finding not be till time is no longer; but if we are not permitted to see it in the case of seed sown by ourselves, what joyful surprises may await us in heaven, when we find there those over whom we have mourned on earth because their hearts seemed so careless that we feared the good seed must be lost in that unpromising soil.

"After many days." One instance may encourage some fainting worker to persevere in sowing the seed, though the hand be weary, and the heart sick with disappointment at the apparent want of result. An invalid lady was once staying in a little village very lovely in its natural beauty, but where the enemy had had plenty of opportunity of sowing tares. Though her stay was uncertain, and probably but for a few summer months, she yet determined to use the time given her and to speak of Jesus to her poor neighbours. They made her very welcome, as her sweet smile and gentle tones won a way to their hearts. Many a sick bed did she cheer; the weakness of her own frame drawing out her sympathy, specially in the cases of those who were suffering, and the love of God shed abroad in her heart impelling her to tell of the sympathising High Priest, the gracious Saviour, who "himself bare our infirmities and carried our sorrows." Not much fruit did she see, but she was content to wait upon God for a blessing; and many, we are assured, will rise up and call her blessed for the kind words of counsel and encouragement that fell from her lips; and many will have to thank her for speaking to them of their precious souls, and to thank God for using her as an instrument in his hand of winning them to Jesus.

It occurred to her that some children might be gathered into a little class for instruction in her own home, and she gave her heart prayerfully to the work. Many years afterwards, to her great joy, in quite an unexpected place and way, she found some of the seed sown in that brief sojourn in the country springing up to God's glory.

She shall tell of it in her own words. She writes, "I have been unexpectedly called to the bedside of a young mother

in the last stage of consumption, who proves to be one of my scholars, in whose heart I was permitted to sow seeds which have been for sixteen years buried and apparently lost, but now, I trust, springing up to eternal life. The poor creature seems deeply awakened. I never saw more earnest desire for salvation. The hymns and Scriptures she learnt with me are all her solace. Most penitently she bewails all her past indifference to the instruction she received, and blesses God for again being brought in contact with the friend of her youth. The Bible she bought of me, and the cottage hymn-book, full of my marks, are constantly on the bed; and most touching it is to have conversations thus recalled which have utterly faded from my recollection, but which have been indelibly impressed on hers by that grace which determined to save. What encouragement such facts afford to continue casting our bread upon the waters."

"

God says of his own word, "It shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I send it.' It is our part, then, never to grow despondent, and sit hopelessly down because the seed seems lost, but to plead His own promise, "Prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room to receive it."

"Went ye not forth with prayer?

Then ye went not forth in vain ;
The Sower, the Son of man, was there,
And his was the precious grain.

Ye may not see the bud,

The first sweet signs of spring,

The first slow drops of the quickening shower

On the dry hard ground that ring.

But the harvest home ye'll keep,

The summer of life ye'll share,

When they that sow and they that reap
Rejoice together there."

Richard Laynson's Trust.

F this story is not believed to the very letter it will be owing to the powerlessness of the writer to tell it as it deserves to be told. Not a word will be

set down that is not strictly true, not an incident will be over-coloured; what I saw with my own eyes, what I heard with my own ears, shall be here faithfully narrated.

Years ago, in one of the many pleasant suburbs of London, when the trees were fresher and the grass greener than any that can be seen there now, and when, in the early morning, blackbird, thrush, and lark warbled their morning hymn, I made the acquaintance of Mr. and Mrs. Laynson, who were fast approaching the age of "threescore years and ten." They were in humble circumstances, and lived in a humble little cottage. The old man did what he called the "hard" work, and was up betimes to light the fire, to clean the doorstep, to get the kettle boiling, and to take in the milk. His faithful "Betsy" he was too fond and proud of her to give her her queenly name Elizabeth-would, whenever she could, steal a march upon him, get up first, and meet him with a smiling face, with something of the sunshine of early married life in it, when he came down to breakfast.

"This is wrong, Betsy," he would say, with a gentle smile that made him look young again. "You remember what I vowed when I married thee; I was to keep you, not you me. Go and rest, dear girl; go and rest.”

In all the world there is nothing more touching to me than aged people who refuse to grow old, and who keep off the wrinkles of age by cherishing the dreams of their youth, and keeping true to their young affections. Religion, love to Christ, is a well of water springing up with everlasting life, and it beautifies, sanctifies, and gladdens the most withered face, and on the brink of the grave sheds upon it the tranquil dawn of immortality.

What first attracted me to the aged couple was the number of poor people that used to congregate around their garden

gate. Everybody knows every one else's history in a little village, and I knew that the Laynsons had scarcely enough to live upon; yet I never saw a poor man or woman go away from their door empty-handed. One morning, I stood amidst a group of hungry suppliants around the old man's gate. His wife was putting up a kind of remonstrance to him, but not very earnestly.

"You know, Dick, my boy, we have only got so much to finish the week with," as she saw him hand out penny after

penny.

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But, Betsy, my girl, they have got nothing. I shall not want. Here's a penny, lad; go and buy a loaf, and take it home to mother."

When I became on speaking terms with them it was to find the most guileless people I had ever conversed with. They appeared to have no thought of self, but to find their happiness in helping others. Around their characters were the gentleness and refinement which have their source in good and holy thoughts and feelings. To see the old man.

lay his trembling hand on the head of a little child, to hear him adapting his voice and speech so that even an infant found sweet music in its sympathetic tones, was to witness what no one would care soon to forget. To see his aged wife tottering out as fast as she could if she saw a child in danger, or if she heard a cry of distress, or if she saw a poor woman panting for breath on a doorstep, was to see what every one with a heart in his bosom would rejoice to remember. That aged couple in our little street, so quiet, faithful, gentle, and good, preached a far more eloquent sermon than could easily have been put into words.

“You must have seen better days, Mr. Laynson,” I said to him one morning.

“I don't think I have," was the quiet response; "if you mean that I have been richer, I will not deny it; but every day a man lives ought to be his best day; and so near heaven as I feel sure I am through the merits of my dear Lord, I can't have had better days. Can there, sir, be anything more blessed