that quite well. He was in Harry Perret's shoes now. He was Harry Perret himself now. Where the real Tim Teddington had gone he did not know, and could not guess. He only knew he was Tim no longer.

He spent some dismal hours that day. Now and then for a while he could forget in his work the life that lay before him, but ever and anon the harsh tones of Betsy Perret sounded in his ears, and her angry eyes seemed to glare threateningly upon him. Tim felt that he should never again know what comfort was.

Sauntering slowly home that evening, and dreading inexpressibly the close of his walk, he suddenly beheld advancing towards him -somebody. Who was it? Not himself of course; yet it couldn't surely be anybody else. Not Harry Perret, for he was Harry Perret; yet it couldn't be Tim Teddington.

Tim was in dire perplexity. He stood stock still, and so did the other man. Tim stared at the other man, and the other man stared at Tim. Each opened his mouth wider and wider, and presently the other man gasped,— "Well, here's a pretty go!"

"Who are you, pray?" asked Tim eagerly.

"Who are you?" asked the other man, with a helpless shake of his head.

"Good little woman, but so meek; butter won't melt in her mouth, and tear-bags frightfully near to her eyes. Give me something stirring-something to keep me alive."

"Oh dear," moaned Tim; "I wish you had it back it is stirring enough, and no mistake. I say Perret,-Teddington I mean,-at least, whoever you are,—do tell me how did you manage when you were me,-at least in these shoes; how did you manage about— about-"

"Speak out, man," said the other.

"HER tongue?" whispered Tim, with his new fear strong upon him.

"Just submit, and never mind, and be happy elsewhere;" said Harry.

Tim shook his head. He would have to "submit" undoubtedly; but "not minding" was a different matter. And this sort of thing didn't suit his notions of comfort, any more than Mary's gentle ways suited the other's notions of liveliness.

"Could we exchange back again, I wonder?" asked Tim wistfully. "Your shoes don't fit me at all-in fact they are rather painful. Would you mind?"

Tim felt as if he must be making a cruel request indeed, when he remembered Betsy's tongue; but the other man answered with astonishing alacrity,

"To be sure-a capital plan! Wonder we didn't think of it before! Off with your shoes, old fellow, and let's try."

Tim kicked off the shoes in a trice; but instead of being able to make the proposed exchange, he suddenly felt himself sinking downwards, downwards, as he had done before; while his limbs grew fixed and helpless, and his teeth chattered, and a cold wind passed over his face, and everything grew dark about him.

And in one moment more Tim was again seated in the cellar, with piles of shoes on every side, and the queer old gentleman in front carrying his big blue bag.

CHAPTER IV.

SEBASTIAN SMITH'S SHOES.

Harry Perret

you didn't find that pair of shoes suit you."

"No," faltered Tim. "They didn't exactly fit."

"Of course not. How could they?" asked the old gentleman tartly. "They were not made for you. If folks won't keep to the shoes made for them, they can't expect to find a perfect fit."

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I think I'll have my own pair, please," said Tim earnestly.

The old shoemaker looked extremely surprised.

"Your own pair! I beg your pardon. Did my ears deceive me? Your own pair, I think you said."

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Certainly, if you please," said Tim.

"Very unfortunate," said the old gentletleman, rubbing his head. "People have no right to change their minds so easily. I'm sorry to say it is quite impossible that I should comply with your request,—will be so, in fact, for some time. I couldn't in honour break through all arrangements. But here is a pair which I think you particularly desired,

-Sebastian Smith's. Sorry it wasn't at liberty last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. Sebastian Smith already has yours." Tim looked doubtful whether to be pleased or distressed.

"Put them on," said the old gentleman. Tim hesitated.

"Put them on!" repeated the old gentleman sternly.

"Couldn't you just manage to get me my own?" pleaded Tim.

"On no account. PUT THEM ON," said the old gentleman with a voice of thunder.

Tim obeyed in a great fright. And all at once, as before, the cellar shrank and faded into nothing. Tim felt himself swept away somewhere, like an autumn leaf,—and shutting his eyes for one instant, he opened them, to find himself

Well, it wasn't so bad this time. The cottage was a particularly nice one, and Sebastian Smith was seated at a plentiful breakfast, before going to his daily work. The room was better furnished than any Tim had ever lived in before, though not over tidy. Sebastian Smith's wife, a pretty little woman,

dren were upon either side. Tim felt quite a glow of fatherly pride and pleasure at his heart for a single moment, as he glanced round and realized that he was Sebastian Smith now, and consequently that these children, with the addition of a seventh in the cradle, were all his very own.

"Come, I've got into good quarters now, and no mistake,” thought Tim.

But the glow and the satisfaction didn't last. Tim wondered that he didn't feel happier. How it was he could not make out. He felt as if a great load of anxiety and worry were weighing him down. The very thought of having to feed and clothe all these seven children was quite alarming. He was struck with Sally Smith's depressed timid look, and with the heavy silence among the children. And yet when one or two of them spoke a word under their breath, it teased him, and he roughly desired them not to speak. Tim had never felt so cantankerous and out of sorts in his life.

He thought of his savings and his savings-bank book, but not at all in a hopeful or satisfied fashion. He wondered that he had not made a great deal more money in the past year. And all at once he found himself saying so aloud in a disagreeable complaining voice, which quite startled himself, but which seemed to surprise nobody else; only he thought he saw a shrinking movement among the children, and heard a whisper,— "Take care! father's cross this morning."

"I'm sure I don't know how it is, Sebastian," said Sally in a mournful low minor key.

"Then you ought to know," said Tim angrily. "Toiling like a slave as I do,-the least you could do would be to save a bit."

"I'm sure I save as much as ever I can,” said Sally patiently; "but you're never pleased at anything, Sebastian."

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"I tell you, if things go on like this, I don't know what we'll come to," said Tim. "Suppose I should be taken ill now, or fall and break my leg,-or the children get measles,or work grow slack. Why, the savings 'ud all melt away like snow, and leave us with nothing,-like that poor wretch of a Teddington, who used to be so well-to-do, and

It seemed quite natural somehow to speak of "Teddington' as another person; yet even while saying the words, Tim had a sort of indignant feeling down in his heart that Sebastian Smith could thus speak of his friend.

And how strange it seemed, that whereas Tim had never been so well off in his life as now that he had become transformed into Sebastian Smith, yet he had never in his life felt so dreadfully anxious and burdened. Not through all his troubles and privations in the past winter, had Tim ever felt a tithe of this pressure on his mind. Then, with blithe Mary by his side, he had been ready to face anything, and at most only gave vent to an occasional grumble. Now, the mere weight of anxiety respecting bare possibilities of future troubles seemed too much to be endured.

"If I should get ill, or if work should stop," —Tim found himself saying again. "I tell you what, Sally, the children must eat less. If they don't, we'll all just end our days in a workhouse."

Sally began to cry, and the children's faces were a sight to see for dolefulness.

Tim got up from the table, and went to the drawer where he kept his savings-bank book carefully treasured up. He examined it earnestly, putting his whole heart into the matter. Money had never seemed so important to Tim when he had very little, as now when he had comparatively a good deal. The figures in the book all slanted about so queerly that Tim could not exactly make them out; yet he saw that there was ample provision for present need (and for many a "rainy day." And still-still-he could not feel cheerful about the matter.

"I wish you wouldn't look so dismal," he said roughly to Sally, feeling sure he had found out the cause of his own extraordinary depression. Of course it was-must be-only sympathy with Sally's melancholy.

"And whose fault is it if I do look dismal ? " sobbed Sally. "I'm sure you couldn't have seen a lighter-hearted lass than I was once upon a time. You've just broke me down altogether with your worrying ways, always thinking everything's going to the bad, and

humour with everybody. If you don't kill me downright in time, it'll be a wonder. O, dear! I'd sooner have any sort of troubles in the world, than a dismal sour-tempered man like you."

Tim felt aghast. Was it so? Yes; too well he knew Sebastian Smith was just that in his own house, and even among his fellowworkmen, unless under brief excitement. Always a depressed low-spirited sort of man; always finding grievances; always looking on the dark side of things; always expecting evil.

Tim went out of the house and stood looking into the street. How brightly the sun shone, but it wasn't bright to Tim,-it only bothered him. How merrily the voices of the children sounded, but they were simply disagreeable in his ears. Ah! he was Sebastian Smith now, and no mistake. Tim Teddington had never felt like this. Tim groaned aloud for the light-heartedness of other days, which he had never learnt to value at its true worth until he lost it. He had never dreamed till now the actual suffering and positive misery of such a depressed and irritable spirit, as that at which he had often enough laughed in his friend.

"There's old Smith sulking, as usual," he heard the children murmur as they shrank away. And Tim felt it was best they should shrink away. Not one gave him a merry

word in passing, as he had been wont to expect. Quite correct on their part. Tim felt that he could not possibly give one single merry word back.

“Oh, I do wish I was Tim Teddington again!"

A genuine desire was this, breathed out in a deep sigh. But it did not occur to him yet to kick off his slippers; neither did he feel the least security that he ever would be Tim Teddington again. The other seemed too real and too melancholy for any such second change.

"Good morning," said a voice.

Tim looked up, and stood motionless.

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'Hope you like my quarters," said the former Sebastian Smith, but present Tim Teddington, in a slightly patronizing voice.

"No, I don't," said Tim. "I never felt so

"Miserable! what, with my savings-bank book in your possession ?"

"Yes, and your temper too," said Tim sulkily, for he felt aggrieved. "Your shoes don't fit me at all."

"Likely not," said the other carelessly. "Well; when you're tired of them, perhaps you'll hand them over to me. Meantime I must say you've played me a very shabby trick. Such an exchange,-that wretched room of yours, in the place of my home and all my savings. Why, you haven't a spare shilling against a rainy day, I mean I haven't."

"Couldn't help using it all up," said Tim. "But as for this sort of life, I begin to think I'm going melancholy mad. Have your shoes back, and welcome; and give me the others quickly, please, or that old gentlemen will be

sure

But Tim's sentence was unfinished. Hardly

were the shoes removed from his feet, than down-down-he sank again, and once more found himself in the cellar.

It was a brief interview this time.

"You're hard to please," said the old gentleman. "I've no time to waste to-day; so please be quick. There are Will Browning's shoes. I've obtained them with great difficulty, for he's a wonderfully contented fellow, didn't see any inducement towards an exchange. But I've got my own way. On with them, man."

This was delightful. Now at last Tim saw a free happy easy life before him. For once he felt sure he had no reason to fear. Will Browning, the esteemed and respected foreman, the most honest, earnest, hard-working, sensible, prosperous, highly-principled man of his acquaintance,-Tim was going to be in clover at last. He pulled on the shoes with great alacrity.

FEW months ago I met by the wayside a poor, wretched-looking woman.

Her house was sadly neglected, and all about Pe it gave evidence that those who dwelt there were living without the least regard to God, or even common morality. No prayer, no keeping holy God's Day, no training up the little ones in the nurture of the Lord, was known in that house. It was a Mission season, and many were inquiring the way to heaven. So I put a plain question to this woman. I asked her whether she were seeking Christ. I met with the old answer. "I'm doing my best," said this careless, ungodly woman. Thus she tried to quiet her conscience and stifle the appeal that

"Doing my best is a great cheat and deceiver. I constantly meet with him in some shape or other. But I should like to unmask him if I could, for he has ruined many souls already, and is likely, I fear, to ruin many more.

You say, "I am doing my best; " but is this true? Has any one ever done their best? Did this woman do her best ? Have you done your best? For example, when some one inflicted upon you a trifling annoyance, and you gave way to angry feelings, and uttered many hasty words, were you doing your best? when you wasted an hour or two in bed, and arose too late, and duties were neglected, and perhaps you hurried to your work without a word of prayer or of thanksgiving to Him who had watched over you

Or

best? Do you mean to say that every day and every hour of the day you have been striving to please God? Is there a day in your life in which you might not have done more for God's glory and the good of others? And if this be so, is it true when you say, "I am doing my best"?

Nay, I could go further and say, Have you not again and again done your worst? Have you not many a time yielded to temptation, doing that which you knew well was contrary to God's plain command and the warning of your own conscience? And what could you have done worse than this?

"Doing my best." After all, what is the value of this hope of yours on which you are risking your salvation? What is it but " a sinner's best"? And a sinner's best can be but sinful. Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? Who can bring a drop of sweet water out of a bitter fountain? Who can bring good fruit from a bad tree?

I remember hearing of a lad that had such a disposition to steal that he could not overcome it. "I can't help taking it," he said, "unless it is too hot or too heavy." Here was an honest confession of his own character, so that whilst such a disposition lasted he would be sure to act dishonestly.

Now what is the nature of man? He is prone to sin and evil. It may not be to theft or murder or any open crime, but in some shape or other the heart follows the evil and not the good. It may be pride or covetousness or selfishness. It may be selfwill, worldliness, and utter indifference to a God of love. But in some form sin lives and works within. And whilst this remains unchanged, the fruit of such a disposition cannot but be sinful thoughts and words and deeds. Every action, either in itself or in its motive and principle, must be defiled and impure when tried by the standard of God's holy law. Therefore,

whatever you may call "doing your best," you are only adding day by day to the long catalogue of your sins and transgressions. This is the Law and

"Doing my best." not the Gospel, and none can save themselves by "doing." As many as are under the law are under its condemnation. Till you give up trusting in any works or doings of any sort you stand guilty and condemned. Never, since the world began, has there been a man saved by doing. Till you are saved and forgiven through Christ, doing your best" is only like a man in a condemned cell sweeping or clearing the floor, or putting a few pictures on the wall, or falling in with the rules of the prison; it cannot the least remove the sentence of death. Ah, think of this! The sentence has gone out against you-"Sinner, thou must die;" and all these self-efforts are utterly in vain to blot it out.

"Doing my best." If this were sufficient, why has God given us such warnings of danger and such promises of pardon to the penitent? Why did Christ come down from heaven and die for sinners on the cross? Surely, all this were needless if you or I could ever be saved by doing our best.

The truth is, you cannot be saved by any doings of your own. You can only be saved by that which Jesus has done for you. He gave Himself to fulfil the law, to work out a perfect righteousness, and then to die as the penalty of our transgressions. He finished the work of man's salvation, and by His death He made it a just and righteous thing for God to forgive the sinner. And you have to believe and accept this salvation thus provided for us.

Instead of pleading that you are "doing your best," acknowledge that you have left undone the things you ought to have done, and have done the things you ought not to have done; acknowledge that you are guilty, and then plead the death of Christ