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When Vera was a fairy child, her bright independence and daring impelled her to deeds which it was sometimes amusing, sometimes terrifying, to witness. Her old early home stood on the sunny side of the village street, and there stretched a vine in and out amongst the windows, and up to the eaves where the swallows had their nests. One day she had poised herself on the bedroom window-sill-little feet daintily on tip-toe, little white arms outstretched towards a cluster of white grapes which hung temptingly down from a topmost branch. The dear father happened to see his child's perilous position from below. Though alarmed, as well he might be, he uttered no cryspoke no word; but with quiet swiftness went upstairs, and with his strong, manly hand drew Fairy in.

I think there was a crisis in her spiritual life when she was about seventeen. In regard to her deeper thoughts and feelings she was extremely reticent. But once this taciturnity gave way in my presence-mine; why could I not help her better? Life suddenly seemed to have become grave to her. She sorrowfully said, "I am not living for any really worthy purpose. I have no power-no

courage. My sisters are clever and studious, but their books bewilder me. I don't see things clearly." My reply was only this, "We are not all made alike. Find out, dear, what you can do, and do it. You will make a niche for yourself." She needed better food than I could give her, but I believe my dry crust helped her at the time. The truth is, she had naturally great strength of will, and nobly persevered in any task she took in hand. To these qualities she added a high-minded ambition. As the consciousness of latent power gradually awoke within her, she would have liked a larger sphere than her village life could find-" some great thing to do, or secret thing to know." Now and then curt speech and tokens of impatience would wound those who loved her best. But she drew nearer and nearer to the Fount of Truth and Beauty, and learned from her Saviour the blessedness of ministering to those around her-especially in their times of need. Rest of soul was not realised without a struggle; she needed tender dealing, and had it. But throughout the inner conflict her supreme longing was to have "the true light" without any cloud to make it dim, and to be true to the measure of light which was vouchsafed to her. And the light did grow stronger in her soul. It came, as the light generally does come, when it comes most effectively, and when it is sure to be put to its best use-came in the

wake of preparation wrought by sanctified trial. The heavenly Father sent her sorrow. She had to pass by the cup of earthly love when it seemed to be just within reach, though she would fain have taken it. And then the dear home circle-one of the happiest in the world-was broken in upon by suffering and death. She had to follow a lovely sister to the grave. A terrible accident to another was the precursor of prolonged pain and helplessness. By-and-by, the good mother-how good, it would be no easy task to tell-was taken away. But Vera came forth from each trial the unselfish comforter of her companions in grief-with sympathies quickened, and with energies braced for action. She saw that work had to be done, and that she must not sullenly sit down in rebellion against the heavenly Father's will. Were they not Christian mourners? And so the cheerfulness, the geniality, of the home must still be cherished. Fresh flowers were gathered for the vases. The loveliest mosses and wild blossoms were tastefully distributed about the rooms. Poor neighbours were visited and cheered. "Were they not cold? Why not start a blanket club?" The idea soon became a beautiful and permanent reality.

The last time I saw my Vera was in my own sick-room. She entered it like a ray of sunshine. She had in her hand a pretty painting of her own production which she had brought to show me. My restlessness was charmed away as she quietly brightened my neglected fire, and then sat and sweetly chatted over some needlework. Among other things, she talked of her "poor friends" in the far-away village among the hills. "Don't you think they have perceptions of beauty-those poor people-for which we would hardly give them credit if we did not know them? A short time ago I went to see old Hodge and his wife, and I read to them some verses in Rev. xxi. 'Yes, miss,' said he, 'that do make me think of the other evening. I was coming home from work, and the sky got all red, and purple, and gold. I did feel it quite solemn-like." Then she told me of the young men and women whom she had gathered together for the practice of singing, and who liked to style themselves her "choir." In these ways, and in many others, she had found her unobtrusive work. All around her loved her, and no wonder; for her life had the holy charm of a beautiful simplicity and of a Christlike goodness.

She was called away very suddenly to the heavenly home-one

evening playing with her bonny little nephew, and the next morning lying marble white and cold in the awfulness and fairness of death. She was carried from the scene of light and warmth and mirth, and laid in suffering on her bed. A sister's voice said to her, "My darling, you will die before sunrise. The doctor says so." "You don't mean that!" was the reply. But she was not dismayed, for she added: "I am not afraid. I trust my Saviour;" and then she drew, as it were, queenly robes about her, gave messages to distant ones, turned lovingly to her father with the words: "For your sake I would fain have lived longer;" said to all who were around her, "Meet me in heaven; I must rest now ;" and then quietly passed into the spirit-land. Her body, decked in the flowers she loved so well, was tenderly carried by the hands of the villagers to the secluded resting-place under the elm-trees a mile away from her home. Bent forms and tearful faces lined the street, and followed to the spot where she was laid; and ere nightfall the first snow of winter fell on her grave.

It has been said: "Ofttimes the blank places of earth fill the eyes more than the peopled places of heaven." Why do we not let faith. paint the scene, and show us the joy of those we have lost from earththe freedom of their spirits and the harmonious development of their character in the perfect home above?

Perhaps some young souls may read this sketch, and may find some helpful direction and stimulus in the character of my Vera. Do they find fault with the conditions of their life, and think that in other circumstances they could be useful and happy-could lift themselves up into sunshine, and unfold the latent powers of which they are conscious? Begin just where you are, young sister. Perhaps there is even now in your family circle a lonely one-feeling the weight of years-eyes dim-feeble health, rendering a halfimprisonment in the house a necessity, until the mind once sparkling and alert, is weary. Can you not for such a depressed and saddened one do something out of the abundance and splendour of your youthful energy? Verily you can do much. It is a mistake to imagine that only far away heathen, or the poor of your own locality, need kindly ministrations. Such may seem to be beyond your power. Just where you are, and just now, you will find your work, if you sincerely seek it. The rest will unfold; for God has placed you where, at least for the present, you can be shaped and moulded to His ideal,

My eye rests again on the "creeper" opposite my window, and I see how attractive it makes the blank, unlovely wall. Let us all try to fill the lesser or larger space which God has given to us with beauty, remembering that, to do so, we must be receptive of that true Light which has come into the world, and which is evermore ready to shine into, and through, and back from, the deepest recesses of our mysterious nature. ELLEN LINTON.

Illustrations from a Preacher's Note-book.

CTING on the advice of one of the foremost preachers of the present day, I have formed the habit of carrying about with me a small note-book in which I put down any illustrations of moral and spiritual truths which may be

suggested by what I read, or hear, or see. These illustrations I usually write out fully, just as they present themselves to the mind, so that they shall be ready for immediate use in the pulpit, in the class-room, or on the platform. This habit I have found to be so beneficial that I cannot refrain from earnestly recommending it to all ministers, lay-preachers, and Sunday-school teachers who may read these pages. The following illustrations are taken at random from my note-book, and are given without any regard to logical sequence or arrangement:

1. Disagreeable Christians.

Walking in my garden in the early spring, I noticed the sward all dotted over with little heaps of mould. On removing some of these with my foot, I observed that each of them had been thrown up by an earth-worm, of whose existence I had not otherwise dreamt. "Ah!" I thought to myself, "how many people are there in our churches like these earth-worms, who are never seen in any active Christian experience, and the only proof of whose existence is to be found in the dirt they raise."

2. Humility a Condition of Success in Christian Work.

In passing through the south of Lincolnshire, I saw in a field a number of men and boys at work. Each of them was provided with a piece of cloth, which he spread on the wet soil and then knelt

upon. Only by so doing could the work which required the careful use of the hands be successfully accomplished. There are some kinds of Christian work, to do which aright requires that we stoop, that we lay aside our dignities, and go down upon our knees. It is only as we humble ourselves that we can see our work distinctly, and do it effectively.

3. The Binding Power of Christian Love.

As the silica binds the loose and separate pebbles into a compact conglomerate hard enough to endure the wear and tear of city traffic, so Christian love cements persons of various characters and dispositions into a firm, harmonious whole, which the rude contacts of the world fail to disturb or break. The Christian Church is strong just in the degree in which it is pervaded by the spirit of love.

4. Harmful Criticism of God.

It is possible so to sift or filter a sunbeam as to intercept its heat, and to allow its light to pass unhindered. So it is possible to criticise and analyse the attributes of God in such a way as to cut off from the heart their warmth-giving influence, and to let their cold light only pass into the intellect.

5. The Character soon Ruined.

The wood which took many years to grow in the forest may be burnt to ashes in a few moments in a stove; and the character which has been the result of long care and culture may be blasted by a few brief revels.

6. God's Love like Light.

As a beam of sun-light sent through a room will at once reveal numberless motes floating in the air of the room, so a ray of Divine love let into the heart will immediately make visible to us a cloud of imperfections of which we were before entirely unaware.

7. The Need of Wisdom in Trial.

While visiting the Isle of Wight, I set out early one morning for a walk over one of the rockiest and most romantic parts of the coast. For the first three or four miles the way was well defined, and, with gorgeous hills on the one hand and the broad blue sea on the other, the walk was exquisitely pleasant. By-and-by, however, there came creeping lazily over the downs a dense dark fog, which soon rendered walking exceedingly perilous. Winding among huge masses of detached rock were several paths, but it was

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