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I'm sure you did it on purpose, because I happened to leave Bother the garden!" exclaimed Mary;

that gate open.

"you never can think of anything but that.”

John ate his tea in moody silence, thinking of his ruined flowers, while his wife scolded about his forgetfulness, until he went out into the garden again.

The next day was washing-day, and Mary was still very cross with her husband. "I wish you would stay in the town to dinner," she said, "instead of coming home." John stared. "Where am I to get my dinner?" he

said.

"Where do the other men go? they don't all bother their wives as you do, I'm sure!" said Mary, shortly.

"Is it a bother to get my dinner ready, then?" he said, slowly and sadly.

"Of course it is, on a washing-day," said his wife, taking the baby from his knee, where she had been sitting.

John did not say any more, and his wife half regretted her angry words, when she saw how deeply he was grieved, and felt more than half vexed that he did not come home at dinner-time.

But she consoled herself with the thought that she should get on with her work all the better, and resolved not to let her husband know she was sorry for what she had said.

John came home at tea time, looking very pale and worn. The fact was he had not had any dinner at all, for, not caring to go with his companions to the public-house, he had walked out of the town as if going home as usual, and only got back in time to begin work.

Mary placed his tea before him, declaring she had got on so well with her work that she hoped he would stay in the town again to dinner. John had meant to tell her that he had not had any, but he would not now, and eating his tea in silence, went out to his gardening.

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Oh, well, if he sulks I can sulk too," said his wife, as she watched him from the window. "The idea of him being so disagreeable just because I left the gate open." The

foolish woman acted upon her resolution, and when her husband came in soon afterwards to show her some rare plant he had succeeded in rearing, which had made him quite forget in his pleasure the unhappy dispute with his wife, she turned her head aside and walked out into the washhouse.

"Mary, what is the matter with you?" said her husband. But Mary would not answer, and he went out again to his employment. At supper she would not speak, and the evening passed very uncomfortably for both.

The next day as he was going out to his work he said, "I shall be home to dinner to-day, Mary."

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"You need not come unless you like," said Mary, shortly; "there's only cold meat, and you can take that with you." John looked puzzled. "But you're not washing to-day,"

he said.

"No; but I'm going this morning to fetch baby's pelisse, that I asked you to bring from mother's," said his wife.

"Well, but I can bring that to-night," said John.

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of

Oh, yes, as you did the other night, when I told you it. No, I'll fetch it myself, and you can take your dinner I dare say you'll like it just as well there as

with you.

here."

"You know I shall not, Mary," said her husband; but he took his dinner with him, and went with his companions to the public-house to eat it.

Everybody was surprised to see John Collins enter a public-house, for it was the first time he had done so since he had been married, but they were none the less pleased, and warmly welcomed him to join their social circle.

These men not only went to a public-house to dinner, but spent most of their evenings there as well, and they resolved John should do the same now.

But he had no intention of doing this. He would come in to dinner, he said, and chat with them over their beer, but his evenings were occupied in attending to his garden. Mary found very soon that her husband preferred staying

in the town to dinner instead of coming home; but instead of this leading her to try and win him from the dangerous habit of frequenting a public-house by making his own cottage home more attractive, she took the opposite course, and as soon as he came in began grumbling or complaining of something he had done or left undone, so that the only peace he had at home was while he was working in the garden. As the dull cold weather of autumn came on there was of course less to be done in the garden, and so John, instead of returning to tea, occasionally went to the publichouse and spent the evening with his fellow-workmen. This of course involved a good deal of drinking, which was felt to Mary's cost in the decreasing comforts of her home; and she grew to be in reality what she had at first only pretended to be-sullen and ill-tempered.

This of course only made things worse, and from staying out one or two evenings each week John soon stayed away habitually until late at night, and then often came home the worse for drink.

Is it necessary to trace the downward path of the wretched man and his no less unhappy wife? She had little cause to grumble at too much time being spent on the garden when. the next spring came round; and often as she looked at its grass and weed-grown beds and tangled plants, she would wring her hands with remorse as she recalled the day that was the commencement of all her misery. "If I had only borne with his love of gardening, and not been so hard on him for forgetting other things sometimes, we might have been happy still," she would say; and it was quite true.

If Mary in her happiness and confidence in her husband's love had not forgotten the fear and love of God too, she would have learned how by practice "A soft answer turneth away wrath," and she would have been willing to "bear and forbear."

Next month we hope to present a cheering contrast to this sad story.

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T has been truly remarked that the time of a young man's arrival in any great city is a time of trial; and those who have the principle to overcome the

temptations of the first few months are usually preserved to the end. This remark found forcible illustration in the career of Edward Whittaker, a young man whom the writer of the following narrative knew well.

He was a bright and handsome youth of nineteen, when an opening occurred for him to enter a London house. He had received the best educational advantages which a country town had at its disposal, and he had made the best use of them, knowing that his future must depend mainly on his own energies. Better, however, than the education of the intellect, had been the religious cultivation of his heart under the influence of godly parents and associations. The regularity of home life, the conversation of his good father and mother, and a work to do in the church with which he was connected, had given a strength and sobriety to his character, although they had not resulted in his conversion to God.

When it was finally settled that he was to go to London, his parents made his life there the subject of special prayer before God and of earnest conversation with himself.

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Edward, my son," said his father, tenderly, the night before his departure, you have never given us a moment's trouble from the day you were born until to-night."

"And why to-night, dear father?" said his son, cheerfully, for bright hopes of the future were drawing him towards the new life as by strong magnetic attraction.

"It is not that you are not truthful, honourable, and upright, my boy, for I am sure you are; it is not that you will not do your best to get on, to be courteous, faithful, and industrious in your new place; I am sure of you in these respects."

"What then do you dread, father?" returned Edward,

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