be with him, his companion in the work,-that he should go with him, and stand by him, and speak for him, and be unto him as a voice.

of

The

The voice ceased-the air was still-the fire in the bush died out-and Moses was again alone upon the mountain side, feeling almost stupefied and overwhelmed with the weight of the mighty task that had been laid upon him, and with the consciousness of the awful fact, that God-Jehovah-the great I AM-had spoken to his servant in a living voice. He was a changed man. That hour's solemn communion had made him another being. He was no longer a keeper of sheep:-he was the messenger and prophet of God. No more a wanderer of the wilderness: -he was the leader people. Leisure, freedom, the care-free heart were gone. Strife, labour, anxiety, and trouble in every form, were to succeed them. As these thoughts chased each other over his mind, like billow after billow breaking on the shore, the mountains, the valley, the whole wilderness, the whole world, seemed changing. desert grew dear to him. It was his home. Now, he must go forth from it. He had often, in his wayward fancies, wished to escape from solitude, and return to the land of Egypt, and the ways of civilised men. Now he was to go there, and his heart clung to the barren mountains, and fruitless valleys, and silence and freedom of the wilderness. He sat down to gather his thoughts together, to familiarise them to his new position, and to consider what must be his next step. The first thing must be to tell Jethro. He had often talked with his father-in-law about his people, and had spoken freely of all his wishes and schemes concerning them. To these Jethro had always listened with kind and sympathising interest, and he would readily understand the desire of Moses to return to his people, without enquiring for any farther motive than the obvious and natural one. Moses, therefore, returned to the encampment of Jethro, and told him that he wished to take a journey into Egypt, to see how it fared with his brethren, and to learn whether any of his own house were yet among the living. To this proposal Jethro made no objection, and Moses said nothing to him for the present about the vision in the valley of Horeb, or the work to which God had henceforth devoted him. So they bid farewell to each other, and Jethro gave him his parting blessing, and said, "Go in peace." Then Moses set out again upon the long way that he had journeyed forty years before, pondering much upon the difficulties of the work he had undertaken. He would indeed have shrunk from the enterprise even now, but he had God's own promise that He would help him, and that his people should, in some way or

other-how, he knew not-be rescued from their bondage, and from the power of Pharaoh.

As he drew near to the borders of Egypt he met coming towards him, as if making for the desert he had left behind, a wayfaring man, like himself. As they drew near, they both seemed to be earnestly examining each other, as if expecting the meeting. They stopped when they met, and for another moment still looked enquiringly into each other's face. At length Moses said, "Is thy name Aaron? Comest thou to seek thy brother?" "I am Aaron," replied the other," and thou art Moses, my brother." Then they embraced and kissed each other, and sat down by the way-side to ask and to tell each their separate story. Moses told his brother that God had appeared to him in the desert, and had commanded his return to Egypt, and had told him that he should meet Aaron on the way. Aaron replied by saying that he also had come out to meet him he hardly knew how or why, but that some secret voice within him had seemed to say so strongly that he could not withstand its warning, "Go forth and find thy brother, and tell him how it fares with thy people." "It is well," said Moses: "it is the voice of God. Let me go forward, and do thou return with me to our people." So they rose up, and went on their way towards the borders of Egypt.

As they journeyed along, enjoying mutually this new companionship, they had much to say and to enquire as to the current of their past lives, and the present condition of their unhappy brethren. It was forty years since they had parted, and those forty years had thrown their shadow over both of them. They looked upon life, and all belonging to it, with a more sober and thoughtful eye than in those early, care-free days when they had sported together as children by their mother's door; or, in later years, had wandered, during the visits of Moses to his brethren, along the banks of the Great River, conversing on that subject that was ever uppermost in their thoughts-the wrongs and deliverance of Israel. They had now known life: they had lived, and loved, and feared, and suffered. Great thoughts had found a home in their minds, and solemn truths, high hopes and upward aspirations had given a tone of calmness,nobleness, and grandeur to their whole mind and character. Besides all this, Moses had heard the voice of God, speaking to him in a human tongue. He was now charged with a mission from that God to his people. He had a solemn work given him to do—a work which seemed impossible, unless aided by some signal manifestation of divine authority and divine power. The sense of the greatness of this work, and of the solemn manner in which he had been com

manded to perform it, weighed heavily upon the spirit of God's messenger; but, at the same time, raised him above the fear of man, and above the cares, and wishes, and anxieties that cast their fitful shadow over the common path of man.

In this spirit, impressed by these thoughts, the two brothers journeyed on together towards the home of their childhood. Aaron described to his brother the present condition of their people. He told him how they were still groaning under the yoke of their taskmasters-how they were fast sinking into a nation of slaves, with all the vices and debasing qualities that belong to slaves,-how the ancient faith of their fathers was being gradually corrupted by the introduction into it of the Egyptian idolatries, and how the traditions of their race were fast fading from the remembrance of the people. A few generations more, he said, and the mark of slavery would be set upon them for ever.

And Moses, too, told his story. He gave Aaron the picture of his desert life. How different to the life of his people in the land of Goshen.

Free-simple-lonely-tranquil-innocent,-the life of a wanderer,—the life of a freeman, a dweller in tents, a keeper of sheep, a watcher of the stars, a solitary worshipper upon the mountain, a thinker of dark thoughts in the cool shadow of the cavern of the wilderness. Fearing none, hating none, cringing to none: far from the unreal wants of civilisation,-far from the crowd and tumult of cities,-far from the luxury of palaces, and the pomp of temples, and the pride of royalty,-far from the strife. of human passion, or the idolatries of human superstition,-seeing none around him but the simple beings that he loved, none above him but that one Great Being he adored,-knowing power only as a protector to the weak,-love only as a spring of joy and comfort to the loving and the loved. Such had been the current of Moses' life for the forty years that were gone by; and now he was going to change it for strife and tumult, for anxiety, and disappointment, and ingratitude. From the lonely mountain-side, from the humble tent of the wanderer, he was to go up into the palace of Pharaoh, and demand, at the foot of Egypt's throne, the deliverance of Israel's people.

Thus the two brothers journeyed on together, sometimes in earnest converse, sometimes each lost in his own solitary meditations. In the cool hours of the morning they strode cheerily along; but as the day advanced, the road grew painful and wearisome. The fierce rays of the cloudless sun smote upon their heads. Their feet were hot, sore, and dusty, with the heat and roughness of the way. There was no shadow of a great rock to invite them to its shelter.

No tree, or herb, or any green thing, to cool and refresh their dazzled aching eyes. Nothing but the blinding glare and the scorching sand. All around them was still and lifeless; like some dispeopled and forgotten world. The travellers shaded their faces, and threw their light garments over their heads to protect themselves, as well as they might, from the fierce light and heat of that terrible sun. There was no water but the scanty supply in the little leather bottles that hung at their belt,-no food but the few dates, and fragments of barley bread in the bag beside it. During these burning hours, no word passed between them. They almost ceased even to think. On-on-steadily plodding on, over the endless, boundless plain; for the mountains were now far behind them, and they were travelling over the flat level of sand that stretches away northwards from the shores of the Red Sea. At length, one day as the sun was sinking towards the west, they saw far away before them on the distant horizon, a dark line, which soon deepened into a delicate fringe that sparkled here and there, as though it were strewn with diamonds. It was the border of the land of Egypt, the land of greenness and of water,—of peopled cities and mighty temples,-of fertile fields and flowery gardens,and above all, the land of that wide, wonderful, everlasting, evelflowing river-the Nile,-the father of waters.

When the night closed around them, they were still within the confines of the desert; but their goal was before them, and their journey seemed already ended. The next day they entered Egypt, and floated along (for the delight was as the delight of bathing) through green wavy fields of rice, and pastures fresh and plentiful, and dived into the cold verdure of groves and gardens, and quenched their hot eyes in shade, as though in deep rushing waters.'

(To be continued.)

In the last century drunkenness was the most prevalent vice. Now it is the wish to appear richer and greater than we really are.

In reading history we should judge the actions by the universal and unchangeable laws of morality, but the persons by the opinions of their age and country.

The worshippers of Olympus were religious, but like the deities they worshipped they were almost without morality. This shows the importance of what kind of Being men worship.

THE ONE THING NEEDFUL.

Father, Thou must lead;

Do Thou then breathe those thoughts into my mind,

By which such virtue may in me be bred

That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread.-WORDSWORTH.

He that will be perfect, must not lie idle as the lame man did at Bethesda's pool, expecting an angel to carry him into the water, but, like our Saviour, he must climb the mount and pray.-LUCAS.

MANY weeks, and even months elapsed, before circumstances permitted the renewal of the conversation between Jane and her father, which terminated somewhat abruptly on the eve of Good Friday. At the conclusion of the service on the ensuing Sunday, Mr. Wilton answered a summons to the death-bed of a valued friend. His road lay across open moors, and he did not take sufficient precautions for a journey at night through such an exposed region. He returned, not to his usual duties, but to the important one of waiting patiently to suffer, while there was work to do which demanded his daily vigilance.

God often mercifully imparts to the mind a stimulating power which renders it fit to meet sudden and unexpected trial. It gives resolution to the timid, strength to the weak, vigour to the aged, and premature wisdom to the young. With Jane intuition appeared to do the work of experience. She lived as from hour to hour, absorbed in the one desire of alleviating pain. A glance, a smile, a trivial sign, not perceptible to others, were truly read by her. It was not until all danger was past, and less demands were made upon her time, that she could realize the fulness of the mercy, which had not only saved her from the heaviest of outward trials, but spared her an anxiety which might have unfitted her for the blessed privilege of her sex, that of administering comfort in sickness and sorrow.

The summer rose in its glory and departed, the autumn leaves had withered, and the winter snows began to fall, before the Minister was able to resume his old place in the study, where, reclining in his fireside chair, he interchanged thought with his daughter, listened to her reading, or digested plans of future usefulness. The Sunday school, an object of unfailing interest to both, was often the topic of conversation; and Jane becoming daily more humble, as her eyes gradually opened to her own deficiencies, listened with earnestness to suggestions from her father, which might render her teaching more valuable.

"If it had not been for your encouragement, dear father," she said one day, "I must have given up Sunday School teaching long