ISHES ride on fleet horses. How many of these invisible travellers are at this joyous season passing hither and thither, more swiftly

even than the lightning flash or current of the mysterious telegraph.

We cannot employ the telegraph to cononvey our wishes-the cost of the messages we should need to send would empty a good many deep purses; but we can use the more useful if not the more wonderful machinery of the Printing Press, and by its instrumentality despatch and deliver in the home of every one of our readers our hearty word of Christmas greeting

"A HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!" May we add-anticipating in order that we may thank-that we doubt not, when the eye of the reader rests upon this page, a brother wish will travel back on the wings of kindly thought

"A Happy Christmas to our Editor too!" Well, we cannot but feel that the lessons

And, first, shall we not humbly and gratefully adore at Bethlehem the Mystery of Divine Love? "Great is the mystery of godliness-God was manifest in the flesh."

"Christians, awake, salute the happy morn Whereon the Saviour of the world was born; Rise to adore the mystery of love,

Which hosts of angels chanted from above!"

As we ponder, in the presence of the Infant Saviour, the lowliness of His greatness, and contrast it with the pride of our poor fallen hearts, let us make humble confession of our sinfulness; and then, as we think of the self-sacrifice of His love,Love Divine, "all love excelling" - love which prompted Him to give Himself,- -we shall surely rejoice in the sweet tidings of the angels' carol:

"Peace on earth and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!"

This is the chief lesson we learn at Bethlehem; but it is not the only lesson. Are we not also taught there the Dignity which is thrown over Human Life by the fact that the Son of God took our nature upon Him and dwelt among us?

We have read a story which may help to impress upon us this Christmas lesson. When the Pretender, Charles Edward, was quitting the shores of our land after his fruitless attempt upon the crown, he was

accompanied to the vessel by a Highlander, who had given himself up entirely to the service of the man whom he considered to be his monarch. They parted on the shore, never to meet again in this life; but ere they parted, Charles Edward, touched by the devotion of the man, forgot the usual stiffness of princely etiquette, and reaching out his hand to his humble friend, gave his hand a hearty and a loving grasp. Ever after that, the Highlander, when any acquaintance happened to approach, put his right hand into his bosom, and offered only the left. The thing was remarked upon, and he was asked why he did it. "Oh," he said, "his hand was sick,"meaning his hand had received some injury. But upon being pressed more closely, he admitted that, inasmuch as his monarch had grasped that hand, he could never consent to allow it to be profaned by a meaner touch.

May we not say, inasmuch as Christ hath trod this earth in human flesh, hath breathed our air, hath mingled in our occupations, hath sat by a family fireside, and mingled in human cares and human joys, there is a dignity thrown round. human life, round every pursuit (however humble, so it be honest) which should make us most careful how we pollute or degrade it? How would our daily lives be ennobled, if we were always looking to Jesus as our Example: asking ourselves in seasons of difficulty and temptation, "What would Jesus do? And then seeking heavenly grace to enable us to "walk worthy of our high vocation," as His "friends," His "brethren" ?

One other Christmas lesson we must note-the invitation which Bethlehem gives to one and all to engage in the Mutual Ministry of Love. "If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

"I always like Christmas-Day better than our birthdays," said a bright-eyed

the particular reason of his preference, the reply was-" Because on our birthdays only one receives presents, but on ChristmasDay it is 'giving all round."" Now I think this was an excellent answer. The best Christmas carol, next to the carol the angels sung, is "Thanks be unto God for His unspeakable Gift!" And the best way of showing our thankfulness, is "giving all round."

It is evident that our friends in the illustration which precedes this paper are not likely to lack a bountiful provision of "Christmas fare" on Christmas-Day. We hope none of our readers will lack it either. But there are some who will, unless those to whom God has given more, whilst they "eat the fat and drink the sweet," remember the ministry of love. It may be poor Lazarus lying at the gate has not been altogether free from blame for neglecting to emulate the "wisdom" of the ant, who, although "having no guide, overseer, or ruler, provideth her meat in the summer and gathereth her food in the harvest;" but let us not blame him God's open hand dispenses "daily bread" all the year round-often to those who forget to thank Him-and at Christmas above all other times He seems to bid us "deal our bread to the hungry." Even the poor have some who are poorer than themselves; and the "widow's mite" may make some desolate heart rejoice. In the joy of another at Christmas we shall best increase our own. Kind words and loving deeds and tender sympathy, are gifts all can bestow; and these at Christmastide should be scattered every where.

now.

Thus have we gathered three Bethlehem lessons. Need we add, a Christmas kept in this spirit would not fail to prove & "Happy Christmas"? The joy of heaven would seem to descend to earth; Faith, Hope, and Charity would be guests

66

CHAPTER VI.

PEACE.

HAT good minister's house became a second home to me; I owe him more than tongue can tell.

But a change came over that home, as over everything in this world. There was a bad fever in the neighbourhood, and the minister's wife and their only child-little Mary-were laid low by it. The mother went first. Her husband sat up with her every night, and never left her; and I did all I could after working hours to amuse and take care of little Mary. The minister used to warn me that I might catch the fever, but I was not afraid-not a bit.

This child was like many who are called home early. She was as sweet and pretty as a rosebud in June; and one of our own little ones who died was very like her. We often used to talk of many things. I used to tell her of my home in England, of the church so old and grey, of the primroses in the lane, of the beautiful big sea where the white ships sailed. I told her I had been naughty, and that I had run away from the best of fathers, and she used to say, "Why don't you go home, Roger? He would be sure to be glad to see you." I said, "I didn't know. I had written twice from the hospital and no answer had come. I expected he was determined I should reap what I had sownwild oats, as they call them." Ah! mine was a pretty heavy crop. Besides, unless I worked my passage out, it would cost a lot of money to get over the great wide ocean, and it would take a long time to save it; and a good bit of pride was left behind still. I did not fancy the village people should have cause to say I had come back like a bad penny, with scarce a coat to cover me; so I would wait.

"Don't wait till it is too late, Roger dear," said little Mary one day. That was just before she sickened of the fever.

She was so ill they never told her her mother had gone first; but she wanted no

father had gone to lie down. Presently she spoke up quite clear and loud,—

"Roger dear, I am going to mother. I shall see her very soon; Jesus has told me so. Do go home to your father, Roger. Don't wait too long. He is sure to love you just as God loves us. He is sure to be so kind."

Dear little heart! There are few things which have left a stronger mark on me than the words of that little child.

She died that night with a smile upon her lips; and a few months after the minister had laid her by her mother he found he could no longer bear his desolate home, and he went to take another charge in a distant part. It was a sore trouble to me, but I remembered little Mary's words, and made up my mind to go home. I saved enough to pay part of my passage, and I worked out the rest in the passengers' cabin, waiting on the steward and doing a lot of things which I had done when I came over, four years before. We had a very bad voyage. Storms, wind, and tempest went near to send us to the bottom. Then we fell in with foggy weather, and as the French ships were lying about the Channel, we had a deal of trouble to avoid them. The first great Bonaparte had just come back from an island they sent him to, and war had broken out again in Europe.

As I shouldered all my worldly goods and walked ashore at Liverpool, I heard nothing talked of but the French, and every one wondering how it would end. I thought then, as I have thought dozens of times since, how lonely we are as we move through the world -I mean how our own troubles and sorrows are nothing to anybody we pass in the journey of life. What was it to the crowd as I threaded my way through it that I was a prodigal going home, uncertain what I should find there, weary-hearted and sad. No; we should often be badly off for sympathy if we did not feel that One who is near us knows all. Does not that take the sting out of trouble when we feel it is understood and shared by One who loves us? Well, and what a wonder of wonders that our dear Master is always

It was a beautiful spring evening when, after long wanderings, I walked once more through the village street of Seabourne. The twilight favoured me. No one noticed me; or if they did, no one knew me. I felt there must be changes, and so there were. A new name was over the Raven Inn. I could see to read it in big white and blue letters. So Jack Braine must be gone. An old cottage at the end of the village was pulled down, and the ground was planted with cabbages and pota

toes.

At last I came to the church. That looked just the same; the jackdaws were flying in and out their holes in the tower, and there under the big tree was a lot of primroses growing, just as they had grown when I was a little boy. Somehow I felt afraid to go up the lane to our door. Not a word had I heard from my father since the day I left him to this hour.

How slowly I went up to the old place, just as if I was dreading what I should find there. At last I was at the porch. The door was half open, and a young woman with a baby in her arms was standing by the fire, stirring something in a saucepan with one hand, while she held the child with the other. I could not speak. I knew there was no welcome for me. I stood speechless. Presently the young woman came forward, and said,—

"Do you want to see my husband? He is down at the church, I think. If you step there you will find him.”

Down at the church! I saw it all. There was another parish clerk at Seabourne,―my father's place knew him no more. I was turned into stone for a minute or two, and then a great groan passed my lips as I tottered out of the porch.

"Sit down, pray," said the young woman; "you look very tired. Adam will be herc directly, I daresay."

But I turned off in silence. I couldn't speak.

I walked straight on like one in a dream to the gate in the arch, and opening it I went in. A figure clothed in black was pacing up and down a side-walk in the twilight, a tall figure

last!"

"At

With all the kindness of a mother she led me into the house, and then she told me the story I was craving to hear. My father only lived a few months after I left him. A cold and chill seized him in the winter of that year, and he had no strength and no spirit to bear up against it. He died blessing me and forgiving me, listening to the last for the sound of my footsteps up the lane, saying, "He will come back one day."

When her son told the news of dear young Mr. Herbert's death to Mrs. Herbert, his father promised to bring me home; but, as you know, he left Boston before I reached it, and all trace of me was lost. Mrs. Herbert wrote to me to the Weston hospital, but no answer ever came. Well, my father was spared all that trial and anxiety, which has been a comfort to me all my life. His last words to Betsy Gale were-all of a sudden as if he were speaking to my mother-"Mary," he said, “Mary, the boy has come home!"

When Mrs. Herbert had finished her story she asked me for mine, and I told it; and all about my dear young master's last days, as I have told it to you. She wept and rocked herself to and fro, but she said over and over again, "Thank God for His goodness to my boy. He escaped from the hand of the fowler, and I know he is safe. So let me thank Him."

When I saw the dear lady cry, I wished I could find tears; but though I wandered down to the churchyard in the dim light and knelt by my parents' grave, no tears would come.

The news spread in the village that I was come home, and the next day-Sunday-as the bell was ringing for service, I found a number of people waiting at the Lych gate t1. speak to me. Some said I was that altered they shouldn't have known me; some said something, some another, but I felt like one of the old stone figures on the squire's tombstone.

I went into church and knelt down, and hid my face. Presently the service began, and as Adam Beale's voice sounded from the desk, I