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NEXT-DOOR neighboURS.

parcel, and he hasn't seemed quite himself since."

"I hope he'll be all right soon," said she, and she went off to next door with a quick step. She and her mother had a way of hurrying as if they were always half frightened and expected to get a scolding for slow

ness.

Harry was in a great way when he heard what she had said, and he declared he would see her. He would go next door, and tell Gilpin it was a shame. I told him if he wanted to have done with Annie altogether that was the very best way; and presently he cooled down, and saw there was nothing for it but to be patient. We knew we should meet Annie and her mother outside sometimes. But for next-door neighbours it is wonderful how seldom we did meet in the next few weeks.

Harry came in one day, and said, “I've seen her."

"Seen who?" says I, for I had my husband's shirt buttons in my mind at that moment, and not the neighbours.

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Why, Annie Gilpin," said he. "And she asked me if I'd kept my promise."

"What promise?" said I.

"Why she made me promise ever so long ago that I would write to my old mother. Annie was in a taking to find I hadn't written to her for so long."

"You don't mean you haven't done it yet?" said I; and I took blame to myself for not seeing to the matter, thinking how all these weeks the poor woman had been anxious still about her son.

"I can't say nothing else anyhow," says he in his light-hearted way. "Very bad of me, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, and I didn't smile as I spoke the word. "It is bad, Harry. You'll write this very afternoon, won't you? "

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He didn't want to do the thing then, for with all his strength he was lazy, and writing was a bother to him. But he put the paper square in front, and rammed his pen into the inkbottle near hard enough to turn up the nib the wrong way, and gave a great yawn. "Dear-old-mother," says he, and he began to write a big D.

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I wouldn't call her old, if I was you," I said; "it don't sound respectful.”

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Why, I always do," he said.

"Well, maybe she likes it," said I; "but I don't. I shouldn't like my Willie to write so to me."

"It don't matter; it's shorter without," said he, and he went ahead, saying the words aloud, and making his pen spit and splutter as it never had been used to do before. "Dear -mother-it's lots-of time-since-I'vewrote to-you-and-I'm-sorry—but I've— not-forgotten-you.' She'll be pleased with. that, won't she? Mind-you-write-and -tell-me-how-you-are-and-if you're -comfortable. I send-you-five shillings for-a-new-cap, -wish-it-was-morebut-am-run-rather-close. I've found -good-friends-here. I've kept-steadylike-you-wanted-me-to. I'm-youraffectionate-son-Harry-Carter.'"

"That isn't over long," said I; "but it'll tell her where you are. Mind you give the direction clear, Harry, and don't forget the five shillings, and get it off by the first post, won't you."

"So I will, the very first," said he. "Won't she be pleased? I can't think how ever I've left her so long. She'll go half crazed for joy." And he made a grand business of folding it up, and putting the direction and the stamp.

"Don't stick it up," said I; "there's the five shillings' worth of stamps to put inside."

"To be sure,—if I wasn't forgetting," said he, and he got up. Half-way to the door, he turned back. "I say, mother, where's Proc. tor this afternoon ?" said he.

"Mr. Conner wanted to see him; I don't know what for," said I.

"Well, if I was you I'd look after him," said Harry. "He ain't so well as he wants you to think. He's lost a deal of flesh."

"He don't sleep nor eat well," I said, and

I tried not to be frightened; "but there's nothing wrong."

"Well, I hope not," says Harry, "but there's some'at that isn't right."

And with that he went off sharp, and I couldn't ask any more; and I sat down, and worried, and fretted, and wondered what I ought to do. While I was in the middle of my fretting the click of the front gate sounded. I thought it was my husband come home, and went to the door; but it was Mrs. Conner.

She had her grown-up sons and her married daughters, and her grandchildren, had Mrs. Conner, and she was getting on in life. Yet there was to my mind something young still in her smooth forehead and pale skin. Wrinkles of age never seemed to come there. It wasn't that she had not known plenty of care and trouble in her lifetime; but I do think she had the " peace that passeth understanding" more than many people have: her very look always brought those words to mind.

"I have not been to see you for some time, Susan," she said, as she came in. I was 'Susan' still to her and the young ladies. And I said I knew she was busy, and she said she certainly was. "But I want to ask you something now," she went on. "What is the matter with your husband?”

It seemed so odd, the question coming just after what Harry had said, and the thought that other people had been noticing and I had not been anxious. I just stood and looked at her, and said nothing.

"He isn't well, is he, Susan ?" she said.

"He hasn't been altogether right," I said. "But he isn't one to make a deal of nothing."

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"The more need not to let him make nothing of something," says she. "What has been the matter ? "He had a blow on his back," said I. "A man ran against him with a sharp parcel. It didn't seem much, but I'm not altogether satisfied. There's a sort of pain and weakness in the back that don't go off as it should, and he hasn't his appetite."

"He looks ill," said she. "My husband was noticing the change in him. How long ago was the blow ?"

"A good many weeks, ma'am,” said I. "Four or five. I'm not sure how many." "And you haven't consulted a doctor ?" said she.

No, we had not thought of such a thing, and I said so, and I made up my mind that minute to the doing of it. Mrs. Conner saw she had said enough, and she talked of other matters; but I had a weight upon me, and I couldn't think of aught but Phil.

When she was gone, and he came back, I told him what she had said. He laughed at first at the notion of going to the doctor, and said 'twas all nothing. But I got him to promise, for I gave him no peace till he did; only, as it was late, I had to be content he should wait till Monday.

I had a worrying day, Sunday, watching my husband, and thinking what a poorly sort of way he seemed in altogether, and scolding myself that I hadn't noticed more. The fretting did nobody any good, and only made me a dull companion; but may-be it was natural, though it wasn't wise.

Then, when Monday came, my husband found there was something that ought to be done just in the very hour when he could have found the doctor in, and that was between three and four in the afternoon. Mr. Conner would have been willing enough to let him off for the hour, and I knew that, and I wanted to have everything give way to the doctor; but Phil felt different. He said the time wasn't his own, and it was for other people's interest that he shouldn't neglect his work; and as for seeing the doctor, one day more or less couldn't make a grain of difference. So at last I set him free from his promise. And the next day was the very same thing over again. I had to be content to wait till Wednesday, which happened to be a half-holiday at the works, on account of its being Mrs. Conner's birthday. She always asked that for the men as a favour from her husband.

"Wish it was a half-holiday with me too," Harry Carter said, as he went off to his work. And my husband laughed, and said :

"You needn't wish you had to go and be physicked, any way."

"Maybe he won't physic you, if there's nothing wrong," said I.

NEXT-DOOR neighboURS.

"Maybe not," says my husband; and there the matter dropped. But at the proper time in the afternoon he started off for the doctor's, and a few minutes after I went upstairs to see to some things that wanted sorting and mending. They took me a good half-hour or thereabouts, and when I had done and came down again, there was Harry Carter, sitting at the table, with his big curly head down on his arms, crying and sobbing like a child.

Why, Harry," said I. "Harry—what's the matter?" And my heart went down and down like lead, for I thought he had surely heard something of the doctor and my husband, that being the uppermost thought in my mind. "What is it, Harry ?" I said; "has something gone wrong

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Something! Oh, hasn't it ?" says he, with a great gulp. "To think of the big selfish brute I've been

"Have you heard from your mother ?" said I.

"I've heard of her," said he, and he sobbed again. And then all of a sudden he looked up at me with such a sorrowful pair of eyes. "I've got to thank you," said he, " and I do too; for if it wasn't for you I don't know how I'd ever have been able to look any one in the face again. A great selfish brute,—yes, that's it,-thinking of nothing in life but my own pleasure, and she pining her heart away for me yonder, and never able to get at

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"Then your mother's ill ?" said I.

"She's been ill," said he, in a smothered tone, dropping his head down again on his arms, " and she's-she's-dead."

I didn't wonder he seemed half brokenhearted. No, I couldn't wonder. For with all his pleasant ways, and his kind ways too, to my children and myself, it had been cruel heartless work to leave his poor old mother all that while, with ne'er a word to say where he was, or whether he was alive or dead. Oh, it was cruel work. He didn't mean to be cruel of course, and he didn't know the love and longing of a mother's heart, and young fellows like him are thoughtless; but I don't think that is enough excuse. I think they ought to understand better.

"And the letter didn't reach her, Harry," said I, feeling tears fill my eyes with think

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ing what it must have been to her to die without one word from her boy.

"Yes, but it did," said he, in a choked sort of voice. "It got to her in time, just two hours afore she died. And the lady that writes, she's the clergyman's wife, and she was with mother to the last,-says 'twas beautiful to see her smile. She wouldn't let the letter once out of her hand,—and she lay and kissed it,-and she said how God had heard her prayers. It was the one thing she was fretting for, you see; and if it hadn't been for you she wouldn't have got it in time."

"It would have been dreadful for you if she hadn't," said I.

"It's dreadful now," said he, with another choke in his voice. "Just to think of all them months that she's been getting weaker and weaker, and thirsting to hear from me, and never hearing! Why, if I'd written one week sooner I could have heard she was ill, and I might have run home for a last look. Wouldn't I feel different then to what I do now? I didn't know what it would be to feel I'll never see her again."

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meet her in heaven, Harry ? "

"Ah, that's what she said," says Harry. "That's just it. She kept telling the lady again and again-see, here's the words if I can find 'em,-no, it's on the fourth pagewasn't the lady good to write such a long letter? Here it is. She says, "Your mother kept saying to me, over and over, through those last two hours, "Mind you write to my Harry. Mind you tell him to come to heaven. I can't see him before I die, and I must see him again. Tell him to come to heaven. Tell him there's no way but through the Lord Jesus; and tell him he can't love the holy Christ and love sin too. My Harry's got to make his choice. You'll be sure and tell him he's got to meet me in heaven." Aint that beautiful?"

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Modern Hymn Writers:

"SPECIMEN-GLASSES" FOR THE KING'S MINSTRELS.

BY THE LATE FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.

III. CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT'S

HYMNS.

(Continued.)

UT we must fill our specimen-glasses with other choice flowers from the same root whence grew "Just as I am" and "Thy will be done." Their heavenly fragrance is more noticeable than their poetic beauty, though this is by no means wanting. We will take the first two companion hymns. They complete each other -our faith and Christ's love, our clinging, His pleading.

"WE CLING TO THEE."

O Holy Saviour, Friend unseen,

Since on Thine arm Thou bidd'st us lean,
Help us, throughout life's changing scene,
By faith to cling to Thee.

Blest with this fellowship Divine,
Take what Thou wilt, we'll not repine;
Even as the branches to the vine,

Our souls will cling to Thee.

Without a murmur we dismiss
Our former dreams of earthly bliss;
Our joy, our consolation this,

Each hour to cling to Thee.

Though faith and hope may oft be tried,
We ask not, need not, aught beside;
So safe, so calm, so satisfied,

The souls that cling to Thee!

They fear not Satan, nor the grave,
They know Thee near and strong to save,
Nor dread to cross e'en Jordan's wave,
Because they cling to Thee.

Blest be our lot, whate'er befall!
What can disturb, or who appal,
While as our Strength, our Rock, our All,
Saviour, we cling to Thee?

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"OH, PLEAD FOR ME."

O Thou the contrite sinner's Friend
Who, loving, lov'st him to the end,
On this alone my hopes depend,—

That Thou wilt plead for me!
When, weary in the Christian race,
Far off appears my resting-place,
And fainting I mistrust Thy grace,
Then, Saviour, plead for me!
When I have erred and gone astray
Afar from Thine and wisdom's way,
And see no glimmering guiding ray,

Still, Saviour, plead for me!

When Satan, by my sins made bold,
Strives from Thy cross to loose my hold,
Then with Thy pitying arms enfold,

And plead, oh, plead for me!
And when my dying hour draws near,
Darkened with anguish, guilt, and fear,
Then to my fainting sight appear,

Pleading in heaven for me!

When the full light of heavenly day
Reveals my sins in dread array,
Say Thou hast washed them all away;
Oh, say Thou plead'st for me!

Realization of the Lord Jesus Christ as a personal Saviour and Friend, personal love to Him, with a longing that rests in nothing short of His presence, seem to be the leading characteristics of Miss Elliott's writings. In one verse of another hymn she opens the very centre of her life and of her power; and the fulfilment of this great central desire was written upon her life and in her works. Jesus was a "living bright reality" to her. How often we see such answers! When we converse about some special grace of the Spirit, and our friend says, with deep humility, "That is just what I I am asking continually for we feel, even if we do not say, Why, that is the very thing you have!" And the very praying of this prayer will be a step towards its rich fulfilment.

JESUS KNOWN.

want, just what how very often.

O Jesus, make Thyself to me

A living, bright Reality:

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More present to faith's vision keen Than any outward object seen;

More dear, more intimately nigh,

Than e'en the sweetest earthly tie!

It is pleasant to find that the long-questioned authorship of this helpful verse is now known.

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Faith's vision" is foretaste, but not fruition. And the sweeter the foretaste the deeper will be the longing for the fruition. When we have received and realized our Saviour's promise, "I will not leave you comfortless, I will come to you," then shines out that other " sure word with nearer radiance and warmth, "I will come again and receive you unto Myself, that where I am there ye may be also." And so this hymn follows naturally upon the last-quoted verse. "WITH CHRIST."

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,
My Saviour, my eternal Rest!
Then only will this longing heart
Be fully and for ever blest.

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,
Thy unveiled glory to behold;
Then only will this wandering heart
Cease to be faithless, treacherous, cold!

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,

Where spotless saints Thy Name adore;
Then only will this sinful heart

Be evil and defiled no more.

Let me be with Thee where Thou art,
Where none can die,-where none remove;
Where life nor death my soul can part

From Thy blest presence and Thy love!

We may remark here, that Miss Elliott is exceptionally happy in refrain, and the short, simple, always telling words which she thus uses form the point to nearly all the swiftest and brightest arrows in her quiver. Most hymns leave a merely general impression; good memories quote whole verses, but others only retain a vague idea that it was a very nice hymn." But once read, or, still better, once sung, the very essence of many of Miss Elliott's hymns is carried away in a single phrase, impossible to forget, and containing the one thought which all the rest unfolds or illustrates. 'Just as I am," is a volume of divinity in four syllables. "We cling to Thee" and "Oh, plead for me," come back again and again, when a whole hymn, or even verse,

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