-Sarah Doudney.

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HRISTIANS believe God hears prayer, but how many act as if their prayers had passed into empty space never to return, like arrows shot into the darkness of night! We plant seed and we watch for the tiny sprout and the growing plant and the blooming flower; we expend effort and we look for the result in business of various kinds, but we pray without expectancy, and when we have obtained our desire we have forgotten that the gift is an answer from God. The church in early days prayed for Peter's deliverance, and when Peter stood at the door, they were astonished. The believer of to-day is found in the same unbelief. Would we could rise to a firm belief in the law of prayer, as being as firm a law as that of gravitation. He who said, 'Seek, and ye shall find,' bound together a cause and effect in those words just as surely as He bound the particles of matter in the age of creation. Let one more proof be added to the thousands which every Christian life affords.

There was trouble in a home I lately visited. The mistress of the house was a Scotch woman in middle life. Her face struck me as belonging to one who was, like the Master, 'acquainted with grief.' There is a quiet beauty often to be marked as resting on those in whose life tribulation has wrought patience, experience, and hope-flashing out in expression and glorifying a face most careworn in repose. The shading lines of sorrow refine the very appearance of others, as the shadows of the picture subdue and chasten what would otherwise be too brilliant or gaudy in effect. I knew there was trouble as I looked on that Christian woman's face, but alas! Christian sympathy could bring but little relief. 'Your best plan,' said I, 'is to bring your sorrow to your Father in heaven. God who loves you will make the path plain, and either give strength to bear the trial, or will remove the burden. Have you not found it so in the past, and can you not therefore say "because Thou hast been my help, therefore in the shadow of Thy wings will I rejoice."' Her face lighted, as I spoke.

'Yes, sir, God himself taught me that; nane ken better than I that God answers prayer. Would you mind, sir, if I tell you what happened wonderful like, in my life, lang years ago.

My father was a gude man, an elder in the kirk, and he brought us all up to fear the Lord. Ah! mony's the day I've sat and listened to him and some gude minister talk aboot the things o' the kingdom of the Lord, for he loved his Bible mair than all beside. My mother died long before my father, and at last cam' the woeful day when he was taken away. And then, sir, trouble fell on us. There was no will, and a brother who went to sea when a lad, and who had never been heard from, cam' back a' at ance, and he took the house and the land, and there wasna much mair. A younger brother and mysel' lived awhile at the old house, but there was bickering between him and his brother, till at last he and I went together to Glasgow to see if we coud na' support oursels. And then troubles cam' faster, for it was hard work to get enough to keep us in lodgings and food. A married sister in the Highlands sent us help now and then, but for the rest we worked. My brother worked at a mill, and I kept indoors, sewing, and seeing to matters aboot the house, and having his meals a' ready when he cam' hame, tired out, puir fellow.

Well, sir, the time I spak aboot was one black afternoon, and I remember it as if it were yesterday. Everything had been spent, and where to go I didna' ken for the life o' me. There was nothing in the house but some oatmeal, and nae siller to get milk for the parritch, and for a hungry man parritch without milk is puir eating. Indeed, sir, I went up and doon feeling waur o'er it every minute, for I kent my brother would sune be hame. And at last, what should I do, sir, but get doon on my knees and ask the God of my gude father to help me, for there was nae help here on earth. I didna' say much, but I said that again and again, and then I was somehow in comfort.

It was na' an hour after, when there cam' a knock of the postman, and when I ran doon to

the door, there was a letter for me. I opened it a' in tremble, and what should I see but a bank bill for ten poun', and there was writing from a man who had lived near my father, and been helped by him with money now and then. He said he didna owe it, for my father had given it, but now he was doing well, and he wanted to pay back a' he had been given, and this was the begining. He had heard I was living there wi' my brother, so he sent it to us. Indeed, sir, I only read a part of that letter, for I couldna see a' the words at first. But when I read it through, then I went doon on my

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TOPPING for a short time in a village at the north, during a summer tour, and having occasion to need some plain sewing done, I was directed by my humble washerwoman to an old lady, who lived in a lowly part of the town, in an upper chamber, and earned her support by the needle. On finding the poor dwelling, I passed by the lower storey, which seemed to be occupied by a number of persons, of not very cleanly appearance, and reached a narrow staircase in the back part of the building. A small room opened at the head of the stairs, which wore an aspect of great neatness and poverty. An old carpet covered the floor, scrupulously clean, and well-mended. A table, covered with a scanty piece of white cotton, stood on one side of the room, and a few books gave an appearance of cheer to the otherwise somewhat desolate apartment. A very small cooking-stove, well blackened, added to the look of comfort. The only occupant was the old lady to whom I had been directed. She was dressed in a faded calico, very clean; a plain collar, and a pure white muslin cap, bespoke the purity of her mind and heart. I was much struck by the dignity of her manner, which indicated converse with herself, and forbade too close an approach by others. I hardly knew how to address her, being a stranger, and feeling an unusual respect, which called for unusual deference under the circumstances. However, having made known the errand, and received satisfactory answers, I ventured to remark, You seem to be alone here.'

'Yes,' she replied; 'I have lived in this room thirty years.'

The tear started to my eye, and my heart melted with pity.

Thirty years alone! and have you no friends?'

'I had a husband, and an only daughter. It was pleasant to see her coming in every night from her work for she used to go out sewing in families during the day; but it is a long time since she died, and I have been alone since; I miss her very much.'

She cast down her glance as she said this, and I thought I saw her eye glisten; but no tear dropped, and the features of her face re

mained in their calm dignity. I was moved with sympathy and tenderness. An old woman! with naught in retrospect but sad memories! Those vanished loves! those conjugal and maternal endearments! those voices of kindness! that buoyancy of youth! those hopes of life's spring and summer! the hearthstone of home! all vanished for ever! And the prospect! An open grave! a dark, cold valley! a disabled age! a lonely death-bed! Poor, poor humanity! O to be born to live for such a fate as this! to have a heart full of affectionate yearnings, a mind capable of intellectual gratifications, an imagination, which the brightest visions of earth can never satisfy! and to be an old bereaved woman, living alone in an upper chamber! Almost in an agony, I cast about for a refuge for this shipwrecked one. Was there no loving embrace to enfold that aged form? No strong arm to guide the feeble step? No heart to do her reverence? My eye rested upon the table, and with an unspeakable feeling of relief, I remarked cheerfully, 'I am glad to see that big Book on the table; I hope you get some comfort out of that?'

'Yes, indeed, ma'm, I do; it is all the comfort I have, and it is enough. I have a Friend that always sticks close to me. I never feel lonely. That Book is comfort enough!'

'You really feel it to be so, do you?' 'Most certainly, ma'm; I never know what it is to feel alone; I tell Him all.'

'Let me ask you a question. Could you now have back your husband and daughter, and be surrounded with every luxury of home, would you take them in exchange for the comforts and hopes you enjoy from that Book? Tell me truly.'

In an instant she replied, and her aged face was illumined with the earnestness of her answer,

'No, indeed! Never! Nothing on earth would I take for what I get there!'

How could I doubt her! I came down the little narrow back staircase full of joy and wonder. That human heart had found its only, its everlasting rest! Earth recedes, it disappears; heaven opens on her eyes! How was my heart stilled before the sublimity of a faith which could make riches of poverty, companionship of desolation, hope of despair.

Vain cavillers at the Book Divine! before you sneer away the support, the consolation of the wretched, bring forward some more practical delusion for the miserable of earth.

This incident was the more impressive, as amid the comfortable surroundings of a pleasant city home, but a few days before, I had heard one speak slightingly of those sacred things which he had been taught to love and reverence by a godly father. The cause of Missions, with little to show for all the expenditure of time and money.' 'A special Providence an absurdity.' 'The Old Testament, with its morality or immorality, not suited to this age,' etc. His little ones were taught to kneel at no

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family altar; the harmony of their young voices was not heard in the morning and evening hymn to which he was accustomed in the parsonage. Why should he believe in the old doctrines when he had left the old paths?

Dear children of the covenant, return to the refuge you have left!—It has been, it will be, a dwelling-place in all generations! It is your inheritance! Yours are all the promises to the seed of the righteous! Cast not away your birthright! The faith of the aged widow in her solitude is a royal possession, and will be her joy, when the sun of these original thinkers and scoffers has gone down in endless night. -Philadelphia Presbyterian.

HE picture is graphically sketched. 'By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.' The imagery is perfect;—the rivers noiselessly pursuing their way to the sea; their banks fringed with trees whose roots love the running waters; the pious Hebrews reposing from servile toil in the shade of those trees, looking upon the quiet current, thinking of Zion far away, drooping in spirit, bathed in tears. We see these people in their humiliation and sorrow, and our sympathy is enlisted. Raising our eyes from the pensive mourners, we perceive their harps suspended on the willows that overhang them and dip their pendent branches in the waters. How impressive, how touching! A weeping people with their instruments of music hung upon the tree that is to all nations the emblem of grief and sadness! How plaintively the whole scene speaks to the heart of humanity! Seldom has the poetic painter grouped so many affecting circumstances, or given to his tableau so much of tenderness and pathos. We do not wonder that Dr Watts, after repeated attempts to versify this psalm, abandoned the hope, and left its place a blank.

These people whom we see, not melancholy, but afflicted in spirit, are among strangers, far away from their own country, to them

The loveliest land on the face of the earth,' the land of hills and valleys, and running brooks; the repository of patriarchal dust; the place where sleep the generations of their fathers, the home of their own childhood. From that country, rich to the Hebrew heart with mellowing associations, they have been removed by armed invaders, and now in a land of idols, they are bondmen to pagans. But pitiable as is their lot, it is not their condition that they deplore. Oblivious of self, there is something that they better love, and that appeals to deeper sensibilities. Jerusalem, the metropolis of their nation, the city of their hallowed solemnities, is a heap of unsightly ruins. The costly and beautiful house where their tribes have worshipped is a despoiled and broken structure.

The altar-fires are extinguished. The holy of holies, robbed of its sacred memorials, is trodden by unconsecrated feet. The High Priest, of Aaronic lineage, and clad in expressive vestments, no longer comes out from communion with the Glorious Presence to pronounce benedictions upon the people. No fumes from the censer now curl around the capitals of the lofty columns; no melody of the grand hallelujah now swells and dies away among the beautiful arches. In the court of the congregation the briar and the thistle flourish; where stood the mercy-seat, overshadowed by the cherubim, the coiled adder basks in the sunshine; along those extended corridors, which, for centuries, resounded with the praises of Jehovah, no sound is heard but the twitter of the swallow, or the croaking of the raven. These are the images before the minds of the downcast in the willow shade. As prisoners of war, as slaves of their conquerors, their personal privations and hardships are doubtless many and severe. But they are not mentioned. It is Zion they remember; Zion around which cluster and cling their warmest thoughts and tenderest sympathies; Zion as she was, compared with what she is. Distance and time have not weakened their attachment. Babylon they cannot love, Jerusalem they cannot forget. Zion is dear, even in her desolation. Till she is redeemed, restored, and rebeautified, they weep, and leave their harps unstrung, untouched.

Similar are the feelings of every true believer. To him the Zion of God is an object of profound interest, undying attachment. He takes pleasure in her stones, and favours the dust thereof. Nothing enters so deeply into his soul, or awakens such tender emotions, as whatever affects unfavourably her welfare. The grief of the sorrowing Hebrews over her depressed condition is the grief of the living Christian in view of her declensions; with this difference-the former could do nothing for her restoration-the latter can do more than weep and deplore. Let not the children of Zion now sit down in moody lamentings, but by prayer and effort endeavour to restore her dilapidations, and make her again the perfection of beauty, and the joy of the whole earth.'

-Watchman and Reflector.