celebrate His blessed mysteries. There is a noise and a shaking of the dry bones in response to the preaching of the Gospel: the bones come together, there is an appearance of life; the sinews and the flesh do come upon and the skin doth cover these bones. So far the vision holds good of us now, as of Israel in the days of Ezekiel. Some of the dry bones meet together, and some sort of skin-deep profession hides the skeleton within. There is a form of godliness, there is a show of life, there is a body, but whether it is dead or alive, O God, Thou knowest. Oh that we could realise what followed on in that vision of Ezekiel! Then said the Lord unto me, Prophesy unto the wind. Thus saith the Lord God: Come from the four winds, O Spirit, and breathe upon these slain that they may live. So I prophesied as He commanded, and the breath came into them, and they lived, and stood up upon their feet, an exceeding great army.'

Yes, there is something more required of us than the mere outside of Christianity; there is more required of us than talking about the Church. The bones may join one another, the flesh and sinews may come together; but unless the Spirit of God be in us, and the fruits of the Spirit be seen in our conduct, we have no breath or life in us. There must be (and, thank God for it, there is in many) a visible manifestation of those fruits and graces-love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, faith, goodness, temperance, and by the exhibition of these graces we shall break down more and more the barriers I spoke of which isolate us one from another. Sympathy will beget sympathy, kindness will generate kindness, and He who is our peace will make both one and break down the middle wall of partition between us, having abolished in His flesh the enmity, that He might reconcile both unto God in one body by the cross. And having come and preached peace to you which were afar off, and to them that are nigh (Eph. ii. 14-17).

Thus, then, the vision of the Valley of Dry Bones is a true picture of this land in which we are living. But if you chose to analyse each one of you your own hearts and lives, you would find how wonderfully it portrayed your own individual history. Do you none of you remember the time when you lived without any sense of responsibility to God for the use of your time, of your means, of your talents? You lived carelessly and indolently, without any nerving and bracing up of the moral system; you followed every idle bent and inclination; you were at the mercy of others, who led you captive at their will; the gifts and faculties of body, soul, mind, and spirit, were all loose and slack; your days and deeds were aimless and purposeless; you lived just as your fancy led you for the moment; you were a valley of dry incoherent bones. Then, as you grew older, necessity of life, some profession or business, obliged you to nerve yourself to a certain extent to perform the requirements of your calling and your duties to your fellow-men. But as long as there was no religious principle to hold you together, no sense of duty to God, no love of your Saviour to bind you close to His cross, your life was a shadow, a delusion, a hollow phantom: you were dead, and merely seemed to live. And then, what a blessed change came over you when God was the centre of your life, when the cross was the anchor of your hope, when Christ Himself was your all in all! Then was

some

your mouth filled with laughter and your tongue with songs. Then all things were new to us: Nature itself wore fresh and more attractive colours, grace had clothed her with heavenly light. And our fellowmen, what different feelings we had about them! In spite of all their faults and their shortcomings, we recognised the image of God in them; and we knew that Christ had redeemed them, and that the Spirit of God was sanctifying them. And so we learnt to honour all men. The Spirit of God breathed upon our dry bones, and made the sinews and the flesh, and the skin that covered them, to glow with life and joy.

There, then, was a second picture of the vision of the Valley of Dry Bones. And once more clearly capable as this vision is of the spiritual application to our souls, and to our Church and nation, there can hardly be a question of its being typical of the great general resurrection of the dead in the Day of Judgment. The trumpet of the archangel shall prophesy to the dry bones, and they shall live. 'I believe in the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting. Amen.'

We shall all of us be laid in the grave, the four winds may scatter our dust to the four quarters of Heaven. But still God's Spirit is in the seed and germ of each dead body. He is preserving it for the Day of Resurrection, and each one of us will stand before God in our own bodies-the same and yet new-like as Christ's risen Body had the marks of the Passion on it, and yet was another and glorified form; and the two disciples that journeyed with Him to Emmaus, and sat at meat with Him, knew Him not till He made Himself known by the breaking of bread. We shall stand in our own risen and changed bodies before the great white throne and the Lamb who sitteth thereon. We shall see a glorious company of the angels around the throne of the Judge of quick and dead. But solemn and striking as is Paul's question, 'With what bodies shall we rise?' ten thousand times more striking and more solemn is the thought with what hopes or what fears shall we be there? It is not death that is awful; it is not the separation of soul and body that makes us shrink from death. But it is because there is a second death, far worse than the first; it is because sin is the sting of death that we shrink from judgment; it is because our sins do follow us to that judgment that many, who would gladly leave a world that has ruined and then mocked them, cannot face a Judge whom they have rejected and offended. But if Christ died for our sins, and rose again for our justification, if we have lived in the faith of the Son of God, Who loved us and gave Himself for us, there need be no more of the terrible in death. Have you never seen the smile appear on a dying man's face? Have you never heard words of peace flow from the lips of a bereaved mother when she knew Whom she had trusted, when she remembered Who it was that said, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die?

Believest thou this?

'Son of man, can these oones live? And I answered, O Lord God, Thou knowest.' Amen.

I

A SUMMER LESSON.

By the Author of 'Earth's Many Voices.'

HAVE been out in the summer woods,

And have learnt a lesson to-day: A very simple lesson it is,

Yet let me tell it, I pray.

The boughs were arching over my head,
And the light shone down between;
While under my feet were sweet wild
flowers,

And mosses and grasses green.

And there in the woods I heard a child
Cry out with a fretful cry,
For he had lost in an eager chase
A glittering butterfly.

Then, near to the child I saw a lad
Lie dreaming the hours away;
The long bright hours, the precious
hours,

Of that glorious summer day.

FIFTY YEARS AGO.

GOING TO THE FAIR.

HERE is nothing like making a beginning. Dinah Yeatman, having once persuaded her father to take her with him to Mere for a day's holiday, was not slow in availing herself of the opportunity of making other engagements. Her well-to-do relations, the Jephsons, who, it will be remembered, had recently come to the town and set up in the cheesemonger line, seemed disposed to make much of their country cousin. On the occasion of her former visit, they had used every effort to persuade Farmer Yeatman that he must not fail to bring her in for the fair, and even let her stay a few days with them. Now, he was very proud of his pretty daughter, and it pleased him to find her a favourite with other people, so that when she timidly joined in the request he promised to do what he could to manage it. But, as they both knew, there was the mother at home to be consulted on the subject, and Dinah felt very doubtful of success.

Indeed she might well be so, for during the next fortnight she had to listen to many a lecture on the evils resulting from girls 'gadding about,' on the importance of their giving themselves

entirely to their home duties, and on the sad taste which they seemed to have 'now-a-days' for dress and amusement. The good lady spoke as though such follies had been quite unheard of by former generations; but if any one had been there to notice the old grandmother, who sat quietly knitting in the chimney-corner, they would have seen ner smile to herself at the memory of something very like the girl's desire in her own young days.

Whether old Mrs. Yeatman again said a good word on her granddaughter's behalf, or what other influence was brought to bear, I cannot tell; but the fact remains that on the Saturday, just three days before the eventful time, Dinah was told that she might send in, by the carrier, a letter to her aunt Jephson, to say that she would be driving in to the fair with her father. What a grand excitement it was for her! Never before had the hours seemed to pass so slowly as they did then, until Tuesday morning dawned. The young girl was awake long before daybreak, with a kind of feeling that if the weather were duly watched betimes, it would be more likely to be propitious.

Certainly fortune favoured her that day, for nothing could have been more glorious than that June morning. She was radiant with delight, and as she drove off in triumph, high up in the dog-cart by her father's side, she turned round with a feeling of pity for those left behind to give one last nod and smile.

'Ah, well, make the most of it while it lasts, child,' was her mother's thought, as she went back with a sigh to her own household work, which was somewhat in arrears, for Dinah had been so forgetful and absorbed in her own thoughts the last few days that she had been perfectly useless. Farmer Yeatman was in high good humour, he was very glad of his daughter's company, and as they drove along the country road in the fulness of the early morning, with the birds singing and the sunshine lighting up the delicate spring foliage of the trees and hedges, nothing seemed wanting to the pleasure of those

two.

On their way they passed the carrier's cart slowly toiling up the hill. 'What a pity as we've no room for Amos!' exclaimed the goodnatured farmer. 'But there, never mind! I can bring him and his little brother back with me if so be that I leave thee in Mere, lass?' 'Of course you will, father,' she replied, decidedly. You know Aunt Emma expects me to stay.'

Ah, well! I suppose it's all settled,' said he, half regretfully. 'But don't go and forget your old friends amongst they fine folk.'

Dinah looked up at him half startled. What could he mean? Was he thinking of Amos Ridley, whom she well knew to be a great favourite of his? Of course she was not going to forget old friends! Still her conscience smote her a little as she remembered how entirely her thoughts had been occupied with the prospect of a few days' amusement. She had forgotten all about little Peter already. But the young girl was in no mood for any troublesome reflections, and long before they reached Mere she was as bright and merry as ever.

They drove through the town, already crowded at that early hour, and stopped at length at a house in the High Street. It had a private door, as well as the shop, which was all newly painted and