to how she was to save the five shillings a-month without letting her husband find out.

For a couple of months the money was paid regularly, and Job, seeing his supper a little more scanty, only thought Jenny a saving wife, and made no complaint. The tallyman called again, and as Mrs. Coulter could not pay all this time, persuaded her to buy more; and she, wishing to keep him in a good humour, and get time, acted against her conscience, and made fresh purchases.

After this, for a while, the man called frequently, and yet, when the instalments were not forthcoming, seemed content to wait. The poor woman, meantime, was doing her utmost to save the money; but Job must eat, the children were always hungry, and prices were rising; so that she was at her wits' end when the month day came. Strange to say, the tallyman never made his appearance. Another month passed, and still no sign. So Mrs. Coulter began to breathe again, trusting that some happy chance or change had removed him from her neighbourhood. But this hope was soon cruelly dispelled. A new actor appeared; a man she had never seen before walked into the cottage one afternoon, and putting a blue printed paper into her hand, bid her take care she attended to it, and swaggered off to the nearest public-house. The paper was a county court writ, the tally-man having, according to custom, handed his debts over for collection. Mrs. Coulter's heart sank. She knew enough to understand there was danger, and perhaps disgrace. Then Job's cheery whistle sounded in the lane, and, in an agony of fear and self-reproach, she thrust the paper into the fire, and nothing was said, though you may be sure the memory of the paper was never absent.

A short time after, Job coming home wet through, gave his clothes to his wife to dry, and went to bed. Hardly had he got in when a rough voice demanded if Job Coulter lived there, and finding he did, informed the wondering rustic that he was to go to gaol for contempt of court, in not having taken any notice of the writ served upon him for the tallyman's debt. Stunned and puzzled by the news, Job appealed to his wife for an explanation; but Mrs. Coulter had gone off in hysterics, and Job went to prison, utterly ignorant as to the cause, saving and except that it was for some debt of his wife's contracting.

Now came, perhaps, the saddest, certainly the most cruel, part of the business: Job was shown to the day-room of the prison, where he found plenty of brothers in misery: most of them were in there for debt. So Job went in to the turnkey, and wormed out of him what had brought him there. His wife had deceived him for her vanity and folly he was a prisoner. Job began almost to hate his wife, and fell back upon such company as the prison afforded.

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Meantime, Mrs. Coulter, broken in spirit and heart, fought on for a while; but, unable to keep her children fed and clothed,

came upon the parish,-finally, the workhouse-and when Job's forty days were over, he found the cottage in new hands, and his wife a pauper. Nobody is willing to give a gaol-bird work; so Job asked for leave to labour in vain, and finally took to getting a living as best he could by poaching.

Poaching, when followed as a means of livelihood, has two endings-the gaol or premature death; for poachers are all drunkards. Job's end was the last: a blow, received in a poaching skirmish, finished the story; and the good doctor, who was called in too late, made the following note in his memorandum book :

"Job Coulter died of gangrene. Another case of death from drinking. If he had been healthy, the blow would have done no harm; as it was, his blood was poisoned with adulterated beer." "Have you many such notes?" I asked.

For answer, the doctor turned to a shelf, and took down a large folio, and opened page after page closely written.

"That is all," he said. "Some day I'll publish it, and send a copy to every magistrate in the country, to show them what their broadcast licences do."-The Quiver.

THE ADOPTED ORPHAN; OR, THE POOR HELPING THE POOR.

NE more than usually severe winter, when typhus fever prevailed, I passed the door of an Irish hodman, rendered idle by the frost. This man, who had a look of cultivation and selfrespect, I had met months ago, depositing his spare pence in our local savings bank. Finding out that he was a Roman Catholic, I did not venture to visit his house, lest, afraid that I was bent on proselytizing, his religious superior would get him to desist from taking advantage even of the bank. With the characteristic Irish courtesy, he touched his cap as we passed, and I asked how he and his house were; and that was all.

This day the door stood open. I recognised my friend's broad, frank face; it instinctively drew me in. Pat sprang to his feet to find somewhat of the nature of a seat, on which he begged I would be seated, at the same time apologising that he had no better to offer. But I would not sit down. They were eating dinner. It was humble enough-potatoes that had been boiled and tumbled on a broad rough board, resting on four pins, before the hearth. Seven children, ranging from fourteen to infancy, were standing around, eating with manifest avidity; the youngest leaned on the mother's knee, she being seated on a stone on the

one side; and a girl, an eighth, of about five years, stood between Pat's knees, he been seated on a stone on the other side.

It was interesting to see how the man was picking out the bestlooking potato, carefully searching for the most mellow, soft, and tasty part of it, putting it into the child's mouth, and after she got the best, eating the remainder himself. The other children were chubby, rough, round, and strong-hopeful shoots of two specimens of "the finest peasantry in the world." The child between Pat's knees was quite a contrast. She was pale, thin, and finely-formed; and her smile of grateful confidence, as she looked up into the man's face, was almost more angelic than human. Turning to leave (for I never wait when people are at a meal), I exclaimed, "Pat, is that child yours?—she is not like you at all! His eyes swam in tears; and, ere he could speak, his wife struck in, looking at him and the child with wifely and motherly pride, mingled with loving satisfaction: "Your reverence may well ask. My husband is a soft, foolish man. He has seven of his own, and no work at present, and yet he must bring another into this poor house." Ere she finished, her Irish heart was at her mouth also; for I verily believe she thought more of her husband when she uttered these words, than at the moment when they were married. Pat now said, "The fever, your reverence knows, has been bitter bad this winter. Her father was seized" (looking to the child). "They carried him to the fever-ward in the Infirmary. Her mother was a sickly woman; half her children were dead. But she was a good woman, though she was a Protestant. She prayed, for I heard through the wall, night by night. She would not stop away from her husband. He died. In a few days she also took the fever. As I helped to get her carried to the Infirmary, she looked in my eyes, and then at the children-'Pat, look to them, till I come back, and God will reward you.' 'With all my heart I will,' I said.

"She died. The funeral was over. I was there. There were three children without father or mother. The eldest a girl of fifteen, the next a boy of eleven, and this one. The relations were there. One took the girl, another the boy. All looked away from the tiny thing-she could do nothing for herself. I took her by the shoulder: If none of ye can take the infant orphan, I can; while I live she will not be in the workhouse.' I pushed her in at the door before me. My wife heard and saw it all. She cried, 'My man is mad. Are seven of your own not enough, that you must add this dying thing?' 'Hush, woman; her mother is in heaven. I see her eyes looking down, and we'll all get the blessing. A few more potatoes a-week will be all the difference. I will want them myself. Let her mingle among the rest, there will be little difference.""

I am not ashamed to record that my eyes were filled with tears of joy as well as theirs. I could only say, "Pat, blessings are in

your house, and on you and yours already. The orphan's Stay' is here." "Amen," said Pat. "But I fear you will spoil that child," I said. "Your reverence, she is real good," said the mother; "she is not wild, like my children; but they are all fond of her." Weeping more copiously, Pat added, "What shall I do if she grow up bad, and I need to strike her? I could strike my own, but not her. I would see her mother's eyes looking down. I pray that I may never need. But if I be spared I will send her to your school, and she will read your Bible, and learn to pray as her mother did, and prayed for me and mine, though she was a Protestant."

"Pat, I am in a great strait," I said. "If it were not that people will say that I am proselytizing, I would ask you to accept a new frock-a whole new dress, when your dear girl comes to school. But I shall risk it, let men say what they will. Will you allow me?" "I will," said he; "but I did not ask it. The Lord send health and fresh weather, no fears of work; master and men are all kind to me." It was done.

MR. COLLINS AND THE SMOKER.

HE late Rev. Thomas Collins was a model tract distributor, being instant in season and out of season. He often travelled in third-class railwaycarriages in order to have a wider field for doing good. In his interesting memoir, recently published, we find that he thus describes some

incidents of one of his journeys :

"In the train I presented a New Testament to a soldier; he received it gladly, and I was pleased to see that he caught my meaning at once when I called it 'a sword.'

"A cooper got in at an early station, and, without apologising, lighted a pipe

"After a little introductory talk, I submitted for his consideration, whether the cost of that cloudy gratification would not send a child to school; and whether that would not be a better outlay, as it would confer a benefit that would last for ever? He said, 'I never thought of that, but it is true; so out goes the pipe, and here's for the child.'

"Do you mean that? Will you give up the practice?' "To be sure I will, and send the young un to school.'

"I am glad so pleasantly to have put your pipe out. Will you oblige me by the gift of the cast-off thing?'

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Certainly, sir; here it is.' So with joy I brought the trophy

home."

I'VE FOUND A JOY IN SORROW.

[The following lines were written by Mrs. Jane F. Crewson, a lady who passed through more than ordinary sickness and suffering. She speaks from the depths of a rich Christian experience.]

'VE found a joy in sorrow,

A secret balm for pain,
A beautiful to-morrow
Of sunshine after rain;
I've found a branch of healing

Near every bitter spring,
A whispered promise stealing
O'er every broken string.

I've found a glad hosanna
For every woe and wail,
A handful of sweet manna
When grapes of Eshcol fail;
I've found a Rock of Ages

When desert wells are dry;
And, after weary stages,
I've found an Elim nigh,—

An Elim with its coolness,

Its fountains, and its shade;
A blessing in its fulness

When buds of promise fade;
O'er tears of soft contrition
I've seen a rainbow light;
A glory and fruition

So near!-yet out of sight.
My Saviour, Thee possessing,
I have the joy, the balm,
The healing and the blessing,

The sunshine and the psalm;
The promise for the fearful,

The Elim for the faint,
The rainbow for the tearful,
The glory for the saint.

HOUSEHOLD PRAYER.

Tis recorded of the present Lord Mayor of London, that his boyhood was spent in his grandfather's family, and that in his home the simple but beautiful custom was observed of beginning and ending the day with family prayer. We cannot tell how much of the success and usefulness of the man who has attained to so great distinction are to be traced to this pious beginning. But there is no doubt that it helped to form his character, and led him early in life to consecrate himself to the service of the God whom he heard so reverently addressed twice a day. We are told, too, that he was a farmer, and everybody knows that farmers rise early, and are at their work before most people have opened their eyes; so that some resolution and self-denial are necessary in order that the pleasant duty should never be omitted. We are further told that on some occasions, after the death of his grandmother, and when his grandfather was absent, the young man frequently conducted the service himself. It must have been capital training for him. He was taught that no exigencies of time and season should interfere with the regular worship of God. All the year round, in seed-time and harvest, on busy days when there was not a moment to spare, and on leisure days, when those who had toiled might rest from their labour, the voice of prayer and praise went up from the ingleside of the humble Scotch home where Andrew Lusk was being trained to become a good and great man. It was well for him that he was sometimes obliged to lead the devotions. There