Saviour as he reclines in the house of the Pharisee, bedewing his feet with her tears, and wiping them with the hairs of her head, and anointing them with precious ointment. Who is she? A poor wounded spirit, who thinks that earth has hardly a covert deep enough in which to hide her shame, but who still clings to the hope-it is the only hope she has-that Jesus will look on her with compassion. And so he does; for he says to her, "Thy sins are forgiven: thy faith hath cured thee; go in peace."

Many a dreadful story of mental anguish has since been told, and many a contrasted tale of deliverance; yet none sweeter than Cowper's :

"I was a stricken deer that left the herd

Long since. With many an arrow deep enfixed,
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew
To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by one who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his side he bore
And in his hands and feet the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts,

He drew them forth, and heal'd, and bade me live."

You will

Go to him. He is waiting to heal you now. be just as freely welcome as any of that great multitude who once, wounded in spirit by sin and sorrow, were healed by the hand of Jesus, and were then received to heaven. There stands his own blessed promise, recorded for you, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'

وو

We cannot offer you, even though you should be a true believer in Jesus, exemption from trouble and sorrow. You may still have to endure keen disappointment; you may have to mourn that trusted friends have failed you; and you may even be wounded in your dearest affections. But though we cannot promise that you shall be free from trouble, we can promise what is even better, comforts which will never fail. However wounded your spirit may be, he will heal it. This is the work which by his gospel and his Holy Spirit he is doing now, and will do as long as there remains a single broken heart to be healed, "to appoint unto them that mourn in Zion, to give unto them beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness." To the very last, and the very utmost, you will find in the good Physician an ever-present friend, and in his great salvation a balm for every sore.

UPS AND DOWNS.

PART I.

"Before honour is humility."

"WELL to be sure," cried Betty Booth, one of the lodge keepers to M- Park, "what ups and downs there be in this bad world! Never I see'd the like of this, nor thought of such a thing neither."

"Never you mind," said the good old woman, who, leaning on her stout stick, listened with Betty to the news just related by a servant from the house; "let the Lord do his own ways, he knows better nor you and me; good will come out of it some time, sure as he's wise and true."

"But aren't you sorry for them, poor things, then."

"Sure enough I am, Betty ;" and a tear stole down the aged cheek, "don't I love them like my own? but it isn't for me to pick and choose their lot. Let the Lord do what seemeth him good." And the trusting old Christian hobbled away to speak to her Lord about the troubled ones, and to commend them earnestly to his pitying love; while Betty continued to lament the "downs of this bad world," never heeding that it was no better for the "ups" of unsanctified prosperity.

M-Park was the pretty and valuable estate of a gentleman, who having been long engaged in mercantile life, had found the country distasteful, and resided in the metropolis, leaving his eldest son to dwell as his steward, with a small income, on the property originally purchased for the centre of family influence and honour.

Gilbert W- had greatly displeased his father by marrying a portionless girl, and while he lived in comparative retirement, and domestic happiness in the country, his younger brother was the favourite and companion of their parent in town. He paid occasional visits there; but his wife and children were never invited to accompany him, and the estrangement continued. Hearing however that a sea voyage had been recommended to Gilbert after an attack of illness, the old gentleman kindly offered him a trip of some weeks along the Mediterranean, where he required a little business transacted, and his son gladly accepted the opportunity.

Mrs. W-, happy in her husband and children, lived only for them; her warm and loving heart absorbed in their interests and society, while sadly ignorant of the still higher demands of the God she constantly forgot, and the necessities of the soul she grievously neglected. She was an amiable formalist, satisfied with the external profession of habit and respectability, and benevolent to the poor around her, with the natural sympathies of her sex, and a consciousness of the responsibilities of her position as the wife of the future owner of the property on which she lived.

Gilbert W- had just sailed on his southern tour, when his father, who had borne up stoutly beneath the weight of fourscore years, died suddenly one night, as he sat discussing a profitable investment with his son Stephen. The news was sent after Gilbert as speedily as the days, without electric telegraphs, allowed; and Stephen, in the mean time, took upon himself all the needful arrangements until his brother could return. He was a hard, cold, selfish man, the widowed husband of a lady of fortune, and the parent of a son and daughter who would inherit, in due time, a vast hoard of wealth.

Mrs. W and her two little girls, with their governess, were seated in their favourite room at M- Park, clad in black mourning it could not be called, for the aged man who had departed was but little known to them, and they were not much inclined to mourn him as a loss. That he was very rich was however understood, and that the beautiful house and estate of M-, with plenty of money besides, must now belong to dear papa, was also pretty well known, and left nothing to regret.

The servant, who acted as butler, had been in and out of the room several times, the governess had been summoned to the hall, and a constant whirl and excitement seemed to be going on, of which Mrs. W—, whose attention had been absorbed with an interesting book, at last became aware, and looking up asked if anything were the

matter.

"A messenger, ma'am, has arrived from London; he wishes-may he can he see you, ma'am?" faltered the old servant at last.

"A messenger! oh, yes, he brings news of my husband," exclaimed Mrs. W-, springing forward; 66 come, Lillian, come, Celia, come and hear."

"Dear Mrs. W-," said the governess, gently detaining her, "do not be in haste; he can wait a little while."

"Wait! oh, he needs refreshment. Well, let us hear his message, and then Brooks shall take care of him."

"Madam, dear mistress," said Brooks, brushing his sleeve across his face, "he brings news, but not good news of my master."

"Lillian, dear girl," said the governess, softly in the ear of the startled child, "put your arms round your poor mamma; whisper that papa was taken very ill; he could not come home; he is—in heaven now.”

Lillian flew to her mother, who stood like a marble statue. There was true mourning that day at M-Park, and fears for the living as well as sorrow for the dead.

The thoughtful servants had summoned the good clergyman of the parish, who, they hoped, would be able to rouse and comfort their unhappy mistress; but she could not understand the only consolation in his power to offer. She had heard and talked of the duty of resignation with a sentimental sigh; but to whom, or to what, and wherefore, she knew not.

66

Oh, Lillian, what shall we do for poor mamma ?" sobbed Celia, as the sisters moved mechanically up and down the room next to the one in which their mother lay pale and still upon her sofa.

"Didn't you hear what Mr. Bowen said as he went away just now?" replied Lillian; "he said, 'Poor lady, we can only pray that God himself may comfort her:' can't we do that, Celia ?"

"Why, we always pray for her you know when we say our prayers; but God hasn't kept away the sorrow." “Oh, but I don't mean that way," said Lillian; "I mean a real prayer of our own, just what we want this minute. Do, dear Celia, let us try to pray to God to pity us, and comfort dear mamma. She hasn't spoken to us since the dreadful news; she looks so ill. O God, don't take away mamma too; oh! do comfort her as nobody else can ;" and clasping their hands in an agony of distress, the sisters knelt down and prayed "a real prayer" for their distressed mother.

The poor bereaved one heard the tender, tearful petition; she roused herself, and calling them to her, kissed them passionately, and shed her first tears in their encircling

arms.

Celia, our prayer is heard," whispered Lillian, as they removed soon after to make way for other friends who hastened to Mrs. W- in her affliction. "What shall we

do for God who has done this for us?"

"Oh! if he would give us back our dear papa, then I would love him and thank him," returned Celia.

But then the sorrow would pass away and be forgotten, and the lessons of adversity be wanting in the education of God's children. Lillian, by grace, was seeking submission for what was taken away, and was thankful for the blessing spared; she had nothing to give back but herself; and the offering of her grateful heart, by God's grace, was acceptable and accepted.

But the cup of sorrow was not yet quite full. Bereavement with temporal provision is bad enough, but bereavement with poverty is a little worse, though Mrs. W—, for the present, scarcely heeded the bitterness of this addition. to her trial.

Mr. W had been seized on his voyage with a severer attack of the illness from which he was supposed to have recovered, and was only able to reach the hospitable abode of friends in a Mediterranean isle, where he rapidly sank, though attended with all the care and kindness that circumstances permitted.

With his life vanished all interest in his father's property, which passed on to the nearest male heir, failing which alone could it be inherited by the female line. Mr. Stephen W- was therefore sole possessor of everything, his brother's unacceptable marriage having never been forgiven, so far as to make provision for widow or daughters in the event of his death. What time and common justice and humanity might have done had the grandsire known that he survived his eldest son, could not be ascertained, but certain it was, that the widow and her orphan girls were left with no other provision than a small pittance bequeathed by a relative to Gilbert Win early life, and which could not be alienated from his family.

Those who knew Mr. Stephen W- best, were aware that he was not the man to yield a shilling which he could claim by law, and that he would treat family affairs in the most rigid business-like way. He attended his brother's funeral, and laid him by their late father's side