of His coming again-the looking for Jesus-is a blessed, a happy hope."

Ellen and her Ear-rings.

K.

N connection with many of the Cornish lead-mines,
numbers of girls are employed to break into
smaller pieces the ore as it is brought up from
the pits to the surface of the earth.
In a group

of this kind, one morning some years ago, there was a busy clatter of tongues, filling up the intervals between the strokes of their hammers on the anvil before them, the subject of their talk being a series of special religious services which had been held in an adjoining place of worship.

"And do you know Kezia Moon reckons she's got converted?" said one.

"And Ann Shaw, too," shouted another; "she pulled a face as long as my arm the other day when I met her,. and though I chaffed her well about it, all I could get out of her was, 'I wish you'd go and see for yourself, Bet.'”

"And are you going?" was the general inquiry.

"Not I," answered Bet, with a determined shake of her head. "You'll none of you catch me at anything like that. I'm bound to enjoy life a bit longer, and feasts are more in my way than psalm-singing; but I'll tell you what, girls," she continued; "let's get Ellen to go next Sunday and see everything, and we'll have a fine lark on Monday morning hearing her tell about it."

Ellen Owen was a girl with piercing black eyes, handsome features, and a fine figure, and her strength of character, combined with much kindheartedness, made her quite a leading spirit amongst her companions, whilst her ready wit was a constant contribution to their amusement. She entered heartily into Bet Williams's thoughtless proposal, and then the noisy talk drifted away to other topics, to be treated with the same levity by these careless young crea

tures, to whom life, with all its solemn responsibilities and claims, seemed but one vast playground.

On the following Sabbath the assembling congregation witnessed, with some surprise, the entrance of Ellen Owen, who took her place in the front pew of the gallery, considering it to be the best post of observation. She found, however, more difficulties in her way, as comic reporter, than she had anticipated; for as the service proceeded she was brought, by the power of the Holy Spirit, under an overwhelming conviction of sin, and from that moment she lost, as may be supposed, all disposition to criticise others. The evening service found her again in her unwonted place, and before the close of that Sabbath, Ellen, who at its commencement was, in all human probability, as unlikely a subject of saving grace as the Philippian gaoler himself, had been driven by a sense of her soul's danger to use his words of passionate inquiry, "What must I do to be saved ?"-had received the same sufficient answer, "Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved;" and, like him, had "rejoiced, believing in God."

Next morning she took her place at work with an unusual quietness of demeanour that was soon noticed by her companions, and aroused their wonder and curiosity. The sharpness of her tongue had inspired amongst them a little dread of taking liberties with her, so they did not venture on any direct questioning; but soon the whispers circulating amongst them gained in strength and clearness, until, at length, Bet Williams, in a voice distinctly audible through the group, muttered, "I say, girls, don't you think Ellen's got converted ?"

Ellen took no outward notice of the remark, but inwardly she was praying that she might have grace given to confess her Master if occasion required; and there was a moment's silence of tongues, broken only by the ringing clang of hammers, when, in the next lull, Kate Parkyn, who knew well that personal vanity and love of ornament had been one weak point of Ellen's character, said sneeringly," Con

verted! nay, not she, or she would have cast her earrings."

The words came to Ellen with a sudden shock, for she well knew the history connected with those ear-rings, and that whatever they might have been to another, they were to her a badge of worldly, personal vanity; but so occupied had she been with the new thoughts and feelings which filled her heart that, in dressing that morning, she had mechanically put her dearly-bought ornaments in their place. But when her inconsistency was pointed out to her, even in this ungracious way, she did not hesitate a moment, but quietly took the ear-rings from her ears, and without raising her head or looking towards Kate, she laid them on the anvil before her, and began vigorously to pound them into shapelessness, singing at the same time, with all the power of her sweet, rich voice, a hymn which had greatly impressed her as she heard it the evening before:

"Neither passion nor pride Thy cross can abide,

But melt in the fountain that streams from Thy side."

I am not able to tell you what was the effect of Ellen's conduct on her ungodly associates, for the striking story, as I heard it from the narrator, stopped here. But we can well imagine the result. If the Saviour's words are true, as we know they are, then the clear shining of the light of Christian character before men will constrain them to glorify the Father in heaven.

The incident certainly speaks loudly to you, reader, if, like Ellen, you have had your heart touched by Divine grace, and asks if you are letting the change in your heart show itself in a changed life?

"She Never Lifts her Eyes."

T was a pretty and spacious suburban garden, laid out in grass-plots and lawns, spangled with brilliant flower-beds: rustic seats were placed here and there under the pleasant shade of spreading trees. We had often looked longingly over it from the upper windows of our small house, and sighed at the

contrast presented by our narrow gravel yard. I used especially to feel the contrast when I thought of my little sickly sister Maude, although she was quite contented with her lot; happy in living continually as she did in the thought of her heavenly home, to which we all knew she would soon be removed from us. I did sometimes feel a grudging on her behalf towards that pleasant shady garden so near at hand. Of late our interest in it had been increased by the news that a wealthy family from the country had bought the place, and would soon take possession.

Oh, Ruth, do come and look," cried Maude, eagerly, from her look-out at our upper window; "the new people at the Ferns are come! There's a beautiful lady in the garden, and I'm afraid she's lost something."

And there, in fact, was a tall, fair, elegant-looking young girl, dressed in white, walking backwards and forwards over the lawn of the Ferns, her head bent down evidently in careful search of something lost. Now and then she would stoop quickly, and put her hand to the ground, as if suddenly she had caught sight of what she sought. But as quickly, with a gesture of disappointment, she seemed to throw away the object she had seized, and resume her search.

"Poor young lady," said my little sister. "I wish I could go and help her, Ruth; perhaps it's something very valuable."

I was thinking it must be so, when we heard a rather harsh voice saying, "So there you are, Miss Rose; please to come in off that damp grass at once;" and an elderly woman, who looked like a housekeeper, appeared on the scene. The young lady pointed to the ground, shaking her head, as much as to say, "I haven't found it yet," and seemed to resist the idea of going indoors. But the other took her by the hand, and with coaxing words and a little gentle force led her away.

We saw this more than once, till a conjecture flashed