though still the same in itself, it is one of the happiest little corners in all the Lord's blessed universe of saved souls!" What a picture was this illiterate girl's countenance as she thus spoke; and how well she spoke! I could have embraced her, but thought it better not to be profuse in show of feeling; so, inviting her to sit down for a few minutes, I talked to her of the lovingkindnesses of the Lord in a way that I could not before; and, as she was leaving the house, she said, "Oh, miss, I can't tell you how glad I am that you forgot me." “Ah, Sarah, the Lord is sometimes magnified by our weakness. He can perfect that which concerneth us out of the veriest stone and rubbish. If we had anything to boast of, then we should want to go shares with Him in the work of salvation; but it must be Christ from first to last." "Oh, miss, that's one of the lovingkindnesses, for if I had to bring something, why I just couldn't; but now "But now the Holy Spirit has filled your soul, you have plenty to give back to Christ." "Yes, miss; with me it is—' O Lord, of Thine own I give Thee! So how can I boast? poor Sarah Mugford has nothing whatever to do with it!" Thus, with a happy farewell, did this rejoicing young woman go on her way, and I felt established in the truth of the text before quoted, "So shall My word be that goeth forth out of My mouth." Oh, Christian disciple, do not despond when your message seems to fail. It cannot. Your word may fall to the ground; your messages may fail; but never-never can the word of God fail, or not accomplish the Lord's pleasure. Therefore, "Be patient. . . . Behold, the husbandman waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth, and hath long patience for it, until he receive the early and latter rain,' "1 and prayerfully continue to drop the golden grain, for you know not who is going to feast thereupon ! ... 1 James v. 7. Up amid the azure sky, O'er the fields of corn, Sang a happy bird on high To the happy morn. Wand'ring through a wooded vale, On by flowery hill and dale Roses blocmed upon its bank, And the lily's rootlets drank Came a farmer on that morn,— Came two merchants to the wood,- Came three millers then to look,- Fit to turn a mill. On the woodland and the sky, On the rocks and hills his eye There he in a temple shrine All he saw to him divine, All was of the Lord. R. R. T. "The Master of the Ward." "Hearts are not flint, and flint is rent; Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent." The was two o'clock one October afternoon. inmates of Ward 10 in the large infirmary of N- were doing their best to pass the hours. A few sat together round a large fire. Some were lying wearily in their beds, others were propped up and reading. Rough language and grim jokes had gone on between some. One man had been angrily swearing at his state of illness and at everything and everyone around him. This man occupied a bed halfway up the ward. His name was James Maurice. He was tall and fair, and visibly wasting away in rapid consumption. His face expressed impatient savage misery. He gave the nurses only abuse, and the doctor complaints, and in language and temper quite outdid any kindred spirit there. "He's reg'lar master of the ward," said Clarke, a quiet fellow-sufferer, as he related to a visitor how Maurice had I called their kind nurse 66 every name he could lay his tongue to;" and that he had been “ a great fightin' and drinkin' man—a terrible rough lot." "Our ladies will be here soon," said a patient-faced man to his neighbour. As he spoke, the doors opened to admit two ladies. Each carried a basket of flowers arranged in small bouquets, with text-cards in red and white and also |