precious days in idleness, nor in indefinite wishes that they could work, as do others. If there be first a willing mind, the way will be made plain. Let us look within; let us search and try our ways, and then turn again to the Lord. Perhaps we have not made the most of our opportunities, and we seem to have no solid acquirements, nothing of our own to impart, and put out to usury. So often the priceless years of education, so called, are lost and squandered, and we awake too late. Well, if this be our sad case, all the more reason for us to gather up the fragments that remain. Fragments of half-cultivated talent, of superficial knowledge. Something may be done with these, if we really are sincere, and bent on working. Have our broken resolves taught us the wise lesson of humility, and are we weary of self, with its countless inconsistencies? If so, let us be of good cheer, for a great step has been already made. Onward and upward, our "good time" is coming. If we will, we may still redeem the past, and in a short time, live a long time. There is a vast variety of work in our dear Master's field, the wide world. He likes to see us ready and waiting His bidding, and He is just about to grant us the joy of feeling His approval on our trusty labours. There is great freshness in all we undertake for our heavenly Father. We cannot see what He is preparing for our busy head and hands and feet, but He will, if we have patience, show us His ways, and lead us in His paths. What countless thousands of faithful souls are now fully occupied in whatever comes into their life-work. We sigh to join the noble army, and we shall not sigh in vain. Soon, to our glad surprise, we shall find ourselves enrolled in their number, spending and being spent without stint or calculation, scattering words and deeds of kindness, humbleness of mind, meekness, long-suffering. By believing prayer, the slow will grow quick; the thoughtless sober-minded. Life is real; life is earnest. Oh, to be found watching, waiting, working, doing whatever it is our duty to do, when the day breaketh and the shadows flee away!

A. M. V.

Our boy had sailed to distant lands,
Across the stormy ocean;

But soon we'll see his face again,
We thought with glad emotion.

To-morrow we shall see him safe
From off the heaving billow;
To-morrow eve at home he'll lay
His head upon the pillow.

So soon; it was a joy to think,
Without a shade of sorrow,

The dull old house his gladsome voice
Would echo back to-morrow.

To-morrow came, the cloth was laid
Snow-white upon the table,
But neither I nor my good dame
To eat a crumb was able.

For out and in the house we went
The while that we were waiting,
And wondered that he did not come,
The reason why debating.

For well we knew the ship was due,
And hourly was expected;
That anything had gone amiss,
Nor she nor I suspected.

That day from any fancied ill

We would not trouble borrow;
We laid us down in joyful hope-
We'll see our boy to-morrow.

To-morrow came, to-morrow went,
And then, instead of gladness,
There spread across her face and mine
A look of anxious sadness.

The ship we knew was overdue;

We thought of it with sorrow: O when will she arrive in port? Perhaps, perhaps to-morrow.

My step grew slow, my heart grew sad,
The mournful vigil keeping;

And on her eyelids and her cheeks
I saw the signs of weeping.

And as the weary days went past,
And as the time grew longer,
The certainty the ship was lost
Grew stronger still and stronger.

And night by night we laid our heads
Upon a sleepless pillow:

At last came tidings from the deep
Of boats found on the billow.

Could that mean safety for the crew,
To passing vessels shifted?
Or did it mean the loss of all,

That thus the boats had drifted?

No one could tell; the sullen deep
Its secret close was keeping;
It cared not for a father's grief,
Nor for a mother's weeping.

Our cheeks grew paler day by day,
As deeper grew our sorrow :
He has not come to-day, we said;
He will not come to-morrow.

O never more before the door
We'll see his face appearing;
Nor evermore the old home place
His gladsome voice be cheering.

Then knelt we down, and side by side
We prayed with deep devotion;
God's blessed will be done, we cried,
He sleeps beneath the ocean.

We soon shall see our boy again,
Beyond the reach of sorrow:

O, life is but a waning day,

We'll see our lad to-morrow.

Then came a day, the eighth of May,
Full dreary broke the morning;

No gladness in our heavy hearts,
No gold the hills adorning.

The bushes hung all damp with rime,
The landscape lay in shadow,

And gold grey mists spread far and wide
Upon the moor and meadow.

To see what there was written.

Just one word-SAVED! O, blessed word, Our fears and griefs dispelling:

"Our boy," I cried, "O wife, is safe;"
I took not long in telling.

Yet who can know what joy then dawned
On hearts with sorrow frantic,

What gladness came with that one word
Across the broad Atlantic.

Our faces flushed again with joy,
And dimpled o'er with gladness;
Our limbs forgot their weariness,

Our hearts had lost their sadness.

The cloud that lowered so dark before
Had turned its silver lining;
The skies seemed clearer overhead,
The sun more brightly shining.

Thus have I told my simple tale,
From which your mind may gather
How glad that mother for her son,
How happy was the father.

For, O, 'tis precious to the heart

To which peace is a stranger,

To know that loved ones, mourned as lost, Are safe and free from danger.

And better still, to know them saved

From evil and transgression;

This is to hearts that love the Lord
A joy beyond expression;