unto you. But many hindrances have been cast in my way by reason of the difficulties and dangers of this time; all thir [i.e., these] being, in a manner, in an uproar by reason of challenging and suspecting all persons, and the transmitting of any letters. However, I can no longer forbear to write though [that] it should never come to your hand, having many things to say to the commendation of the Lord's wisdom and power in outwitting and restraining men.

us.

[For after being several days tossed at sea, and in great hazard by reason of the insufficiency of the vessel, we were forced to go into Rye in England, where we were much noticed by the wicked in that place, who, I fear, had our skipper's concurrence in laying snares for But, blessed be the holy Lord, who brought the counsel of the heathen to none effect. For, upon the Saturday, the men who are called waiters in that place came aboard, asking the skipper for us, if that we were ashore or not, and if he did know us, who replied that we were aboard (we being in the cabin overhearing their discourse), and that he did not know what we were, which was the only way to make them take notice of us; and whereupon they came to us, but, by the holy, wise Lord, were so restrained that they were suffered to say nothing, but asked how we did. Then, on the Sabbath-day, the skipper used all means to get us ashore, pretending an invitation to dinner, wherein we refused him; but after that time of day was past, he being detained by an excessive rain, he told us that it was to go to church he was desiring us. But O, what shall I say of the Lord's wise providence, who immediately struck him so with sickness that he was not able to go and tell that we would not come.]

But O, I think the Lord hath had a special hand in my coming to this place, for He hath not suffered me to be idle; and, blessed be His name, He hath kindled a fire which I hope Satan shall not soon quench. For all the people of this place were following men who did not follow the Lord, and they thought these were right enough; yet now, some of them are saying, 'We have been misled, we never knew before this that we were standing betwixt the Lord's camp and His adversary's.' O what shall I say? Blessed be the name of the Lord, who lets me see that He will see of the travail of His soul and be satisfied, and gives me many confirmations of His calling me to this work, wherein my desire is only to be faithful. O [I] rejoice in Him who hath called me forth to fight against those who

oppose themselves, notwithstanding of all their malice at me; and pretended friends meeting to consult upon my apprehending. I shall say no more. H-hath found some who have engaged to do for me in taking me home to Scotland. But I have the more patience here because of the Lord's doing great things.

The Lord be with you and all His Israel.
I am,

Right Honourable Sir,

Yours to serve in the Lord while I am
JAMES BRUCE.

[My neighbour George [Hill] is going home, having got an occasion of some who would not at all take me.

My love to all my dear friends; and be mindful of Zion, and the Lord will not be unmindful of you.]

(To be continued.)

OUR SAVIOUR.

OUR Saviour is our brother: He is man

like ourselves; He can be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; to Him none need ever fear to go.

Our Saviour is our Maker: in the beginning He was with God, and was God; He is the author and supporter of life; to Him it is safe to go for pardon and life eternal; He is 'mighty to save.'

Our Saviour is our King: wise, powerful, just, and good; He expects His subjects to obey Him; He also expects them to be interested in extending His accepted rule.

The kingdom our Saviour came to set up is sure to prevail; it is good to be in it, and to the zeal of the Lord,' and to be at one with work for it; to be interested in it is to share Christ.

6

CHAPTER I.

IGHT was settling over the prairie -still, but desolate. The traveller was a lad with a strangely old face, and a step that had lost the elasticity of the morning. Through the day he had kept up brightly; the flowers brought him sweet messages, and the bird-songs made him think of the twittering of the robins under the eaves. The vastness thrilled him pleasantly. The tall grass, and the brown path, and the sweeping winds, urged him on; the clouds overhead beckoned him. In all that he saw around him he was himself a part. The currents of his being glowed with the fervour of youth. He longed to be a man, and to do a man's work.

With night coming it was different. His clumsy boots had rubbed into the flesh; his coat, much too large for him, flapped about his slim figure like a sail at half-mast. A prickly pain was in his eyes, and his blue cap was drawn down, thus narrowing his vision, and concentrating the outward flow of ideas upon himself. He had asked for a night's lodging, and been refused.

'If you keep straight on, you will come to the village,' was said in a hard, cold way. 'I am so tired! I have walked all day,' came timidly.

Possibly the woman never had a boy of her own, for she shut the door in his face. Only as the distance made the house a black dot on the prairie did he break down. If it was a weakness to shed tears, there was no human eye to see him. A feeling of insignificance swept over him-a straw floating in immensity, a mote in the atmosphere, a grain of sand in the desert. To ease his feet, he sat down in a blind way and took off his boots. The raw, palpitating flesh sickened him. An ocean of tall grass was around him, with its alternate shades of brown, and yellow, and purple. The mingled odours of herb and earth made the air keen with fragrance. Sinking down in the grass, he put his brown hands over his eyes and wept bitterly. There was a rift in the cloud. The rays of the setting sun touched the worn corners of a book he carried.

'Mother said when I was in trouble I must think of it.' He read a verse aloud:-' For in the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; in the secret of His tabernacle shall He hide me; He shall set me upon a rock.' The grey_twilight warned him. He staggered up. It was the hour Rachel would be sure to think of him, and God would help him. Lights were glancing from the windows and a bell was ringing as the foot-traveller entered the village. Lines of streets crossed; everywhere dwellings, with churches, lifting their slant spires to the stars. It was not the soli

tude of the prairie, but a sense of loneliness pressed upon him. The church door was open; the people were going in. His first thought was to sit down on the steps; he could hear them sing, and it would rest him. Then he crept nearer, and at length ventured in. Behind the door was a broad seat. The people were gathered before the pulpit. He would rest a little, and go out before they saw him.

The singing of the grand old hymns soothed him; he fell asleep. When he awoke, the lights were out. An old man flashed a lantern in his face.

'No place here to sleep; go home at once,' he said, gruffly.

'I have no home. I came in to hear the singing. I am very sorry, sir.'

Possibly there was that in the lad's voice that touched the man with a memory of something once his own.

'No home! Where in the world did you come from, then?' in a tone positively tender. The lad's story was soon told. A strange mist gathered in the old man's eyes. To his vision, the lamp burned dimly. 'I will go now; I have some money,' said the lad.

'If you have, you shall keep it. It shall never be said that I turned a boy into the street at this time of night. What shall I call you? What is your name?'

'Kenneth Kline.'

Kenneth Kline,' slowly repeating the words. 'And your sister knew you were coming away.'

'My sister expects me to send for her some day.'

Whew!' said the man, blowing a long breath. 'When do you think that will be?' 'When I am a man, sir.'

With the lantern swinging between them, the two walked quite through the town.

'We stop here,' was said pleasantly, as they came to a brown house with a wing, and what seemed to Kenneth to be a large flower garden. A bright light streamed out to the gate, and a grey-haired woman with a smile on her face came to the door to welcome them.

'One of May's boys?' giving her hand to the lad.

'Try again, mother,' laughed the old man. The sweet, motherly face gave Kenneth assurance. He answered simply, 'A stranger, whom your husband has brought for a night's lodging.'

But you are tired and lame. What can I do for you, child?'

'I have walked, and my boots hurt me. If you please, I will take them off.'

So I would think,' exclaimed the woman, looking down at the clumsy foot-gear. And, father, the boy would like some water and that little tin basin on the bench.'

'Right this time, mother-and supper. He must be hungry as well as tired.'

Kenneth explained that he had eaten some bread, and was not in the least hungry.

"There! Take my slippers; they are old ones,' as the poor, bruised feet were bound up. I know they must feel better,' said the

woman.

A slim taper stood on the table in the room where Kenneth was to sleep. It was the wing, and appeared to have been built more recently than the main building. Pictures hung on the wall, and the windows were curtained with some white, thin material, prettily looped with blue ribbons. A blue china vase, with a cluster of withered roses, occupied the centre of the narrow mantel, and a saucer of the same material and colour was filled with agates and pebbles, gathered, no doubt, from the river, and dear by reason of association.

Bewildered, Kenneth sat down on the side of the bed. He could hardly realise how it had all come about. Out on the prairie he had been feeling so desolate and almost forsaken. If God leads us, as mother taught me, and does not at any time forget, then it was wrong to feel so badly, and I must try harder next time.'

Notwithstanding tears coursed down his cheeks, he was comforted. God had brought him to a nicer place than he would have had with the woman who refused him shelter.

A star looked in through the muslin curtain. That is always the way,' it seemed to say. God gives more than we ask for, and in just the way and manner to do us the most good.' The same star was looking down into Rachel's room. He hoped she was asleep. The pain in his poor bandaged feet made it difficult for him to walk across the room without crying out. Once more he read :

'The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear Him, and delivereth them. The young lions do lack, and suffer hunger; but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good thing.'

With the star still shining he fell asleep.

CHAPTER II.

When Kenneth awoke, the sun was already making his course. There was a strange languor; his movements were slow, and his feet were painfully swollen. To walk would be impossible. What was he to do? His head dropped over his clasped hands; tears blinded him. It was so necessary for him to be well and strong. Then he read from the small book of the strength God gives those who trust Him.

Opening the window, he looked out. There was a large vegetable garden in the rear of the dwelling; evidently the owner of the place was a gardener.

Turning from what seemed to him a marvel of loveliness, Kenneth dragged himself down the stairs, carrying the slippers in his hand.

To the woman's greeting he answered—' I am afraid I cannot walk.'

'Will it trouble you to stay with us a day?' smiling into his anxious face.

'The trouble will be yours,' was the quick response.

The woman's face was full of compassion. 'I hardly understand how you could walk yesterday; but you are here, and you must stay, and you must not consider it trouble.'

A moment later, she said to her husband: Karl, I am afraid we did not have the right thing last night.'

Then we must have it this morning,' speaking in the same breezy manner he had done the night previous.

Kenneth was confined to the lounge for several days, and gradually the story of his life was told the loss of property, the death of his parents, and, last of all, the resolve to go West and make a home to which he could bring Rachel.

'It looks to me like a leading, father. We need some young life in the house; and there are days of sickness, and days when we miss our own boys. Paul would have been quite the size of Kenneth, had he lived,' turning to her husband.

Kenneth's heart warmed. This woman knew what it was to have a boy in the house. Loving her own boy, her heart went out to other boys. The calm, smiling face reminded him of his own mother. Thus strong is the bond of sympathy in human hearts.

When the woman spoke again it was to ask a definite question. Will you stay with us, Kenneth, and be to us as a son?'

'I will stay, and do what I can to prove that I am not ungrateful,' was the answer.

Karl Lubeck and his wife Christine were favourably known in Brentford. The proceeds of their garden was the only ostensible means of support. Still it was evident in the look and bearing of both that gardening had not been the only occupation of their lives. Some even went so far as to say that Karl Lubeck was a political exile; and others, that he had lived a high life and spent a fortune, and was now content to work with his hands for his daily bread.

Possibly, the two most interested never heard these remarks. It was certain they never mentioned the politics of their own country, never harped upon honours received, but quietly accepted the present with its blessings, anxious only to maintain their integrity, and so live that their influence would be on the side of right living and acting.

Affliction is like the ploughshare. The green turf and the flowers must be buried under the black mould before seed can be sown and a harvest reaped. Two of Karl Lubeck's sons had reached manhood; the third, Paul, was a lad like Kenneth when he died.

Brentford was pleasantly situated on the river, the streets running parallel, and thus giving a long frontage, broken nearly in the

centre by one broad main street cutting across parallel lines, and running between broken bluffs on to the sweeping prairie. From its fine river view, as well, perhaps, as its being the home of stirring, active people, Brentford was quite a place of resort during the summer. Boating parties were frequent, and picnics and fishing excursions were kept up until late in the season.

As soon as Kenneth could use his feet, he was anxious to make himself useful. 'I know a little of gardening,' he said to Karl Lubeck. 'I can gather fruit, and I can cover vines, and spade up, perhaps.'

'If you can do that you can do a good deal, lad,' smiling into the brown face.

'Mother said that a garden was a world by itself, with growth and language from which we could draw useful lessons,' ventured Kenneth.

'A garden is full of surprises; old forces are renewed. I feel like a boy when I see things starting up,' was the reply.

Christine came out to look at the grapes, while Karl explained the process of gathering them and taking them to market.

'If you think you can, you may try your hand to-morrow,' was said to Kenneth.

It was an ordeal for the lad. His coat was much too big for him, and his boots were the same old ones, brushed up a little, but clumsy. They suited him, however, better than new ones, until he had earned them. And thus, thinking of something still better in the future, he took the basket Karl filled for him, and trudged away.

A smile touched Christine's lips as she followed the odd figure. She knew how very different he would look in garments neat and well-fitting, and she decided in her own mind that it should not be long before he had a new suit.

Kenneth was thinking of Rachel, and the enjoyment she would take in that old garden. How the child would clap her hands, and her eyes would dance at the sight of the white chrysanthemums and golden asters; the vines and the trellis, and the luscious purple grapes; he would tell her that very night, and he would draw a picture of the house, with the good Christine standing in the door.

'Halloo! old man. Give us some grapes,' startled the lad out of his musing. Two boys, each larger than he, and both well dressed, confronted him.

'I say, old fellow! Give us some grapes,' was reiterated; and this time in a louder and more insolent tone.

'They are not mine to give. I am on my way to the village, where they are already engaged,' Kenneth answered, respectfully.

Does the old man know just how many bunches there are in the basket?' asked one, with a sly movement of his head.

"That is right, Hinckley. Let us help ourselves,' said the other lad, advancing a few steps.

Kenneth was greatly annoyed; but he did

not for a moment think to yield. The grapes were given him to deliver to customers. 'Do not hinder me, boys; the grapes are not mine. I must go to the village,' was said, calmly.

'Not before we have as many as we want,' exclaimed the one called Hinckley, making a snatch at the basket.

With the spring of a panther Kenneth was upon him, and the next instant the lad was lying upon his back in the dust, with Kenneth's foot placed upon his breast.

'Murder! murder!' cried the boy at the top of his voice.

Not quite!' said a gentleman, who chanced to be riding by. What is all this about? Explain, lad,' to Kenneth.

Simply this, sir,' stepping aside, so that the prostrate youth could arise; Karl Lubeck sent me to the village with a basket of grapes; these boys-there were two of them, sir-met me, and demanded that I should give them each a cluster. I said to them the grapes were not mine to give. This one insisted, and made a move to rob me of the basket. I could do nothing else, sir.'

Is this true, Hinckley French? I am ashamed of you,' said the gentleman. 'Had the grapes belonged to the lad, doubtless he would have given you each a cluster. He was right. What he has done was done in defence. Shake yourself, and apologise like a man.'

'Apologise to that ragamuffin! No, indeed; and if I find him by himself I'll give it to him,' jerked out the youth over his shoulder.

The gentleman got down. Flinging his bridle-rein over his arm, he walked by the side of Kenneth quite into the village.

'I have a list; but it is my first trip. I believe Mr Vernon lives here, and Mr Kew opposite,' at the same time looking at the paper.

"Yes, this is my house, and that is Mr Kew's. I see Mrs French is down. She lives in the large house in the corner. Hinckley is her son,' said the man.

'In that case you are Mr Vernon. I was at church last Sabbath; but I did not see you in the pulpit,' returned Kenneth.

'You know that I am a minister?' Karl Lubeck told me that Mr Vernon was his minister, and that he lived here.'

True. I did not preach last Sabbath; but I hope to do so the coming one, and I shall expect to see you in Karl Lubeck's pew. Now for the grapes; my wife is waiting for them.'

'One moment, if you please, Mr Vernon. You said to Hinckley French that I did right. Will you say this to Karl Lubeck?'

'I will, my boy, and I will explain to Mrs French.'

'Thanks, I am very sorry about it; but the grapes were not mine, and I was obliged to defend them.'

Kenneth did not doubt but the story was already told; still Mrs French was next on the list. Leaving a supply, he ran down the steps,