But now I have a new Teacher, for I have learned to sit at the feet of Jesus, and He will in future give me lessons in patience. I shall get on better than I have done; not because I am any better, but because He will help me."

So she was not afraid. She looked bravely forward to the new life, confident of success, and she was so happy that her mother and sister, and all who knew her well, noticed the change.

"Alice," said her mother, one day," Grace's death has done you good, I think."

Perhaps it has, mother; but it was a talk that I had with her, soon after she came to the seaside, which taught me so much. She told me that I never could make myself better, but that the right way was to come to Jesus just as I was, and to trust to Him, instead of trying so hard myself."

"And do you ever feel impatient now, Alice ?" asked Edith. "Yes, very often. But I ask Him to help me, and I depend upon Him to do it, and He does."

Edith put her arms around her sister's neck and kissed her.

"Oh, Alice, dear, I am so glad, for now you and I will have such happy times together. Papa will be glad, too, and what a delightful home we shall have now."

"Yes, I hope I shall never disturb its peace again by my impatience. There is a verse which I hope always to remember whenever I am tempted-Those who know Thy name will put their trust in Thee.'

NOTICE TO CORRESPONDENTS.

The Editor of the CHRISTIAN WORLD MAGAZINE begs respectfully to intimate to voluntary contributors that she will not hold herself responsible for MSS. sent on approval. Unaccepted MSS. of any great length will be returned, provided the name and address of the owner is written on the first or last page and provided also that the necessary stamps are enclosed for transmission through the post. Authors are recommended to keep copies of verses, short essays, and minor articles generally, since they cannot, under any circumstances, be returned. Miscellaneous contributions are not requested.

CHAPTER IV.—WHAT HAPPENED IN GILTSPUR STREET.

I THINK I grieved as much as a child could grieve over my dear mother's death. I suppose I was naturally of a sensitive organisation, and my isolated child-life had made me morbid, and, in some sense, painfully precocious. This I know, that I spent whole days in a sort of rueful introspection, arriving, in the end, at the miserable conclusion that I had been a most undutiful son, and that God had taken away my mamma as a punishment for my many transgressions and shortcomings. I was so completely wretched, and so abased in spirit, that I accused myself of sins I had never committed, and attributed to myself all kinds of wrong motives and unworthy actions; and, somehow, I felt as if I had had something to do with the unknown fault which my mother had committed long ago, and I recalled her words on the subject, and pondered them again and again, till I could not bear myself, or my own unhappy thoughts.

Eliza Ann did her part to improve the occasion by insisting on my innate depravity, and on the uncertainty of human life. "Your poor ma's taken away from you as a warning, Oliver," she said to me on the evening of the funeral, as I sat, shivering and miserable, at the bed-room window, wat ching the clouds sail over the great dome, and wondering how far above them heaven might

be, and whether I should ever reach that happy place, where sin, and pain, and grief could never enter.

"A warning?" I said questioningly, not understanding her.

"Yes!-a warning to you to repent, and turn to God. It may be your turn next. Children die quite as frequently as grown people. Remember what your hymn says:

"The flower may fade before 'tis noon,

And I as soon may lose my breath.'

You may die this very night, Oliver-think of that!-and then where would you be?"

"I don't know," was all the answer I could give; and I felt as keenly as if I had been twenty years older that it was a most unsatisfactory answer. And again I looked up despairingly to the swift-sailing clouds, and wished that heaven were not so very far away, and so very difficult of access.

"You don't know!" persisted Eliza Ann. "Then I will tell you, Oliver; people that don't know,' or say they don't know, are sure to go to hell. If you were going to heaven, you would know it."

"Are you going to heaven ?" I asked.

"Of course I am," was her reply; "I have repented of my sins, and given up the world, and I am a joined church member."

Now, what a "joined church member" might be I did not at all comprehend; only it crossed my mind-another instance of my innate depravity-that if Eliza Ann were a specimen, I would, if I ever got to heaven, give the church members a particularly wide berth.

"To go to heaven you must be fit for heaven," was Eliza Ann's next proposition. Whereat I fell into another brown study, which resulted in an unconscious syllogism arranged in this wise:

"Eliza Ann is fit for heaven;

I can never be like Eliza Ann ;

Therefore I shall never be fit for heaven."

I am sure the woman meant well; I know she thought she was doing her duty in thus endeavouring to "save my soul." But it was a cruel process to which I was subjected, and I often think those who try to terrify young children into religion, and force upon them the dogmas of a creed whose deepest truth is hell, and a God whose chief attribute is revenge, miscalled justice, earn for themselves that terrible condemnation which Jesus uttered, when He said "Whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in Me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depths of the sea." That night, when I was left alone in my crib, I wished I had never been born. I dared not wish to die, because of the fiery

torments prepared for the wicked, of whom I was one; but I did. wish I had never come into existence. Why was I born? I asked myself, as I sat up in bed, and watched the fleecy clouds still sailing on and on across the moonlit blue. I could not help being born; I knew that, for I had once put the query to Deborah, who assured me that I was not responsible for my own existence. Then, if I had no choice in the matter, why was I born? Did God make people on purpose to punish them for ever and ever? A terrible question for a child to ask!

But then I had heard about "eternal decrees," and "electing mercy," as applied to certain favoured individuals, and I had learned somehow, that of all the people that were in the world, of all that ever lived, and of all that would live until the end of time, only a very few could possibly be saved! Then, why had they been allowed to live? And again I brought the vexed question home to my small self, and asked passionately-" Why was I born?"

Swift as lightning came the answer. I suppose I must have heard it somewhere, and yet I do not know; it may have been that God spoke it Himself to my soul, for I was as surely in my childish way seeking after Him as any man could seek. I was in the darkness, and I was, though I knew it not, crying out for light; I was groping for my Father's hand, and so, I think, for a little moment He let me see His face. The answer that came to me that night under the shadow of the great cathedral was this-" For God's glory." And could it be for God's glory that millions and millions of human creatures should be eternally tormented? that, striving to win heaven, they should be thrust down into the pit, because they were not of the "few" who were primarily elected to salvation? Of course I did not put it quite in that way, but that was what I meant when I turned from the fierce dogmas which Eliza Ann had done her best to instil into me, and appealed to God Himself to tell me why I was born, and whither I was tending. And, baby as I was, I hurled back the monstrous figment which certain theologians have sought to impress upon Christian souls. God could not be glorified by the waste and destruction of ninetenths, or even one-half, of the human race, who owed their being to Himself. I was as sure that I was right, and that Eliza Ann was wrong, as if I had heard an audible voice from heaven proclaiming that "God is love."

My little bed was almost close to the window, and I got up, and, kneeling down at the window-ledge, said my little prayer, as real a prayer as has ever passed my lips-"Oh, Lord God, I want to be good, and I want to go to heaven. Please to show me the way, and take me there, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

I do believe in spiritual influences-not in spiritualism, mind;

that I have rejected so far, and distinctly disavow; but I do believe that God often speaks to souls without any agency of human speech or written word, and that He speaks to little children as well as to youths and matured men and women. God's Spirit came to me that night, I firmly believe, and taught me, and comforted me. I knelt on, I know not how long, looking up in voiceless entreaty into the starlit depths. I had "no language but a cry." But the good Lord heard me, and spoke to my heart, and told me to trust in Him, and live for evermore. And I knew that God loved me, and would take care of me, and make me good and happy. Eliza Ann might preach for ever-I would not contradict her; only I knew that she was wrong, for God had told me all I longed to know.

That night I had a remarkable dream. I thought my mother came to me, and she was no longer pale, and thin, and worn; but a blooming, beautiful angel, with silvery wings, and clothed in white shining raiment; and she said to me-" My child, God loves you; God wants you to be happy; but you can only be happy in Him. The world will try to hide God from you, but you must overcome the world." And then she stooped to kiss me, but ere the radiant lips touched mine, the heavenly smile melted away, the lovely vision faded, and I was alone in my bed in the cold and solemn moonlight, which filled all the sky, and flooded the garretroom in which I lay. I was not afraid, for I thought my mother had actually been with me; God had let her come to me that I might see how fair and happy were the saints in glory, and that I might be sad and solitary no more. Whether it were a dream or a vision, I know not to this day, nor do I greatly care to know. Dream or vision, God sent it to me for my comfort, and I thank Him for it to-day more heartily than I thanked Him then; for many and many a time the memory of that sweet, never-forgotten dream or vision has come between me and evil, and many a time, amid all the ja rring noises of the world, and the din and strife of sin and folly, I have heard the still, small voice whisper-"Overcome the world."

Tired out with my unwonted vigils, I slept very late next morning. When I awoke I knew by the shadows on the cathedral that it was considerably past my usual hour of rising, but I did not get up-I lay still gazing up to the low, slanting ceiling, and wondering when I should hear from my aunts, to whom Eliza Ann, as her mother's amanuensis, had written. I felt very tired, and not at all disposed to exert myself. I dare say I might have lain there till noon had not Deborah appeared, and desired me to get up and dress myself as quickly as possible, for that I was wanted in the sitting room.