Chapter to be read-St. Luke x. 25-37. INTRODUCTION. Remind how Christ came to teach as well as save, not always preaching to crowds, often talked with individuals; often gave instruction by question and answer.

I. THE QUESTION ASKED. (Read 25-29.) Who asked the question? What was the question? Could not be a more important one. On right answer depends our welfare in this life and the next. Did Christ tell him? Made him answer himself out of the law, which he ought to know well. Perhaps pointed to the text on the hem of his garment. (Matt. xxiii. 5.) Must love God first and best; and love neighbour as oneself. (See Deut. vi. 5.) But how is love shown? Not merely by feelings, but by actions. Must show such love in life. Christ wanted to make lawyer see how must show love to all who need help; that all are brethren, all are neighbours. So told him this story.

II. THE QUESTION ANSWERED. (Read 30-37.) Teacher to question on the story. Show places on map, literal descent from hill-country of Judæa to Jericho on plain of Jordan. (See Luke i. 39, and Judg. i. 16.) The road wild and mountainous, infested with robbers. Who saw the wounded man first? What did the law teach him to do? (Exod. xxiii. 5.) Much more should help a brother-man! Who followed next? Neither wanted to help, so pretended not to see. Who came then? A stranger and enemy. (John iv. 9.) But saw one in want, felt had therefore claim upon him, felt pity, showed love, selfdenial, help, all the Christian virtues. Did all in his power for this stranger and foreigner, helpless and wounded man, who could give no thanks, make no return. Which was the neighbour? Could be but one answer. So the lawyer told to copy example.

Do we want such a lesson? All much disposed to say, "No concern of mine," when hear of want and suffering. Or perhaps willing to help friends, but not others. What then does parable teach us?

(1) All men are our neighbours. Those at home, those far off. Many sick, sad, needy, at all our doors. Heathen abroad who know not God.

(2) Must do what we can. Can always do something. "Little deeds of kindness, little acts of love," in power of all. Reward promised to anything done out of love to Christ, Who, like the Good

Samaritan, came to minister to His enemies. (Matt. xx. 28.)

LESSON. Go thou and do likewise.

No. 3. THE RICH MAN AND LAZARUS.

Chapter to be read-St. Luke xvi. 19-31. INTRODUCTION. This parable shows danger of living for self-thinking only of this life, forgetting God.

I. THE TWO IN LIFE. (Read 19—21.) (1) The rich man. How is he described? Well fed, well dressed. No harm in these things in themselves. Abraham was rich, to whom Lazarus went. What, then, was wrong? What opportunity had the rich man of doing good? Just before his eyes every day lay the beggar; he did not recognise his duty; did not see in the poor man one of God's poor; but used his riches only for himself. By Whom are riches given? So this rich man would soon be called to account. Whom else did he forget besides the poor man? To forget God far worse-for this also would have to give account. (2) The beggar. Daily carried to gate of rich man's house, laid there to enlist his sympathy, hoping if only for crumbs from his table; his wounds unwashed, licked by the dogs. What possible comfort had he in this life? But had evidently put his trust in God; cried to Him. (Ps. xxxiv. 6.) Though poor, was rich in faith (James ii. 5), and therefore an heir of glory.

II. THE TWO IN DEATH. (1) The rich man at last fell ill. What an awful scene! A deathbed without God; can carry nothing of this world away; has no hope in the future. Picture the grand room-rich curtains, nurses watching; cannot keep out death, who comes to all. Then the grand funeral follows-all possible pomp to show a rich man is dead. What a mockery all seems ! (2) The beggar. Perhaps died in street; have read of such in London; want of food-of proper clothingnecessaries of life. But who is with him in death? Angels attending near to deliver him (Ps. xxxiv. 7) ; carry his soul to Paradise.

III. THE TWO IN ETERNITY. (1) The rich man. (Read 23-31.) What is his condition of body? Fearful suffering. Whom does he see afar off? What does he want? Can it be done? What is it separates between man and God? Yes, sin unforgiven makes eternal barrier. What kind of God is God? A holy God cannot look on sin; therefore no sin can enter heaven (Rev. xxi. 27); man shuts himself out. What else does the rich man suffer? What agony of mind! Cannot forget. Where does he want Lazarus to be sent? Who are to be warned? But what warning have they already got? Do they hear them? If will not hear God's word will not hear God's messenger. (2) The beggar. In rest and happiness; earth's pains over, heaven's glory begun; trusted in God on earth, not disappointed now.

LESSON. Life the time to serve God.

UT of a background sombre,

Framed with its golden glow,

A mild sweet face for ever

Follows me as I go;
Whether I bow in worship,
Or show my bad self-will,
The haunting eyes up yonder
Are fixed upon me still.

Those eyes are full of meaning,
Those lips prepare to part,
So life-like is the picture,

So rare the painter's art ;
Methinks I read it written
Upon that earnest face,
"Never the name dishonour
I lifted into grace!"

My meditative spirit

From that brave look distils New strength for life's hard battle, A cure for all its ills.

It minds me how, with patience,
And well-directed strength,
A man may clear the thicket,

And reach his mark at length.

And, sometimes, on the features
An angel semblance lies,
And a soul, at rest for ever,

Looks from the loving eyes.
Then thoughts are wafted, dreamlike,
As from a far-off shore,
"The King is in His beauty,

Here good men weep no more! "Endure His wise correction,

Of earth's vain shows beware,
Live, Son, for One so worthy,

A life of work and prayer;
So, gleaning faith and courage,
Thy final task await,
And I'll be there to greet thee
Beside the golden gate!"

HAVE been at a good many school treats, both winter and summer, but I have never seen such sights as it was my privilege to look upon on a certain Monday and Tuesday of January last in a Mission-room situated in a crowded part of London.

The first day, Monday, was devoted to the adults, i.e., to children of ages varying from seven upwards-300 in all; and when I arrived on the scene, these 300 were seated in rows facing a small raised platform, from which rose a stately and well-filled Christmas tree, surrounded on all sides by chairs filled with toys, books, and other goods such as delight human creatures between infancy and man and womanhood. As I entered the room with some friends, the 300 were

vigorously cheering and clapping their hands as one after another of the teachers appeared on the platform putting the finishing touches to the preparations for the evening's entertainment.

"You ought to have seen the tea," said first one and then another teacher, as our group was passed; "it was grand, and they did enjoy it." "Where in the world did they have it?" I asked. "There is certainly no room for tables here!" "Weown notables," was the laughing reply. "Come in time to-morrow, and you will see how we manage." But now the superintendent, standing on the platform, raised his arms and cried, Silence, silence," and as the confusion of voices gradually ceased, he added, "and you shall have a song sung to you. What would you like?" A unanimous shout of "John Brown was responded to at once by a clergyman, who, I was told, was the vicar of the parish, coming forward, and beginning that wonderfully popular picture of a contented man, the 300 shouting out "John Brown" at the end of each verse with an enthusiasm which would have made that worthy hero turn in his grave in the day when the departed were supposed to be affected by the verdict of posterity.

"John Brown" dismissed with cheers, and

many an "Encore," the vicar inquired what the audience would like next, and again the reply was unanimous, "Grandfather's Clock." In this too, the audience took eager part, singing the chorus with such gusto that before the last touching verse, telling of the faithful clock's inaction after his master's death, the reverend leader of the three hundred had to beg that each one would only whisper the closing words. The result was a marvellously troubled ripple of sound sinking into silence here, and swelling into a hoarse roar there. The prize-giving then began, the vicar's wife presenting the books, the superintendent of the school calling out the names.

This occupied a long time, but the winners of the prizes and certificates were at last received back into the ranks of their comrades, and I was beginning to wonder how, in a crowd so dense, the toys could ever get to the right owners, when the superintendent came forward, took up the foremost chair, and held it forward, calling out the name of a teacher. For

a moment I thought there would be a general scramble, so wild was the stamping, shouting, and clapping of hands at this signal of the near approach of the coveted treasures. But no, as the tumult rose, the superintendent lifted one hand again, and in ringing voice cried, "Silence," adding, when the noise grew less deafening, "If you are not quiet, these chairs-they all have legs -will walk out of the room, and no one will get any toys at all."

In the lull which followed, one teacher after another came forward and received a chair, which he or she carried to the right class. Then to every child was handed some really good and useful presents, such as I fancy will be treasured up in many a distant scene of service, in memory of the time made golden by the loving sympathy met with in the crowded little mission-room. I now turned my back on the platform to watch the gift dispensing, and I can only say that the scene was not only good fun, but most touching, the children pressing their treasures against their cheeks, and stretching out loving hands in the hope of just touching their teachers, to show their gratitude. It must have been quite an hour before it was possible to get anything like silence again, and it delighted me to see with what patience the weary-looking superintendent, who had organised the whole treat so efficiently, bore with the really almost deafening noise. At last, "God save the Queen" was sung standing by all present, and the proceedings closed.

Interesting as was this "grown-up treat," as the teachers called it, it was nothing to that of the succeeding afternoon. As suggested, I took care to be in time to see the tea, and when I arrived I found 176 little people, all under seven years old, seated at tables enjoying the plentiful buns and bread and butter provided. As I walked

with a friend down the long lines, speaking first to one and then to another tiny person, the whole collection of babies began to shout and bang upon the table, in a truly appalling manner, considering that the mugs, though empty, were still upon it. Meanwhile, the superintendent, with a stick which he placed across the table between every pair of children, was taking the numbers as calmly as if there were no noise at all, and it pleased me to see how thoroughly at home with him all these mites were, looking up into his face as he passed with eyes and mouth wide open.

When the numbers had been taken, the ubiquitous superintendent ordered silence, and a great stillness fell at once. "May I ask,” he inquired, "what you have been making all that noise for?" "For fun," was the answer which ran up and down the lines, with surprising unanimity. "Well, it was fun," was the reply: "but now all stand up and put your hands together." This order was almost immediately obeyed, and grace was said. "Now sit down and keep still whilst the tables are taken away." Now for the solution of the table mystery, I thought, wondering how they could be removed whilst the children sat at them. The little folks were wiser than I, and, as the teachers approached to begin taking up the tables, they all leaned as far back as their little bodies would go. The tables, in fact, turned out to be only boards on trestles, so that no unnecessary space was taken up by them, and no legs were bruised or scraped.

The tables gone, the children were ordered "to get out of the way," which, considering the crowd, was not very easy, and the next quarter of an hour must have been an exhausting one for superintendent and teachers. Somehow or another, the chattering, stamping, restless mass of babies were seated in rows, and with a teacher dotted here and there, they gazed up at the platform on which the vicar now appeared to give away the prizes. I noticed that nothing had as yet been taken off the tree, and that chairs were again ranged round it, draped this time in cloaks, I suppose because the sight of the toys with which they were again covered might have provoked an onslaught. Some thirty tiny children received prizes, and it was very pretty and touching to see them come up one by one to stand literally at the feet of the vicar, their heads being as a rule only just on a level with the platform on which he stood.

The prize-giving over, the superintendent asked a gentleman standing by if the children would sing one or two hymns now, for he said, "I am sure they won't when they have got their presents. To this request I was indebted for my first acquaintance with that charming volume, "Narrative Hymns for Children," by Mrs. Alexander. The gentleman appealed to, who seemed to have something of the superintendent's own subtle

power of ruling numbers, cried, "Stand," and then, as the babies all stood facing him, "Attention." It was at once paid, and in a ringing voice he repeated the words of the first verse of "In the rich man's garden ground," which was capitally sung without any accompaniment, every morsel of humanity present joining in.

When this charming little interlude was over, the cloaks were removed from the chairs, and the noise quickly grew too great for further parley. The scene baffles description: it was one sea of

begin with, was an Herculean task. In vain the superintendent shouted "Silence" from the platform. He had no audience; the babies' ears were open only to the cries of their dolls, and the trumpets of their comrades. At last, with sublime patience, the leader got each little one to sit down and look at him, he standing the while on a chair in the centre. The eyes once fixed on the well-loved face, the rest was easy. "Stand," was the next cry, and the children stood. Then the vicar read out the first verse of

wild delight, and when all the presents were given, and trumpets were blowing, drums beating, whips cracking, and swords flashing on every side, it reminded me of an old account of the children's crusade. By this time the back part of the room was crowded with the mothers, elder sisters, and brothers, come to fetch the babies home. It was good to watch the careworn faces of the elders breaking into smiles at every fresh shout of joy from some loved little one; but of all the scenes I witnessed on these two happy evenings, the singing of "Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow," and of the "National Anthem," when all the giving and receiving was over, was the one I shall never forget.

To make the children sit down and be quiet, to

"Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow," and nearly all the children sang it, though some could not even now take their trumpets from their mouths, and I expected a blast every moment from a rosy-cheeked boy behind me.

I came home when the retreat was at last completed, feeling that I had learnt more than one lesson on these two delightful evenings, the chief being, how well it would be if we all realised that if we want the poor to believe that none will be cast out who come to our Saviour, we should beware how we cast out any who come to us. I think some intruding boys who were kindly received will be none the worse for the welcome they got, and that their faces will be amongst those I shall recognise, if I have the privilege of being at the next "treat."