VOL. V.

Plain Words for Young Women.

BY THE RIGHT REV. W. WALSHAM HOW,
Bishop Suffragan of Bedford (for East London).

III.-FAITH.

T is curious how many little words there are, which we are always hearing and using, but which we should find it very difficult to explain. Now try the little word at the head of this paper. Before you read any farther, stop just half a minute, and think how you would explain 'FAITH' to some child who asked you what it meant. Would you say, 'Faith means believing'? Of course that is some sort of an answer, but you can soon see that it is a poor sort of an answer; for "the devils believe," as we read, but you would never say they had Faith. Besides, you could easily find some one of your own friends who believes quite firmly that God made the world, and that God's only Son Jesus Christ came into the world and lived and died to save sinners, and all that the 'Belief' tells you, and yet who is living a careless, godless, prayerless life, and you would never say such a one had Faith. So you see plainly that Faith must mean something more than mere believing. But perhaps you would go a little farther, and say, 'Faith means trusting'? Well, that is better; but I do not think it tells you nearly enough. Real Faith will

No. 46.

make you trust, but it is not the same thing as trusting. Then what is it?

The best way I can answer this question is by a verse of the Bible. I think Faith is nowhere so perfectly described as in the last verse of the fourth chapter of the Second Epistle to the Corinthians. The words are these: "While we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen." This sounds very strange. 'How can anybody look at a thing he can't see?' you may ask. But it is just the answer to this question that will help you to understand 'Faith.'

We live in the midst of two worlds-one which we can see and hear and feel; and one which we cannot see or hear or feel. We call the one the material world. It is made up of "the things which are seen, which are temporal." Our own bodies, the earth we dwell upon, the fields and houses and mountains and trees,—all such things belong to this outer or material world. The other world is called the spiritual world, and is made up of " the things which are not seen, which are eternal." God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, the holy angels, the saints departed; yes, and our own souls too; all these belong to this spiritual world. And this is quite as real and true as the other. Now our bodily sight shows us the one world, and keeps it always before us;

and, in like manner, Faith shows us the other world, and keeps that always before us. So Faith is sometimes called the eye of the soul, because it looks upon the things which the eye of the body cannot see. You can easily understand what a vast difference this Faith must make in any one. I am sure you know some people who seem to be always mindful of the other world, and who live as if they always felt God was near them, watching over them, loving them, helping them. And you can see how different such people are from those who never think of any other world but this which they can see with their bodily eyes. The feeling of the close presence of the unseen world gives a deep reality and earnestness to life, which nothing else can give. And then there is another thing. The Faith which looks upon the unseen sees there, in that other world, a Saviour, living as our Example, dying as our Atonement. And the sight of

that Saviour draws the whole heart out towards Him, and makes us love Him, and obey Him, and copy Him.

So I think you can understand what a great thing Faith is, and what great power it has. It is, indeed, "the victory that overcometh the world." The world is so close to us, and forces itself so constantly upon our attention, that we are sorely tempted to forget that there is anything else near us and around us. And it is only Faith which can tear in two the thick curtain which the world hangs before our eyes, and show us the mighty and eternal things behind the veil. Oh, let us pray God to increase our faith, and as we dimly seek to perceive and know more of the wonderful things of the unseen world, let us humbly cry,, "Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief." Amen.

Friends for Life.

BY MRS. MASSEY,

Author of Mrs. Harker's Christmas,'' The Inner Life, &c. &c.

(Concluded from p. 106.)

CHAPTER IX.

ARY,' said Miss Lizzie to me one morning, I am going to pack up all my doll's clothes; mammy says we are not to leave anything behind. Oh, I do so like packing up; don't you?'

'You are going to leave me behind, but that don't matter,' said I, pulling the cord tighter round a box that I was fastening.

Miss Lizzie, child-like, took no notice of my words, being taken up with her dolly; but mistress, who was coming in at the door as I spoke, looked concerned, and said kindly,—

'Why, child, you don't think but that we are as sorry as can be to part; but I've been so busy, as you know, and likely enough I've not given enough thought to you. How is it you

haven't heard of another place? I'm sure I'm

ready to say a good word for you.'

'It don't matter,' was all I could prevail on myself to say, and I pretended to go on with my work.

'I thought you were going to that friend of yours,' went on mistress.

'She don't want me now, she's got good friends to look after her; I haven't any friends as I know of,' I muttered, for I was afraid I should begin to cry.

'I'll speak to your master,' said mistress, with her hand on my shoulder; 'don't say you've no friends; 'tis but little lies in our power, but you shan't be left with no one to take thought for you.'

A sharp rap at the door-the postman's rapand Miss Lizzie was off down the stairs to see what had fallen into the box, and back again in a moment with a letter, which she brought to her mamma.

'Why, Mary, the letter is for you!'

The mistress looked surprised, for all the

time I had been with her I letter before. 'Perhaps it is I said, for I thought it might office where I had put in.

had never had a about a place,' come from the

'Well, read it, child, anyhow;' and mistress took the clothes I was folding out of my hands, and went on with the work herself.

It was some time before she looked up at me, and when she did, she exclaimed,—

'It isn't bad news, I hope, Mary?'

For I was crying; I had kept the tears back before, but now they would come, and not for sorrow, oh no, only for gladness, and for shame at my own distrustful, ungrateful heart. For the letter was from Kate; that of itself would have been enough to cheer me, and she said at the very beginning that she felt better already, and that the farm was all Patience had said, and

more.

it

But there was something beside that, and upset me so I could hardly read the words to mistress, when she asked me about it. Mrs. Duncan, Patience's aunt, wanted a strong girl to help in the house and dairy, and she was willing to try me; I might come as soon as I could be spared.

'I never, never, never will be ungrateful and distrustful any more,' I said over and over to myself that night, when work was done, and I had time to think. How different all the world, and every one in it, seemed to me now; and I could see that it was my own fault that I had been unhappy, for God had this good plan for me all ready, only, as I could not see the plan, I would not believe that my Father in heaven thought of His child.

And I am afraid it has been so over and over again with me; even since that time I have forgotten God's goodness so often, but God has never forgotten me.

I often think that autumn spent with Kate and Patience, and kind Mrs. Duncan, was the most peaceful time I have ever known. Not the brightest perhaps, but so still, and sweet, and happy, that it seemed like a new life, and I sometimes used to say to myself when I was

alone, and there was no one to hear me, 'I wonder whether I really am Mary.'

And I think Kate felt something of the same kind, especially when she looked at me and at Patience.

'To think,' she said one day, 'of the poor girl whom we saw on the door-step, coming to live in such a home as this! Oh, Mary, it does seem as if everything was given me that could make it easier for me to go.'

'To go, Kate,' I repeated, looking at her as if I didn't understand her words.

'It won't make it any easier to hide it, Mary, and the tears came into Kate's eyes; 'but don't think I'm fretting; I am very happy-happier than ever in my life before, I do think.'

'But what makes you so sure you won't get better?' said I, determined not to believe what in my heart I knew was true.

'I can feel it, Mary; I am weaker every day, and on Thursday I spoke to the doctor, and he told me plain there was but little he could do for me; he says that kick hurt my chest, and the mischief has been going on ever since.'

'Then, it was an adversity after all, Kate?' Kate smiled. 'Perhaps I shall not think so when I am on the other side of it, Mary; we can't see now, but we can trust, and I haven't any fear or misgiving; it all seems so peaceful and happy.'

'Well, Kate,' I answered her, 'for my part, I can't help feeling as if you might get better; you never were in such a place before, and you haven't been here long enough to have got the good yet.'

'Mrs. Duncan is so good, Mary, she wants me to stay all the autumn, but it doesn't seem right; does it? I told her I had money that my aunt sent me, and she says that must go to pay the doctor; not a penny would she touch.'

'She was quite angry with you for speaking about it; she said almost sharp to me, that if she heard any more of such nonsense, she should be ready to turn us both out. "Kate doesn't eat no more than a sparrow," she said; " and

as for the drop of new milk and the eggs, they are no more than I would freely give to a sick neighbour, much more to the girl that has brought us back our niece."

The peaceful days went by, and I think clung the more to every hour, because I knew that they could not last; Kate was fading as surely as the flowers were dying amidst the ripening corn, and I had to store up in my mind her sweet words and holy thoughts, to help me when I should be alone once more.

The old clergyman used often to come and read to her, and talk of the Home to which she was surely going, and tell her how to prepare herself for that wonderful unknown life. The church bells rung out each evening across the fields, but it was not often that Kate could go.. Patience had learnt already to find her way there, and her beautiful voice already would have been missed from the singing; and now and then, when some cooler day would give Kate back a little of her strength, we would walk together across the meadow to the church, Kate leaning each time more heavily on my

arm.

But the time was not sad; Kate's loving, peaceful spirit seemed somehow to rest on us all, and we could not sorrow for what must be to her peace and joy. She cared still for everything that went on, for the little grandchildren who brought her their gifts of wild flowers, and told her about their play and their lessons, for the busy farm-house life, for the harvest feast, and the wreaths of yellow corn which we made to deck the church.

She packed a hamper, too, for Mrs. Espina pair of Mrs. Duncan's fattest ducks, fresh country eggs, and rosy apples, which we had gathered ourselves from the earliest trees, and a bunch of late roses, which Kate tied up in wet moss, that they might be sweet and scented in the narrow room to which they were going.

Patience seemed to cling to Kate still, but we could both see-and were thankful to see-that she was taking more and more to her uncle and aunt. If only I could be anything but a use

And thus the days went on at Eastcourt Faim; the hay and the corn were gathered in, the bees hived, and the clear honey drawn, the apples stored away in the loft, the autumn sowing begun, and still our Kate could walk with feeble step across the grass, or watch from the windows the line of departing birds that told autumn was nearly past.

CHAPTER X. FOR LIFE.

THE end came suddenly at last. It was the morning of All Saints' Day, but the bells which were ringing for the early service had not waked me. I had watched by Kate nearly all night, for she had been unusually restless and weary, and now I lay by her side in heavy sleep.

But though the bells did not wake me, I started up suddenly at the touch of fingers on my arm. Kate did not speak, however, and when I looked at her, I understood why; the bleeding from the lungs had come back.

The doctor was soon there, and Mrs. Duncan ; but very little could be done, and it was hours before the breath came more easily, or she

could be laid down to rest after her terrible struggle. Kate had asked, by signs, that the clergyman should be sent for, and he came at once from the church. But it was not till later in the day that the Feast could be held by the bedside.

The white cup, with its bright autumn flowers, stood on the little table, which Mrs.