CHAPTER XII.

PAMELA SAYS "YES."

It was May now, and the evenings were long and sweet. Eight o'clock rang from the clock-tower at Glengall, and Pamela Graydon stood by the Wishing Well in the woods and looked down into the little cup of clear water. Memory was very keen in her this delicious, scented evening.

No word had come from Anthony Trevithick, and Pamela had ceased to expect any long ago. On her father's account as much as on her own she was filled with dull anger against him--an anger that hurt.

She had had no communication with the house in Brook Street, except her hastily scribbled line to Lady Kitty when Mr. Graydon began to creep back out of the shadow of death, and the answering letter, full of a sympathy which would have surprised some in Lady Kitty's world, if they could but have read it.

"Anthony thinks of getting his Uncle Wilton moved home as soon as possible," was one of Lady Kitty's bits of news. "He will never be very strong again, but he is out of danger. Of course, they will have to go warily, so Anthony will hardly be here before full summer."

"He, may stay away for ever, so far as I am concerned," had been Pamela's comment as she thrust the letter into her little old desk. Indeed, at the time, in the extremity of her relief at her father's illness having taken a turn for the better, her love affair seemed a paltry thing and not worth thinking upon.

But now that the strain was over her loneliness returned. She looked with sad eyes upon the summer landscape, and the moan of May wood-doves from near and far seemed to be the voice of her pain.

She often wondered if she could be the Pamela of a year ago--so gay and careless. Her sadness of late had passed unnoticed--they had all been sad--but whereas Sylvia's spirits had gone up with a bound, and Mary's mood was one of quiet and thankful joy, the great fear being removed, Pamela, after the first relief, felt only a flatness and dulness of the spirit which seemed never likely to lift; for Pam looked to her future with all the hopelessness of very young girlhood.

She sat down on a mossy tree trunk and listened with her chin in her hand to the last song of the thrush.

"Pamela," said a voice close by her, "the dews are falling, child, and you will take cold."

"Oh, Lord Glengall!" Pamela looked up startled, and then stretched a friendly hand to him.

"No; it is not a bit damp," she said. "Just feel it. I am going home presently. Sit down here. There is room for you."

But he stood watching her seriously and made no response to her invitation.

"You have been to Carrickmoyle?" she said.

"Yes, I saw him for a few minutes." There was no necessity to specify who the "him" was. He had been so much in all their minds.

"He was very comfortable," Lord Glengall continued. "Sylvia was reading to him, and his little fire was bright. He grows every day more like himself."

"Yes," said Pamela simply. "It is good to see him growing stronger. One can rest in it, and be glad, without looking forward too much."

"You mean to the winter?"

"Yes; twenty things may happen before then to help us. We have nearly five months before the doctor says he must go abroad. I am not going to think about it."

"Lord Downside may even yet find a human heart in him," said Glengall, watching her seriously.

"Lord Downside--who turned him into the street, wet and hungry, to meet almost his death!" cried Pain, with an angry sob. 'The tender mercies of the wicked.' I shall always think of Lord Downside when I hear that."

"You look as if you needed a change yourself, Pam."

The deep-sunk eyes looked at her with an anxious tenderness, but Pamela did not notice.

"I shall pull up now," she said. "Carrickmoyle in summer is good enough for anyone."

"But the winter, Pam--the winter?"

"Let us forget the winter for a little while," answered Pamela, surprised at his insistence.

"I am very rich, Pam," he said, and then stopped.

"Ah! that is what you are aiming at," said Pam, looking up at him with repentant affection; "and I was feeling cross with you because you wouldn't let the winter be."

"He won't mind taking--a loan--from his old friend? At interest, if he likes. Eh, Pam?"

"Oh! a thousand per cent., if you like," cried Pam airily, but her eyes were dewy. "You may as well charge a big interest, for you know it would be a loan that would hardly have the faintest chance of ever being repaid."

"Oh! I don't know about that," said Lord Glengall, digging a hole in the ground with the toe of his boot.

"You are an optimist," laughed Pam, and her tone was tender.

"He will take it, you think?"

"He never will."

"I have neither chick nor child. Is my gold to lie rotting while the friend I love--wants for it?"

He substituted "wants" at the last moment for another word, and Pamela understood.

"I daresay it is foolish," she said, "but I am afraid we shall not be able to persuade him."

"If not, Pam, there is one other way."

"Ah! no," she cried, putting out both hands as if to push him off; "not that way, Lord Glengall."

She closed her eyes at the moment, and like a sudden stab there came the thought of the young lover who had kissed her in this place, deadly sweet and deadly cruel as well.

"I beg your pardon, Pam," said Glengall's quiet and patient voice. "Of course, I am too old."

"Oh! no, but I am not the right person--that is all. You must marry someone who loves you. I--I am the wrong person."

"We won't talk about it, then," said Glengall, turning away his head. "We must find some other way, Pam."

Pamela jumped up and ran to him, and, as she had often done, thrust her arm into his.

"You are a thousand times too good for a stupid, ungrateful girl like me." She hugged his arm to her unconsciously. "I should be a thousand times a happier girl if I did love you and married you. Indeed, it oughtn't to be hard to love you."

Lord Glengall patted her head.

"Thank you, Pam," he said, "for being sorry for me. I don't deserve your goodness; I am a selfish old fellow for wanting a lovely young creature like you. Ah! Pam, we should form those ties when we are young. Then we should not feel useless and lonely old blocks when we have left our youth behind."

"You're not going to be unhappy?" cried Pam, still hugging his arm.

Lord Glengall laughed.

"No, Pam," he said. "I don't pretend to be like a young fellow, all fire and despair. I should have liked to take care of you, little girl, and to have the right to take care of you all. But we must find another way."

They walked back together to Carrickmoyle in the old friendly fashion, and no one seeing them could have guessed that Glengall was a rejected lover; but that night Pam was thoughtful.

The next morning she was alone with her father. Mr. Graydon lay on a couch, from which he could see the mountains through the open window, and Pamela, on the rug by his side, was trying to teach Mark Antony to balance a straw on his nose.

"Let him alone, Pam," said her father. "He's too old and fat to learn tricks."

"Then he shan't have his bone; Pat deserves it better. Pat has learned three new tricks since you've been getting well."

"It is good to be getting well again. I don't think I realised before how beautiful the world is."

"Our bit of it," said Pam.

"And yet I am no coward. When my time comes, I shall not be afraid to go. If only I could feel that you children were provided for!"

"Did that trouble you--then?" said Pam, in a low voice.

"It did," answered her father, "though I tried hard for faith and trust."

"Dear, darling dad!" cried Pamela suddenly. "Would it make you happier if I were to marry Lord Glengall?"

"I thought we had settled all that, Pam."

"Oh, yes, in that old life," said Pamela dreamily, "before you were ill. But things are altered now. It is just as well we don't know what's before us."

"But I am getting well, my little Pam."

"Ah, yes, thank God! You are getting well," said Pam. "But you haven't told me if it would make you happier for me to marry Lord Glengall."

"You would be safe," said Mr. Graydon wistfully, "and he would take care of the others. But--but--it is not a question of making me happy, or of anyone but yourself, little Pam. Could you be happy?"

"Sometimes I think I could," said Pamela. "It would be an end of trouble; it would be peace."

"Poor Pam! you talk as if you had been through storms."

Pam shook her head.

"Never mind, darling dad. I think I shall say 'Yes' then, after all."

"He has asked you, Pam?"

"Yes, he has asked me. You don't think, dad, that he would like Sylvia just as well?"

"He seems to prefer you, Pam."

"I should _love_ him for a brother-in-law."

"If you feel like that, don't think of him for a husband."

"He would never deceive nor betray me," said Pamela, with a sigh.

"Poor little girl!" said her father, and then said no more.

A day or two later, as Lord Glengall was leaving Carrickmoyle, he was overtaken by Pamela.

"I'm coming with you a bit," she said. "I want to give the dogs a run."

"I'll be proud of your company. Shall we take the wood-path?"

"No," said Pamela, with a little shudder. "I hate the wood. Let us cross the bog."

"Why, what has come to you, child? I thought you were a perfect wood-nymph."

"I'm tired of the wood," said Pam, shortly.

They walked on till they were out in the road through the bog. Then Pamela suddenly spoke what was in her mind.

"Lord Glengall," she said, "do you still want me to marry you?"

"Why, it was only on Wednesday I asked you. You don't suppose I've had time to change my mind?"

"Because--I've changed mine. I want to say 'Yes.'"

"'Yes,' Pam? Is it 'Yes'?" said Lord Glengall, turning and facing her. "Are you quite sure you mean 'Yes'?"

"Quite, quite sure," said Pam.

"What's come over you to make you say it, when you said 'No' the other day? You're doing it of your own free will, Pam?"

"Quite of my own free will."

Lord Glengall stooped and kissed the cool cheek, almost as her father might.

"And you won't want to unsay it later on, Pam?"

Pam shook her head.

"I'll be very good to you, little Pam--God helping me."

"I know you will," said Pain. "But why did you like me instead of Sylvia?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Pam. I never thought of that." He laughed out. "It's lucky I didn't. Pam. What chance should I have had with Sylvia, and all those boys about her?"

"What, indeed?" said Pamela, but she looked mysterious.

A moment later she pulled up again sharply.

"Now that we're engaged," she said, "I've something to tell you. Lord Glengall."

A wave of the loveliest rose flowed over her face, but her eyes were down.

"What is it, Pam?" he said quietly, but he felt a sharp pang as he watched her. She would never flush like that for him, he felt sure. Ah, his lost youth! What would he not have given to recall it?

"I think I ought to tell you," she said, looking on the ground at her feet, "that I have cared for someone else."

"Very much, Pam?"

"Very much."

"Is it all over, Pam?"

"It is all over."

"Was it--a matter of money, Pam? Could nothing be done? I don't want you to marry me at the cost of your own happiness."

Pamela was pulling a wild yellow iris to pieces. He put his hand under her chin, and lifted her face till he could look into her eyes.

"Tell me, tell me, Pam. Be brave and truthful with me. It is my happiness as well as yours. Is there nothing that can be done?"

"There is nothing."

He let her go, and stood away again, and his face was full of trouble. Pamela looked at him for a moment. Then she made a step forward, and drew his arms about her.

"I told you because I thought I must," she said. "But it is all over and done with. I am going to be so happy with you, so happy!" He looked down at her and his face was transformed.

"Don't make _me_ too happy, Pam," he said. "It is too much for an old hulk like me."

And so they went home through the summer evening, Pamela saying to herself over and over again that she was really happy. Now she need not dread the autumn for her father, for had not Glengall said that together they would take him to the Riviera, or farther afield to Algiers, and so would make him strong again? And had he not thought, even in his first content, of poor Mary and her hopeless love affair? Mick was to exchange into a home regiment, and a little money would smooth the way for their marriage, so that the two need not wait till some day far distant, when they should look in each other's faded faces and feel that this was not the love of long ago. Sylvia, too, was to have fine frocks and gaiety as befitted her beauty and her youth. And to think that she, Pamela, was the wonder-worker, the magician, to give her beloved ones the things that lay nearest their hearts--she, Pamela, who had always desired to give!

Only Sylvia, of them all, did not congratulate Pamela with approval.

"I don't believe you'll make him half as happy as I should have done," she said. "But never mind--it is your score, and I accept it."

And then she went off with a frown to refuse young St. Quentin for the fifth time, as she had already refused his superior officer.

"I'll do my best to make him happy," Pamela said, remembering before she slept. "Help me to make him happy," she cried, lifting her heart and her eyes.

And so she fell asleep placidly, quite unlike a girl who had been asked in marriage and had accepted only a few hours ago. Just for that one night she was troubled with no thought of Anthony Trevithick.

[END OF CHAPTER TWELVE.]

A Short Address to the Members of the Fourth Form at Harrow.

By E. W. Howson, M.A.

Let me try to picture a scene for you. It is a spring day, towards the end of March, and a group of friends are walking along one of the high roads leading to Jerusalem. They are going, like many others, to attend the Feast of the Passover, in the Holy City, during the following week. Slightly in front of the rest walks Jesus Christ. There is something unusual, almost alarming, in His aspect, and the disciples who are following behind are watching Him with awe and wonder as He strides along with rapid steps. He is evidently possessed and agitated by some deep emotion, some inflexible purpose, which they do not fully comprehend. His thoughts are not their thoughts. They do not know what He knows--that in a few short days He, their Lord and Master, whom they fondly dream is destined to win an earthly crown, will be tried like a common felon and nailed to the bitter cross. They are thinking of a triumph and a throne, and are already discussing the honours which they hope to share. He is thinking of something widely different--of agony, desertion, and death.

Presently, two of His disciples--James and John--step forward, with their mother, Salome, to ask Him a question. Jesus looks round and says to her, "What wilt thou?" Salome, who, like many mothers, was ambitious for her sons, replies, "Grant that these my two sons may sit, the one on Thy right hand, and the other on Thy left, in Thy kingdom." The other disciples, who overheard her words, are annoyed at the request, which appears to them pushing and selfish. Why should James and John be singled out for special favour? They expect and hope that Jesus will rebuke them. Instead of which, He says gently, but very seriously, "Ye know not what ye ask. Can ye drink of the cup that I drink of? and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with?" It was a stern and searching challenge, and a coward would have hesitated to meet it. But James and John were no cowards. They took up the challenge at once, and simply and promptly they answered. Δυνάμεθα--"We can." The request may have been selfish, but the answer was brave; and, what was more, they were destined to seal that promise with their blood.

It is this answer--this one word (for in the Greek it is but one word), Δυνάμεθα, "We can"--which I wish to consider with you for a few minutes this evening.

For an answer like this is a key to character, and shows of what sort of stuff the men were made who gave it. You will find as you grow older that men may be roughly divided into two classes--those who face difficulty with a _can_, and those who face it with a _can't_. The former are the material from which heroes are made; the latter may be good, kind and pure, but sooner or later they fall behind, and become the followers, not the leaders, in the work of life.

There is an old Latin proverb--"_Possunt quia posse videntur_," "They can because they think they can." Nothing could be more true. For let a man only believe he can do a thing, and he is already half-way to the achievement of his purpose. It is the half-hearted, the faint-hearted, who fail. Belief is the thing we want. "All things are possible to him that believeth." You know this is true in your games. You know that the boy who goes shivering and shaking to the wicket is pretty sure to return after a few overs clean bowled. But it is equally true of every department of life. Napoleon said that the word "impossible" ought to be removed from the dictionary, and the boy or man who, when duty calls him, can answer calmly and deliberately, "I can," is the one who not only deserves but commands success.

"So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When duty whispers low 'Thou must,' The youth replies--'I can.'"

You remember, no doubt, the old Greek fable of Perseus--how, when he was a boy of fifteen, the goddess Athene appeared to him in a dream and showed him the hideous head of the Gorgon writhing with snakes. "Can you," she asked him, "face this wicked monster, and will you some day try to slay it?" "Yes," he said, "I can; if thou wilt help me, I can." And though Athene told him of all the long journey, and all the terrible perils in the way, he did not shrink or falter, but when he came to be a man he nobly fulfilled his resolution and promise. And this is only an allegory. It means, that if a man or boy has sufficient will and determination, there is no danger, no difficulty, no temptation, which he may not overcome by the assistance of divine support. Pray, every one of you, for God's best gift of a strong will. It is worth, believe me, all the knowledge, wealth, and popularity in the world.

Now, of course, I do not pretend that you and I are called on in our daily school life to act the hero or the martyr on the grander scale. Our life is cast in quiet ways. And yet, as surely as our Lord asked James and John, so He asks each one of us, "Can you drink of My cup? Can you be baptised with My baptism?"

What, then, is this cup, what is this baptism in your school life here at Harrow? For if we dare not share it we cannot be called His disciples. "No pain, no gain." "No sweat, no sweet." So ran the old sayings, and if we cannot bear His cross most assuredly we shall not deserve His crown. Let me, then, take a few homely instances to show what I think is the meaning of Christ's question here at Harrow for you.

You are, let us suppose, in your house with three or four other boys. You have all been talking together about your games, when suddenly the conversation takes a bad turn, and something is said, perhaps in jest, which is coarse or irreverent. The speaker is an influential boy, and you are rather proud to claim his acquaintance. It would be easy for you to join in the laugh; it will please him, it will show that you are as "knowing" as the rest. There is the temptation--it is a very common one; but the question is, can you resist it? Can you refuse the expected smile? Can you sacrifice the cheap popularity? Can you boldly say "Shut up"? Can you walk quietly out of the room? Can you? Very well, then, if so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

Do you think this is asking too much of you? Let me tell you, then, a story--it is a well-known one, but it will bear repetition--of an Eton boy. He was captain of the boats at Eton about fifty years ago, and it was the custom then at boat suppers for coarse and indecent songs to be sung. Patteson (for that was the boy's name) said that if he was present those songs should not be sung. He went to the supper as usual, and a boy got up to sing one of those songs. Patteson jumped up then and there and walked out of the room. I have not a doubt he was laughed at for his pains, and that he lost some of his popularity; but the protest was successful, and, so far as I know, the practice has never, from that day to this, been revived. Some thirty years later Patteson, who had learnt to drink the cup of Christ at school, became a bishop--a missionary bishop--and met a martyr's death in the far islands of the Pacific Ocean, a loyal servant of his Master to the last.

Or again--to take another instance--you have been playing a game and you have come back in a hurry rather late. You have an exercise to show up, and you have not left yourself time to finish it. Another boy in the house has already done his, and the work lies there on the table before your eyes. You are tempted to take it and copy it. It will save you from punishment. No one will be the wiser--except God (and for the moment you forget that). Other boys have often done it. Perhaps your friend offers to lend it you, and would think you something of a prig and simpleton to say no. Can you reject the temptation and refuse to look at it? Can you show up your exercise unfinished and bear the punishment it involves? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

Or, once more, we will say that you are waiting with your form for a master outside the form-room door. While you wait, an unpopular and helpless boy is being teased and pestered. I daresay his appearance is odd, and he is sensitive and excitable and easily provoked. You are tempted to join with the rest and add one more jest at his expense. It will, perhaps, sting him to the quick and make the tears start to his eyes, but you will earn a laugh and get the credit of being thought amusing. Can you check that jest? Can you speak up in defence of the weaker side? Can you take his part and protect him? Can you do more? Can you take the trouble, when the rest are gone, to say that you are sorry for him and give him a word of encouragement and sympathy? Can you? If so, you can drink the cup of Christ.

"They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak; They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three."

I know it is the fashion to say that the life of a boy at a public school is one long round of unbroken pleasure. There could not be a greater mistake. You are not all--you are not any of you--always happy. You have every now and then a cup of bitterness to drink. You may have had a quarrel with your best friend, and you find it hard, almost impossible, to forgive. You are too proud to make the first apology: he would think he had gained his point; and so bad blood gets worse, and soon you are barely on speaking terms. You have been trying to turn over a new leaf, to break off some bad habit which is growing on you like a creeper on a tree--to give up swearing, perhaps; to say your prayers more regularly--and then someone says, with a sneer, that you are turning "pi." You know how the sneer tells. Or perhaps you have been idle and you determine to make a fresh start. You prepare your work carefully, but when you are put on to construe your memory fails; you get turned, and your master thinks you still idle and will not believe that you have tried.

Such are some of your common trials. They may make you very unhappy, but they are God's way of testing you. Can you, He seems to say, do this and that for Me? Can you give up that bad habit, can you bear ridicule, can you do your duty patiently in spite of failure? Oh! answer boldly, "Yes--with Thy help we can." Never give up hope. Fight on and on. Despair is the devil's triumph. When he sees you throw up your hands and give way, he chuckles; for he knows that you are, or soon will be, at his mercy.

The fact is, we cannot go to heaven in an easy-chair, and these trials are, indeed, the hammer strokes which harden the metal of your character. Shirk and evade them, and you will never be a strong and useful man. Bear them, and you will be able to tackle other and fiercer temptations in the larger battle of life--to be brave and pure in your regiment, honest in business, valiant and self-denying in the Church.

But more than this lies in this little word Δυνάμεθα, "We can." For perhaps, as you grow older, you will be called upon to fill some high office of trust and responsibility. Will you, then, at that critical moment, prove worthy of the opportunity, or will you let false modesty, indolence, or nervousness, tempt you to decline it, and let the chance slip by which God has given you of useful service? Will you be one of those contemptible people who say, "No, thank you, it isn't good enough," or, "No, I'm afraid of what others would think or say of me"? Will you not rather rise to the occasion, in a spirit of alacrity, and say, "Yes, I can. I will not be content to lag in the poor-spirited ruck, who die unwept, unhonoured, and unsung. I, too, will take my part in the front rank, and strike as stout a blow as I can for the cause of truth and right"?

But if you are to give such an answer as this (and I trust you will), remember that you must give it relying on that strength which is greater than your own. If you don't, you will be ambitious and selfish, and I daresay successful, and nothing better. Listen to what Christ says: "Without Me ye can do nothing." It is His strength, His spirit, which alone can give the full force and the right direction to our wills. With Him everything, without Him nothing. "I can," said St. Paul in one of his bursts of enthusiasm, "I can do all things," but then he is careful to add, "through Christ which strengtheneth me." There is the secret, that is the only talisman of true success. Let us, then, pray to Him morning by morning, evening by evening, to give us His help.

"Be Thou our guard on peril's brink, Be Thou our guide through weal and woe, And make us of Thy cup to drink, And teach us in Thy path to go. For what is earthly shame or loss? His promises are still our own, The feeblest frame can bear His cross, The lowliest spirit share His throne."

This, then, as I understand it, is the message contained in the words "We can." And whenever a fierce temptation comes upon you, as it will, perhaps, even to-morrow, and you are inclined to say to yourself, "No, I can't face this unpopularity; I can't do this irksome duty; I can't resist this temptation any longer; I can't go on fighting any more," then turn a deaf ear to Satan's whispers, and answer boldly, "I can."

A FAIRY PARABLE FOR THE CHILDREN.

By Myra Hamilton.

"Caleb! Where are you?"

"Here, mother," he cried, suddenly rising from one of the hay-cocks upon which he had been resting. He took the little bundle from her hand without one word of thanks, and then he slowly untied the red cotton handkerchief and began to eat his dinner.

"What is the matter with you, my lad?" his mother asked him. "You seem very cross to-day."

Caleb nodded his head moodily.

"I feel cross," he assented. Then he looked searchingly at his mother.

"Don't you want to be rich?" he demanded.

The old woman was horrified at the thought of it.

"Rich? Heaven forbid! I am quite content to live in our little cottage by the stream. I do not dread the cold winter approaching, for you are such a good son to me that I know I shall lack naught."

Caleb moved uneasily. This simple statement did not correspond with his preconceived notion of prosperity, so he tried to explain his views more fully to his mother.

"I want gold," he said firmly. "Bushels and bushels of it! Enough to buy me fine clothes, horses, carriages and food--heaps of different kinds of food that I might eat continuously. That is what I call being rich!"

The old woman packed the empty plate up in the handkerchief before she spoke.

"You will never be happy with those thoughts in your head," she said, sadly. "Money is not the only thing to live for in the world, dearie." Then she walked to his side and laid a wrinkled hand upon his arm. "Don't you bother about the hay any more to-day," she said kindly. "You go and have some fishing. I will give it a toss over."

So this discontented young man walked off to amuse himself, and left his mother to labour under the burning sun to finish his work, and as he sat on the bank patiently waiting for a fish to bite, a shrill voice suddenly addressed him.

"A penny for your thoughts," the voice said.

Caleb looked about him in amazement. The only living thing he could see was a frog, and, of course, he was aware that frogs had not the gift of conversing with human beings; so he went on with his meditation and paid no attention to the mysterious question.

The frog hopped angrily about, and then it repeated its remark.

"I did not know that a frog could speak," said Caleb, feeling very astonished; "I have never heard one do so before."

"Oh, really!" said the frog patronisingly. "You do not know everything yet. You are far too young. A friend of mine, who is a most cultivated sparrow, tells me you were grizzling for money this afternoon. Money indeed! What good could it do you, do you think?"

"Money buys everything worth having," replied Caleb promptly.

"No, it doesn't," snapped the frog, looking very important. "For it does not buy ME! When you are older and wiser, you will find there are many things in the world that gold cannot purchase. Wealth has many advantages certainly," he went on reflectively. "It was through money that I lost my first wife."

"Indeed," said Caleb, politely. "How was that?"

"The frog I selected to wed," explained his companion, "was a very well-bred frog, though unfortunately rather greedy. She was always delighted to discover fresh food at the bottom of the stream, and one day she thought she had found quite a new kind of dainty. As she did not wish to give me a share of it, she swallowed it hurriedly, and it stuck in her throat and choked her. Just before she died, she confessed to me what she had done, and I, from her description of it, knew it was a penny-piece she had attempted to eat. Now, what would you say," the frog went on calmly, "if I gave you the power to be as rich as you liked, to possess more gold than you knew how to spend, to gratify every wish your heart contains?"

"Can you really do this?" gasped Caleb, incredulously. "I have not met you before. I cannot understand why you are so good to me."

The frog puffed himself out with pride. "I am accustomed to judge character by faces," he replied. "I can see that you will never settle down here or be content without money. I, as the head of our family, am allowed to offer our wonderful purse to any mortal I may choose to confer such an honour upon. If you like to accept it, you are welcome to do so."

Caleb was quite bewildered at this stroke of good luck. "For how long may I keep it?" he asked.

"Until you realise there are certain things in the world that cannot be bought by gold; until you weary of the sight of riches, until you loathe the purse," said the frog solemnly.

"Then I shall keep it for ever!" declared Caleb.

But the old frog shook his head. "No you won't," he replied gravely. "You will want to get rid of it very soon, I think."

"Where shall I find this extraordinary gift?" asked Caleb cautiously.

"When you get home, look under the pillow of your bed and you will discover a shabby green purse lying there," said the frog. "As long as you desire money, you will be able to take out of it as much as you require, but when you have learnt your lesson thoroughly the purse will cease to supply you. Then it must be returned to me, and I will guard it until I meet another mortal as discontented as yourself. Farewell! I wish you a short period of wealth, for you will never enjoy it."

Caleb hastened back to the cottage, and ran up to his room, where he easily found the wee purse. It was so small that the young man felt dubious when he opened it, and he was greatly relieved to see that there was one gold piece inside. He drew it out and peered in again. There was another coin waiting in precisely the same place. This he also removed, but still there came another. When he found the supply of gold did not fail him, he rushed downstairs to tell his mother of his good fortune. But she, poor soul, did not appreciate the change in his position.

"There is trouble to come, lad," she prophesied, as she heard of his wealth. "I suppose you will leave your old mother now, and go out into the world. You won't want to waste your riches here."

"I was thinking," Caleb admitted nervously, "that it would be fine to go about a little, but you must come too."

His mother shook her head decidedly. "No, I shall stay here," she replied, "for I am too old to wander amid strange scenes. Let me hear of you, dearie, from time to time, for I shan't live much longer, I know. I shall have Volta the orphan to live with me, and then we shall be able to manage the work."

"No, mother, no," interrupted Caleb. "You forget I am rich now. I will engage servants to labour for you. You must never do anything again."

But his mother declared she wished to live as she had done hitherto. Servants and fine clothes would worry her, she told him, and she could not bear to be idle all day long. Her way of participating in her son's good fortune would be to hear of his grand doings occasionally, and to look forward to the time when he would return to sit by her side and describe the wonderful things he had seen.

Caleb bought a suit of clothes from the village tailor and a horse from the landlord of the inn, and then he set off. As he rode down the lane the birds sang to one another, "Here comes silly Caleb!" but he was too full of his own importance to realise they were mocking him, and when the tall branches of the trees bent forward and whispered to him, "Go back! Go back!" he set spurs to his horse and galloped on. His mother watched him out of sight. She hoped he would wave his hand to her from the top of the hill, but he was so occupied with his own thoughts that he only remembered he had promised to do so when it was too late.

Caleb rode for many hours, until he reached a beautiful town, where he arranged to purchase a castle. He installed himself in one that stood deep in the shadow of the wood, and he supplied himself with servants, horses, and carriages. He had decided not to travel, for he did not want to learn anything about foreign lands--he only desired to live grandly, to eclipse his neighbours and make them envious of his wealth.

He had almost forgotten his mother. He never sent her news of himself, although, at first, he occasionally ordered one of his servants to ride to the cottage and carry her some gold. He was so ashamed of her humble origin that he would not admit he was her son, and when the man returned from his errand Caleb used to avoid him, for fear he had discovered the secret of his birth.

At last the young fellow grew very discontented, for he had no interests in his life; so he determined to marry. He was sure that no high-born lady would wed him, for, in spite of his riches, he was only the son of a peasant woman, so he made up his mind to select a poor girl who would be properly impressed with his position.

As he had no acquaintances, he decided to walk slowly over the land and ask the first damsel he met to be his wife. So he called his dogs together, and away they went upon this extraordinary search for a bride, but for a long time they saw nobody.

On the way home, however, Caleb encountered a young maiden, who was tripping merrily along with a bundle of sticks balanced upon her head. As she stood aside to allow this grand gentleman to pass her, her face seemed so familiar that Caleb thought he had seen her before. He looked at her critically; she was certainly very pretty, young, and graceful, so he promptly raised his plumed cap and addressed her.

"I fear those sticks are too heavy for you," he remarked. "Will you allow me to carry them for you?"

But she shook her head. "I am used to them," she explained. "Besides, I could not trouble you so much. You are a great lord, and I am only a poor country girl."

Caleb was not very quick with his tongue, and as he wondered what to say she gave him a little nod and hastened away.

The next day he met her again, and the day following also; for he was really in love with this peasant girl.

One day he brought her a handsome silver casket full of rare jewels, but she just glanced at them and then laid them aside.

"What are they?" she asked innocently. "Bits of glass?"

"Bits of glass?" he exclaimed in astonishment at her ignorance. "No; they are precious stones, and worth a fortune. I hope you will accept them," he added.

But she shook her head. "They are useless to me," she declared candidly. "If they are so valuable, why do you wish to part with them? I should not know what to do with such jewels if they were mine."

Caleb could not understand his companion at all. For the first time since he possessed the wonderful purse he had encountered somebody who did not appreciate his wealth.

She looked so fascinating as she sat in the sunshine, with the contents of the jewel-case glittering in her lap, that Caleb fell on his knees before her and entreated her to marry him. He talked of his estate and his money, but his words made no impression.

"I do not care for you, my lord," she said. "Neither do you really love me. It is my beauty that attracts you."

"But I am rich," he objected; "I have----"

"Yes, I know," she interrupted impatiently; "you have gold, land, and jewels--in fact, everything that money can purchase. But you cannot buy affection. If we loved each other, I would marry you, even though you were the poorest beggar in the land. Although I am honoured by your proposal, it cannot be. Besides, I should not be a fit wife for one so great."

So Caleb went back to his lonely castle and she to her cottage in the wood, but he did not despair. He could not believe that he was to take her refusal seriously, so the next day he sent her many valuable presents, but when she returned them all he knew she was in earnest.

That evening, as he sat by his solitary fireside brooding over his disappointment, he recalled the girl's words, and then he realised that he was pining for something that money was powerless to give him. He looked at the presents she had rejected, and, at last, he understood the limit of wealth.

In his loneliness and sorrow his thoughts recurred to his aged mother. He felt he had neglected her, and determined to pay her an unexpected visit. So early the next morning he called for his horse and rode quickly away.

But when he reached the little cottage he thought it was deserted. The garden was overgrown, the gate flapped uneasily on its broken hinges, and the hens scratched among the flowers. He drove them out, and then he opened the door and peeped inside. His mother lay upon her bed; her face was very thin, and her breath came in quick, short gasps, and she seemed very ill.

"Mother, what has happened?" Caleb asked, as he sat by her bedside and gently stroked her hand. "Did you never receive the money I sent to you and Volta?" he added, as he looked in vain for the pretty little orphan.

"The gold your servant brought us stands untouched on the mantelpiece," explained the old woman proudly. "It was useless to me. I only needed news of you, my dear boy. I sent Volta to watch over you, for I hoped she would be able to influence you, but now that you have returned I am sure she will hasten back. Did you not see her?"

Then Caleb realised who the beautiful maiden had been. It was his little playfellow, but his wealth had made him forget his past life so completely that he had not recognised her. He understood everything now. His gold could not buy health for his mother, nor could he use it to win Volta's love. He longed to begin his old life over again, so he rose to his feet and walked to the door.

"Mother, dear," he said, "I am tired of my wealth. I am going to the stream to throw back my purse. It has been a curse to me."

When he drew near the water, he pulled the shabby little case out of his pocket and opened it curiously. All had happened as the frog prophesied. The purse was empty now, for he had learnt his lesson thoroughly. As he threw it into the stream he saw a little frog dive hurriedly down after it, and, while he watched, all his fine clothes slipped away from him and he was once more clad in his peasant's rags.

He wanted to see his beautiful maiden again, and, as he opened the cottage door, he was delighted to find her sitting by his mother's bedside.

"Volta," he said as he approached her, "I am poor now. Will you be my wife, although I have neither a fine castle nor jewels to offer you?"

She smiled sweetly at him as she replied shyly, "Your wealth was nothing to me, Caleb. When I refused to marry you, it was because I felt you did not care for me. I was afraid, too, of your grandeur. I know I should not have been a suitable bride for you, but now all is changed."

Very soon they were married, and the young couple settled down to live in the cottage with Caleb's mother. The old woman was completely contented with the love her son and daughter-in-law bestowed upon her. And later on, in the winter evenings, everybody would gather round the fire, and Caleb would take his children upon his knees as he related the strange things he used to do while he was the possessor of the wonderful purse.

_Illustrated from Photographs._]

We who live in the present generation of this best of all possible worlds, as we may well deem it, considering that we have no experience of any other, are apt to look back on those who preceded us as benighted beings who walked by very dim lights, had few artistic perceptions, and only the most humdrum of occupations. Girls who were born before Waterloo were not very much educated, and not at all emancipated, and when we think of them we are apt to wonder how their lives dragged on without railways, without gas, without circulating libraries, magazines, or tennis.

On the whole, however, these old-fashioned lasses had no time to be dull. One whose brain was as bright as ever when Queen Victoria celebrated her first Jubilee in 1887 was questioned by a girl of the period as to her occupations when in her teens and afterwards. "My dear," she said, "there were always babies in our old house at home, and your father was the youngest of them. I had the baby clothes to make, and they wore out so fast! When I was tired of plain hemming and sewing, I used to embroider the cap crowns or quill up the clean cap borders." And this woman's mind was not in the least dwarfed or stunted by much needlework; she lived and travelled a good deal on the Continent afterwards, and kept well abreast of the literature of her day to the very end.

Fine needlework may certainly be counted among the vanished arts, for our muslin embroidery is now Swiss, and made by machine, and our delicate stitchery accomplished by a "Singer" or a "Willcox and Gibbs'." No longer, like the Martineaus of Norwich and their contemporaries, do we make the fine linen shirts of our fathers and brothers; and no longer, happily, are middle-class girls obliged to laboriously copy the new music and songs that their wealthier relatives and friends have purchased. That is a distinct change for the better.

A kind of work that late in the last and early in this century was thought very highly of, and occupied a good deal of time, was called filigree. A Christmas present for Grandmamma or for Mamma's birthday might be a tea-caddy or a workbox, the frame of which was produced by the cabinetmaker in rosewood or mahogany and lined with tinfoil, or lead, or satin paper, as the case might be. Rims of polished wood were seen at the corners, and received the lock and hinges, but the surface was sunk and had to be filled in with tiny rolls of gilt-edged paper made in long lengths for the purpose. These rolls were closely packed together, and produced an appearance of fine gilt tracery, as seen in the illustration below. Unless very roughly treated, or kept in a palpably damp place, they did not come out of position. In the absence of all Oriental goods, which were never seen in those days unless in families connected with the East India Company, they were considered handsome, and no one not in the secret could have guessed how the effect was obtained.

Here and there in great houses a few fine lacquered or Chinese cabinets might be seen, principally brought home as loot, for they were most plentiful in military and naval families. They were much admired and very highly esteemed, and some ingenious individual hit on a mode of making very passable imitations of them in a small way; and it was not entirely a feminine industry, but one in which the sterner sex could find indoor occupation during wet weather and long evenings without loss of dignity. Small tables and the doors of corner cupboards were frequently treated in this manner, especially the latter, which were seldom looked at very closely and did not get much handled. The work was called imitation lacquer, and the materials were collected during summer and autumn.

Very thin leaves were selected, such as the crimson foliage of the Herb Robert when it grows in stony places, silver-weed, which is to be found in hilly districts such as Derbyshire and the Lake Country, and the leaves of the sloe or blackthorn, which in late autumn turn yellowish and assume curious _fade_ green tints. They were most carefully and smoothly dried between sheets of blotting-paper under heavy weights or in the thick volumes of bound-up music then to be found in every house, and when quite dry they were so thin that the ordinary finger might be passed over them without feeling an inequality of surface. The piece of wood--table top, cupboard door, or what not--intended to be ornamented was made perfectly smooth, and the delicate leaves were fixed on it as taste dictated with clean, strong gum. If any stalks were required to connect leaves, they were painted in; and when this was done, well pressed, and quite dry, all the interstices were filled up by means of a small camel's-hair brush with a black or dark brown varnish, probably shellac. Another coat very often had to be put on, and when all was perfectly smooth and flat two or three coats were laid all over by way of finish, and when perfectly dry and hard the article looked remarkably well.

Berlin wool work on canvas, either in raised cross or tent stitch, was a great resource to ladies, and largely used for furnishing purposes. Of course, it was the latter-day equivalent of the old tapestry, and tent stitch was usually worked in frames, while really good workers could accomplish cross stitch in their hands without drawing up or cockling. Figure-pieces were often framed and hung as pictures, and fearful and wonderful they generally were. Many of the floral wreaths, however, were really artistic, especially those that depicted carnations, tulips, and poppies. Some designs were absurdly impossible, and a writer in the 'forties describes them as peacocks or birds of Paradise resting on their talons on the petals of passion-flowers. Shading was a matter of taste--good, bad, and indifferent.

The bride of that day generally took many monuments of her own and her family's industry to her new home in the shape of wool-worked cushions, chair seats, screens, and sometimes borders to table covers and curtains. Preparing them was a great pleasure, and she was very proud of them when done. They were quite in the taste of the day, and none of us in such matters lives twenty years before our time.

Another kind of decorative furnishing very highly prized was the leather work which made such handsome frames for mirrors and was also much used for brackets, and those dark articles formed a very welcome relief to the amount of gilding in vogue during the days of the Third Empire in France, which was copied almost _ad nauseam_ in England. They entailed an amount of attention from duster and feather brush that would drive modern mistresses and maids crazy; but that is a detail.

The modelling and cutting of leaves, flowers, and berries in leather was really hard work, and required hands endowed with a good deal of muscular strength. The skilled worker was always a student of nature, and found models in some of her loveliest forms. Vine leaves and tendrils, with or without bunches of grapes, oak leaves and acorns, convolvulus blossoms and leaves (see illustration at head of article), passion-flowers and roses, were great favourites. The leather used was tanned sheepskin and cowhide, technically known as basil and skiver; the tools were few, being principally a sharp strong pair of scissors, a stout penknife, a stiletto and a veiner. The best work was often accomplished with the fewest tools, for it is very rarely that the craftsman or artist who can afford to buy every possible accessory turns out anything worth looking at. A large board or old deal table, a basin of water, sponge, wire, tacks, hammer, stain, glue, and varnish, were all needed, and the work was not quite of a kind for the family circle, as it was best pursued in a room with no carpet to spoil, and where no one could be disturbed by the tap-tapping of the hammer. Very good work may be seen from time to time at the various "Arts and Crafts" exhibitions, and leather embossing is a good deal used. Professor Herkomer has some wonderful embossed leather on the dining-room chairs in his House Beautiful at Bushey, and it was all done by a lady. Work in leather cannot therefore be classed altogether among the lost arts; it is being modified, and may some day be revived in all its glory by women who have plenty of leisure and love to have something to show for their handiwork. It must not be forgotten that even in an age that has witnessed such a revival of learning as this there are still girls of active temperament who are neither students nor great readers.

Shell work was accomplished by sticking small shells, chiefly the halves of little pink or white bivalves on to a coloured background with very strong glue. A shallow box was the favourite article, and it was then glazed and used as an ornament much as cases of stuffed birds are. How long it lasted is proved by the specimen photographed, which was worked in 1805.

The wealth of flowers in the present day is quite a modern feature of luxury. Even twenty years ago, except in summer, they were the prerogatives of the wealthy who had gardeners and greenhouses and plenty of artificial heat. Lovers of flowers consequently had wax models of them, and very beautiful they were when natural, though unfortunately they had to be covered with glass shades. The lady who could make them really well was very much thought of, and it was an occupation that could be pursued at any time, except in severely cold weather and a hard frost. The Pantheon in Oxford Street was the great place for obtaining the sheets of wax, shaved off a block with a sharp plane, which was a delicate operation seldom attempted by an amateur. The rose wax was peculiarly thin, almost of the consistence of a real rose petal. The chief tools were small, sharp scissors and a few bone or steel pins with solid glass heads, some dry colours and cotton wool to rub them on with. The worker simply took a rose, snowdrop, violet, or whatever flower she preferred, pulled it carefully to pieces, laid each portion on her sheet of wax and cut out by it as closely as possible, previously wetting her scissors. The petals were moulded in the hollow of the hand with the head of a pin after being coloured, and curled over where desirable, with the steel part wetted like the scissors. The wire stalk was covered by a narrow strip of green wax neatly rolled and rubbed smooth, crooked over at the top and a sort of little wax centre formed on this crook on which the flower was literally built petal by petal. Experience taught which flowers were feasible and which were not. Roses usually turned out well, so did scarlet japonica, apple blossom, snowdrops, and daffodils. Primroses were almost unattainable. Lilies of the valley had each separate blossom made in a tiny mould. All scraps of wax were collected in a stone jar (a strong jam-pot), and, as the great crux was to obtain natural-looking leaves, this wax was carefully melted over or near the fire, well mixed and coloured with indigo and ochre in proportion to the tint of green required. Suppose a few violet leaves were wanted, fresh ones of two or three sizes were gathered and the upper side thoroughly, but not lavishly, moistened with sweet or salad oil. Then a brush was dipped in the liquid green wax and passed over the surface, which was allowed to cool and then a wire stalk was laid on to form the mid-rib of the leaf. Two or three more layers of wax were added, and when quite cold the natural leaf was removed, and a very exact facsimile made its appearance. A well-arranged vase (see illustration on page 309) or basket of wax flowers, closely copied from nature was very pretty and acceptable in the absence of the real blossoms. The wax was rather expensive, though the tools were not, the average price being from one shilling to one shilling and sixpence per dozen small sheets.

Sampler-making was a fine art practised in silk or wool on fine woollen or silk canvas. Its primary use was to teach how to make capital and small letters and figures, which were practically applied to the marking of linen; but occasionally the geography of England was attempted, as shown in the illustration below, and probably no girl who had marked in the outlines and names of the counties ever forgot their respective positions.

All these home occupations had their day and fulfilled their purpose. They added to the household attractions, and made the rooms look as if women lived there and took a pride in them. Very often the nimble fingers worked all the more quickly and efficiently while an interesting book was being read aloud.

We often say that in those days--which, after all, are not so very long ago--girls were delicate and unhealthy, took but little exercise, and were too much given to sedentary occupations. But it was only the foolish (who carry everything to excess) of whom this was true. There was a good deal of running about the house, and the sons and daughters would have known very little of their relations and friends a few miles off, if they had not walked to see them, perhaps to spend the day, or to go one day and return the next. Few families were without sundry poor people in whom they were interested, and if they lived at the other end of the parish, it was an object for a walk to take an old woman a milk pudding, or a little delicacy to a sick child. Houses were more roomy than they are now, certainly the population was not quite so thick on the ground, and in persistent bad weather, when outdoor exercise was impossible for the girls, there were fine games of battledore and shuttlecock in the hall or schoolroom or some half-empty apartment cleared for the purpose. And it was a point of skill, as well as honour, to see who could keep up longest with a skipping-rope, and, though the little ones shared the fun, it was by no means confined to them.

Small daily duties well done, and the change of work that is as good as play, made life satisfactory as well as pleasant. Amusements were rare and costly; they are not invariably cheap now, but apparently we must have them, whatever may be neglected in consequence. We cannot exactly go back to all the ways of our "foremothers," but we need not despise them, and already there are signs that the finger of common-sense is pointing back to that lost era of domesticity in which so many English virtues grew up and nourished.

E. C.

TEMPERANCE NOTES AND NEWS

By a Leading Temperance Advocate.

TEMPERANCE AND THE SOLDIERS.

What a fascinating book might be written about the story of temperance work in the Army! Long before any attempt at organised effort, the gallant Havelock had seen the necessity of inculcating "sober habits" among our brave defenders. Coming to our own times, Miss Sarah Robinson, Mrs. Daniells and her daughter at home, and the Rev. J. Gelson Gregson in India, have laboured with more or less success to bring about a change in the state of affairs. The National Temperance League did a vast amount of pioneer work through its military agent, the late Samuel Sims. The formation of the Army Temperance Association a few years back, gave the movement a position which even the most sanguine of its friends would not have ventured to expect. There can be little doubt that this result is largely due to the far-seeing intelligence which its devoted Honorary Secretary, the Hon. Conrad Dillon, has brought to the work. His sagacious counsels, unfailing tact, and extraordinary power of attracting the sympathetic co-operation of the commanding officers, have combined to place the work upon a footing from which it is scarcely likely to be displaced. At the autumn manœuvres on Salisbury Plain the Army Temperance Association was much in evidence, and a number of most successful meetings were addressed by the Hon. Conrad Dillon and the popular secretary of the Association, Mr. Clare White. The Patron of the Association is the Duke of Cambridge; the President is the Duke of Connaught; the Chairman of the Council is Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, and the Chairman of the Executive Committee is General Sir Martin Dillon, K.C.B. The Association publishes an attractive periodical entitled _On the March_, and its comparatively small subscription list is supplemented by a Government grant of £500. It speaks volumes for the thoroughly satisfactory nature of the work done that the Government actually parts with this little plum annually. The amount might easily be doubled in view of the saving to the nation which the improved stamina of the Army has effected, an improvement most certainly traceable to the efforts of temperance workers.

VETERAN STANDARD BEARERS.

The close of the year was marked by the death of some notable pioneers of temperance. The Rev. G. H. Kirwood, M.A., was for upwards of fifty years identified with the cause in Hereford, and the Rev. Isaac Doxsey for even a longer period in the metropolis. Charles Pollard, of Kettering, could be credited with sixty years' untiring advocacy; John Faulkner, of Derby, had been an abstainer for fifty-five years; and William Symington, of Market Harborough, had reached the patriarchal age of eighty-nine. Apart altogether from the noble work which these lamented worthies accomplished, their long lives present a concrete argument as to the benefits of total abstinence which it will take a great deal to explain away. May the example of their consistent perseverance prove an incentive to young men to follow in their steps!

AN INTERESTING EXPERIMENT.

The Industrial Farm Colony at Duxhurst, Reigate, which owes its establishment mainly to the self-sacrificing devotion of Lady Henry Somerset, is an experiment which cannot fail to command the sympathy of everyone interested in the reclamation of inebriate women. To take the poor creatures away from their sordid surroundings, and place them in village homes with the attraction of out-door occupation, are the salient features of the work. Floriculture, gardening, bee-keeping, and poultry-keeping, are all engaged in; and, as some of the poor women must perforce bring their very young babies with them, a "Children's Nest" is part of the scheme. Dr. Walters, the medical officer, in a recent report gives some interesting particulars of sixty-four inmates:--

"Forty-eight were married women; sixteen were single.

"Twenty-nine drank spirits alone; fifteen drank beer and malt liquors; eleven drank any form of alcohol; four drank wine and spirits; three drank beer and spirits; one drank beer and wine; one took opium.

"Sufficient time has not yet elapsed to be able to speak with confidence regarding the ultimate cure of the thirty-three cases that are now marked as doing well.

"Regarding the failures:--Ten only stayed the full time: two of these had been in homes previously; one had been in an asylum, four were so broken in health that they were removed by the medical officer as unfit for treatment, seven were removed by their friends before the full period had expired."

The members of the National British Women's Temperance Association raise a considerable sum annually in aid of this beneficent institution, but financial help is much needed if the work is to be maintained with anything like efficiency.

THE PARLIAMENTARY OUTLOOK.

The reassembling of our legislators at St. Stephen's will once again give interest to the legislative aspect of the temperance question. The friends of Sunday closing are lending all their energies to a determined effort to "get something" in the new session of Parliament. We may also expect the usual crop of private members' notices dealing with varied phases of legislative control; and then the Report of the Royal Commission, from which great things are anticipated, will be sufficient to keep all interested parties on the alert. As if this were not enough, Sir Wilfrid Lawson may be counted upon to peg away at his project for bringing the House itself under the operation of the licensing laws; so for the next few months we shall find our morning papers liberally besprinkled with items of interest from a temperance standpoint.

A LITERARY MAN'S TESTIMONY.

As considerable interest has been taken in our recent references to the editor-in-chief of the New English Dictionary, we may remark that Dr. Murray makes no secret of his views. Speaking at a public meeting of teachers held in Oxford in 1894, he said that he claimed to be a teetotaller of more than fifty years' standing; and the great dictionary-maker added:--"I am perfectly convinced that I have been able to do my work in the world to a large extent owing to this fact; and that if I were to take stimulants I should be less able to do my work, and certainly my brain would be less fitted to deal with the complicated and somewhat difficult questions which often puzzle me a good deal."

COMING EVENTS.

Workers may like to make a note of the following important fixtures:--The annual meeting of Miss Weston's Royal Naval Temperance Society, Town Hall, Portsmouth, February 1st; Sunday Closing Demonstration, Birmingham, February 6th; Sunday Closing Mission, Sheffield, February 1st to February 15th; Sunday Closing Mission, Salisbury, February 13th to February 28th; a lecture on "The Scientific Evidence for Total Abstinence," by Dr. William Carter, at Liverpool, February 6th; and the annual meetings of the Church of England Temperance Society, Memorial Hall, Islington (March 13th), Exeter Hall (April 25th), and the People's Palace (May 2nd).

Who can Forbear to Sing?

_Words by_ JOSEPH SWAIN, 1792.

_Music by_ ROLAND ROGERS, MUS. D., OXON. (_Late Organist of Bangor Cathedral._)

1. Who can forbear to sing, Who can refuse to praise, When Zion's high, celestial King His saving power displays?

2. When sinners at His feet, By mercy conquer'd, fall; When grace, and truth, and justice meet, And peace invites them all.

3. When heaven's opening gates Invite the pilgrims' feet; And Jesus, at their entrance, waits To place them on His seat.

4. Who can forbear to praise Our high, celestial King, When sovereign, rich, redeeming grace Invites our tongues to sing!

With Illustrative Anecdotes and References.

FEBRUARY 19TH--=Christ Feeding the Five Thousand.=

_To read--St. John vi. 1-14. Golden Text--Ver. 35._

Christ and disciples have returned to Galilee. The fame of His miracles and teaching spreads. Multitudes crowd to see and hear Him. The annual Feast of Passover is coming on. Large bodies of pilgrims going up to Jerusalem attract Christ's notice. They are fed and taught.

I. =The Multitude= (1-7). _Their desire for Christ._ Why did they come to Him? Some from _curiosity_--to see this famous Man; or because _sick_, hoping they might be healed; or from _gratitude_--having received benefits from Him. Christ does not court popularity; seeks retirement; goes up a hill with disciples for privacy and rest; there sits down and talks with them. From there sees crowd of pilgrims. Must do something for them.

_Christ's desire for them._ Their _wants_ call out His sympathy--they need food. Their _helplessness_ moves His pity. Whence obtain supplies in wilderness far from home? Their _ignorance_ makes Him long to teach them (St. Matt. ix. 36). What does He do! Tests His disciple Philip of Bethsaida (i. 44), who ought to know the resources of the district. Philip makes mental calculation of cost of feeding them. It will take two hundred pence (about £7, taking the _denarius_ or penny as worth 7d., an ordinary day's wages, Matt. xx. 2). But the Lord knew what He would do.

II. =The Miracle= (8-13). Many points to be noticed. _The lad's offering_--probably the meal provided for Christ and disciples. Five barley-bread loaves and two small fishes. But five thousand to be fed! Man's extremity is God's opportunity.

_Christ's command._ People to rest, sit in rows.

_Giving thanks_ to God Who giveth food to all.

_Distribution_ by disciples, His almoners to the poor.

_Sufficient_ and to spare. None went empty away.

_Gathering up_ fragments to avoid any waste.

III. =The Result= (14). Acceptance of Christ by the multitude as the expected Messiah.

=Lessons.= 1. Blessed is he who considereth the poor.

2. Give thanks unto the God of heaven.

Food Comes from God.

We are in want of food, and we buy a loaf at a baker's shop. Whence does a baker get the flour to make that loaf? You say at once--"From the miller"; but how does the miller get the corn to grind into flour? He buys it of the farmer. But how does the farmer get it? With infinite pains he prepares the ground with plough and harrow. Then he sows the seed and--leaves it. He can do no more. The soil in which it grows, the sunshine to warm it, the rain to moisten it, and the wind to blow upon it--all these are God's doing, not man's. So a wonder is seen in thousands of harvest fields every year. One grain has produced a hundred grains by the almighty power of God. Christ, the Son of God, passed over all the intermediate processes, and made one loaf to be multiplied into many. "He giveth food to all flesh, for His mercy endureth for ever."

FEBRUARY 26TH.--=Christ at the Feast.=

_To read--St. John vii. 14, 28-37. Golden Text--Ver. 37._

Scene again changes to Jerusalem. Spring Feast of Passover long over, autumn Feast of Tabernacles begun. Christ at first decided (ver. 8) not to attend, but (ver. 14) changed His mind and went up, in the middle of the eight days, quite privately (ver. 10), and began teaching in the Temple.

I. =A Sermon= (28, 29). Christ now preaches openly and proclaims His authority. They by this time know Him well. How? By His miracles, which proclaim Him as sent from God. Had healed the impotent man here at Jerusalem (ch. v. 8), also had been testified to by God at His baptism (St. Matt. iii. 17), and by John the Baptist afterwards as the Son of God (i. 33, 34). They knew not God, and therefore would not receive Him.

II. =An Attempt at Arrest= (30-36). Many believed on Him--mostly common people. Why? Because of His miracles, His loving words, His holy life. But chief priests and Pharisees hated Him. Why? For His increasing popularity, while theirs was becoming less. Also for His so openly rebuking sin. So they sought to take Him prisoner, but failed. Why? Because His time for being tried not yet come.

Christ continued His talk. He is now with them as Teacher and Saviour, but will soon go where they cannot follow, _i.e._ back to God. They who reject Him will then seek Him too late, and not find Him (Prov. i. 26). Christ is believed, accepted, loved by some. Rejected, hated, despised by others. How is it with us?

III. =An Offer= (37). Last day of feast. Great procession to Temple. Water brought from Pool of Siloam and poured out. Isaiah xi. sung by priests and Levites. Christ applies it to Himself. Notice the steps--

_Thirst_, or desire for satisfaction, common to all.

_Coming_ to Christ for free gifts of salvation (Is. lv. 1) follows. This is succeeded by--

_Believing_ or throwing ourselves entirely on Him.

=Lesson.= Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.

A Dry Well.

I once saw a picture in which the artist had represented a party of travellers in the desert. They had travelled far and long. The water was spent in their bottles, and their thirst was maddening. They were tired and footsore, and could scarce drag themselves along, when lo! joy of joys they descried a well in the distance. Gathering up their little remaining strength, they joyfully hastened to it. But, alas! for their bitter disappointment, when they reached it, there was no water there! The well was dry! In attitudes of utter despair the unhappy party laid themselves down beside the deceitful well to die. Never, oh never, can it be so with Christ. His water will never fail. He is the well of life. That living stream is from the throne of God, always full of life and grace for thirsting souls.--REV. GORDON CALTHROP.

MARCH 5TH.--=Christ Freeing from Sin.=

_To read--St. John viii. 12, 31-36. Golden Text--Ver. 36._

Christ still at Jerusalem. Feast over. Country people gone home. He teaches daily in Temple courts. Tells of the union between His Father and Himself, and of His being lifted up on the cross (ver. 28). Result, that many professed to believe in Him. He tells them first of Himself as the Light of the World and then of their position as God's free children.

I. =Christ the Light of the World.= _The figure._ Light is from God (Gen. i. 3), is bright and shining. Lights up darkness, reveals hidden things, makes all clear.

_The meaning._ Christ came from God, to dispel world's darkness (St. Matt. iv. 16) and ignorance, and to reveal God (ch. xiv. 9).

II. =Christ's People Free= (31-36). _Bondage._ New disciples put to the test. They must do two things--continue in His word, _i.e._ learn more of Him, and act upon the truth in their lives. The result will be that they will break their bondage and be free. The Jews object that they have never been in bondage. What have they forgotten? Their bondage in Egypt for four hundred years (Acts vii. 6); their seventy years' exile in Babylon (Dan. ix. 2); their present submission to the Romans. Christ tells them of a greater bondage than any other--that of sin and Satan. To live a life of sin is to be a slave of sin, which involves expulsion from the house (ver. 35).

_Examples._ Cain the murderer became a wanderer (Gen. iv. 12). Hagar, mocking Sarah, had to leave home (Gen. xvi. 6). Prodigal son went to strange land (St. Luke xv. 13). No rest for the wicked.

_Freedom._ Given to Christ's people. The Son shared Father's home from all eternity--so do His brethren. They are ever with Him, share His home and love (St. Luke xv. 31); they are free from sin (Rom.