it came home to me in a personal sort of way-how I could ever have been so selfish as to wish to shut against others the door by which I and my fellow-workmen had entered into a respectable calling.

I must just add, that not only did Mr. Johnson willingly take that boy of mine as an apprentice, without any premium, but his two brothers also, one after another, and that the three boys are now getting on in the world in a way and degree there would have been but little hope of their doing if we had been successful in our strike.

There was another bit of experience came home to me also about this same time. I have said, in a former part of my history, that I had thought it unfair, when our employer made a large profit by our work, that we only shared in that profit to the extent of our wages. But I had only looked at one side of the question. A very trying time came for Mr. Johnson. Business was bad; a great deal of money was lost in bad debts in one particular year; and on the very heels of this, our employer, partly, I do believe, out of a determination not to turn off any of his workmen, entered into a contract by which he certainly obtained no profit. Indeed, it was whispered among the men that Mr. Johnson was losing money by the job. This proved to be true; and our master made no secret of the fact that, in one year, he had sunk a thousand pounds of his capital.

During all this trying time Mr. Johnson had maintained his cheerfulness, and there was not a word said by him about reducing our wages because his profits were gone. At the same time, I could not help fancying that I sometimes saw an anxious, troubled look pass over his countenance. And then, when the upshot came, and I knew certainly how great a blow Mr. Johnson had sustained, I could not help seeing that, if I had ever had a just claim on him for a share in the profits of his business apart from the fair wages I received for my work, he, on the other hand, would have had an equal claim on me to share in his losses.

And when I saw how cheerfully he bore those losses,

and how, without murmuring, he cut down his own expenses and those of his family, while behaving as liberally as ever to his workmen, I felt more than ever, not only the folly towards ourselves, but the ingratitude towards our employer, of which we had been guilty in our Ten Weeks' Strike.

Goodness and Mercy."

VERY ONE in the little county town in which she had lived for more than forty years knew Widow Bourne. There were very few who were not “on

speaking terms" with her, to use the common expression; and there were fewer still who did not think very kindly and respectfully of her. She lived in a very simple, plain way; for, although her children and grandchildren were well to do, she never moved from the humble little cottage in which her early married life had been spent, and in which she had lost the husband of her youth.

You could not look at the aged face, so calm and quiet whatever the bustle in the street outside her window, without seeing that heavy storms had swept over it. It told plainly of losses that, in this world, could never be made up-of griefs far beyond the reach of human skill to heal. But the furrows through which fountains of tears had once made their way had become less and less marked and deep; and you saw a face on which the sunlight of heavenly hope was sweetly resting, and from which it was seldom absent long together.

What first, and last, attracted me in her character was the serene thankfulness of her disposition under all circumstances. At the close of the year especially it was better to me than hours of reading and thinking to hear her say, with an upward glance of the eye, "Goodness and mercy!" "Goodness and mercy!" The beautiful words of the Psalmist expressed for her exactly what she felt as she reviewed the way by which she had been led. They were

the words she would have used not only in reference to one year, but to all the years of her pilgrimage.

No fact was better understood throughout the little town than that it was of no use expecting Widow Bourne to take a "despairing" view of things, however desperate they might appear. She was ever on the watch for the silver lining to the darkest cloud.

She had always the most kindly sympathy with the sufferings of her friends and acquaintances; but she gave no encouragement to feelings of despondency and despair. I remember once thinking her somewhat too brief and unsympathetic in her reply to one in middle life, who had told her a melancholy story of the year's losses and disappointments. She heard patiently all the strong things he had to say without a word. She even heard him say that all hope was at an end now, and that it was no use striving any longer. I wondered how she would meet a state of mind like this. Presently a gentle smile lit up the aged face, as she said softly, "I am alive." At the time her words seemed as cold and as comfortless as any that could have been spoken. But there came a day, and that soon, when the friend to whom they were specially addressed found in them a well-spring of faith and courage. He found in the widow's simple saying a mighty reason why he should hope, and, absolutely, no reason at all why he should despair. He looked upon the fact of his being alive, after all the trouble through which he had passed, as a gracious reason on the part of God why he should bestir himself to renewed exertion; and he did this with such hearty goodwill that it was not long before the dark cloud which had threatened to be his overthrow had passed away, and there came clear shining after the rain.

Her favourite words, "Goodness and mercy," would fall gently from her lips when she thought of her own shortcomings during a year that was about to close, or when she would impart consolation unto others. She used to say sometimes that she forgot everything but her sins; and these,

she said, she always desired to remember until they were forgiven. Without a flaw in her Christian character that could be visible to others, she had the lowliest estimate of herself, and in penitence and faith would earnestly supplicate forgiveness through the merits of her blessed Lord. She never sought the "goodness and mercy" of the Lord to be extended to her in vain; and when the joy of pardoned sin reigned in her heart, when she could deeply feel that God, for Christ's sake, had really put away her sin, her thankfulness would give a momentary strength to the weak, trembling voice in which, old though she was, she would try to "sing aloud of His righteousness."

The comfort she herself experienced in accepting the gospel in the spirit of a little child-in believing that God, for Christ's sake, does put away the sin of every sinner who humbly casts himself upon the sacrificial death of Jesus-she endeavoured to make others realise could come but in one way. "Faith in the finished work of Christ," she

was God's great cure for To those who had many

would say to old and young, every heartache caused by sin." stirrings of conscience, who offered many prayers, and still continued strangers to "the peace of God which passeth all understanding," she would simply say, "There is but one way. Jesus died for sinners. I am a sinner. died for me."

He

"Goodness and mercy!" she would gratefully exclaim, as she reviewed the mercies of the closing year. She had so much to be thankful for that she would not allow griefs and trials to check her gratitude. She had that rare gift of having as keen a remembrance of the bright days of life as of the gloomy, and would smilingly say to those who were ever complaining, "Was there no sunshine? Was there not one little bit ?" And when, by this plan, the one little bit" was discovered, it was surprising how large it grew, and how much more people found they had to rejoice over, and give thanks to God for, than they had to

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mourn over!

but by far the Him who had

"Goodness and mercy" were among the closing words of the dear, faithful soul whom I last saw when the year itself was closing, and to whom in this world it was never to be that I should say again, "A happy new year to you!" A long, long life was lying behind her; greatest part of it had been devoted to made it a joy notwithstanding many tears, a victory notwithstanding many defeats. She knew in whom she had believed, and quietly entered into the joy of her Lord. "Goodness and mercy had followed her all the days of her life," and now she dwells in the house of the Lord for

ever.

It has been beautiful to think of her faith, life, and character as the year draws to its close. We shall all, perhaps, during these dark December days, have some thoughts that belong especially to the season. We may have lost dear and cherished relatives, whom we can never hope to see again in this world; and during the Christmas days especially, perhaps, it will be sad to think of them as for ever gone, and the remembrance of them will be keen and vivid. We may have our losses and disappointments in life to think of, and there may be no denying the fact that things are not with us as once they were. We may have our fears of the future, and think, if the past year has been so dark, what may not the coming year have in store for us, should we live to see it.

Dear reader, a little of Widow Bourne's faith and hope would be of inestimable value to you. If, at this moment, she sate by the window where I have often seen her, she would gently say to you, with a smile sweetly lighting up her face, "I have loved Jesus for more than sixty years, and my only grief is that I have not loved Him more truly. I was a poor sinner, and I felt the burden of my sins heavier than I could bear. They were my sins, and I felt that I deserved to be punished for them. But Jesus died upon the cross to save me. And His message to me in the gospel was, Believe in Me, and your sins shall be all for