comfortable beds. Having transacted the little business I had to do with my friend, I returned home to my own cheerful and happy fireside, more powerfully affected than I can well express by the contrast between those children who were outside-in their misery on the doorstep-and those who were inside, possessing all that heart could wish. Only two or three inches of wood separating those ragged, neglected, almost starving children in the doorway, from those merry, wellcared for children in the hall !

A few days after, I had to pay a visit to a mother who had recently lost her only son—a fine promising young man —who, after a few days' illness, had been snatched from her by the great spoiler of our households. The blow had come upon her so suddenly and unexpectedly that she could scarcely realise her loss. Though a Christian woman,