more of Him-of His very self. They cry truly, "My scul thirsteth for God."

What is it they want? Is it heaven, glory? Are they dazzled with visions of crowns? and does their spirit long for the tuneful melody of harps? Are they merely earth-sick-vanity-sick? Have they a void which they experience, but do not know what it is? None of these. The have come to know God, and they want to know Him more. Yes, to know Him more, and then they want to come up to their knowledge in tir experience, and that their spirit should be more one with the Spirit of God. They want to hear God speaking to them more; they want to be more sensitive to hear His whisperings, to catch His looks, so that they may be guided by His eye. They want to be able not only to think of Him, but also to think with Him; they want to know more of His Fatherhood, and more of their childhood. God is a person, and they want to hold communion with a personal God-not with His attributes, however glorious, but with Himself; not with the goodness of God, but with the good God; not with the wisdom of God, but with the wise God; not with the love of God, but with the loving God. The attributes may be cold abstractions, and the soul is too warm, too living, too personal to be fed on them. But the attributes vivified in the living God! these are something different, and to commune with this God is what the soul wants.

Need we say how it can do so? It is in the One Who is the image of God-in the One Who said of Himself, "He that hath seen Me, hath seen the Father also."

It is very hard, in the rush and turmoil of life, in even the wayward agitations of our own minds, though nothing from without be troubling us, to get that hush of spirit in which these longings are most likely to be fulfilled. Heaven, if we might so speak, finds it hard to reflect itself in an agitated mind or fretful spirit, just as the sun finds it hard to reflect itself in broken water. And so, we come to long for peaceful circumstances, which will, perhaps, never be ours; or, it may be, for an equability of spirit, which from our physical constitution we can never have, that in their calm way we may, like Samuel of old, hear our name and the voice of the Lord, and say, "Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth;" and thus another longing is set up. But let us

be thankful that God is so much better to us than we are to ourselves. How often has Jesus said to us, "It is I, be not afraid," speaking to us in the storm itself, before there is a great calm. Tossed about, as we often are, we find it hard to stand upon our watch, and set us upon the tower, and watch and see what He will say unto us (Hab. ii. 1); still, for those who long for nearer communion, that nearer communion comes. cry with the Psalmist, "Oh that I had the wings

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of a dove, for then would I flee away and be at rest;" but the wings are not vouchsafed. But God comes to us, not where we would be, but where we are, and gives us communion with Himself.

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Then there are longings for restoration; but these would take a volume to themselves. would only say now that these have a distinct existence in every spiritual history. David's cry, "Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation (Ps. li.), with all its passionate, its almost bitter longings, is known to most.

But there is one more longing which we may note; it is that for higher attainment in the spiritual life. "My soul breaketh-or is broken small-with desire for the longing that it hath unto Thy judgments at all times;" not for the mere abstract knowledge of the high ways of God, but for attainment in them too. Which of us is there that is not from time to time more or less depressed at a consciousness of our low estate, our poor attainment in holiness? Perhaps the subject has been pressed upon our minds by some shortcoming, or fall; perhaps it has come by some new thought which we have had of God. It may be that there was some special motion of the Holy Spirit upon our hearts; or, perhaps, our very nature set on the right track, and going forward by the impulses of its bare vitality, wants to climb to heights which it sees, but to which it has not yet attained. long to grow more like Christ, we long to conquer ourselves yet more and more, we long to be more spiritual in our minds, and aims, and habits of thought. Where we are, is not to us a point of rest, but a starting-point; we have attained thus far, only to desire to attain still farther, and to make an effort so to do.

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There are the longings of the head for knowledge, and the heart for feeling, and the whole moral being for conformity and obedience; there is the forgetting the things which are behind, and pressing forward to those which are before. And amongst the things which are behind are many past attainments and victories; they seemed great to us at the time, they seem small to us now. We forget them only in a sense, for we remember with gratitude how such victories were gained, how we were helped to them; we see how they became starting-points. For the moment they satisfied the soul, for they had come up to the soul's point of life at that time; but the soul went on-by the law of its being it could not tarry and immediately there was presented to it a fresh attainment, and for that attainment it longed.

These are some of the longings of the soulits pantings, thirstings, breakings, faintings. The believer has experience of them all; and though they are accompanied oftentimes with much which is trying to flesh and blood, still they are outputs and evidences of spiritual life, essential accompaniments of the condition in which we now are.

CHAPTER I.-MARK'S PLAN.

JOU have promised then,
Rose?" said Mark,

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"O yes!" returned pretty Rose, with a careless easy air-pouting a little, however, as she next added, And you are not satisfied, I know! though I think a great deal of what I have said, I assure you, Mark! While, as for papawhat he will say I cannot imagine!"

Mark's frown had quickly disappeared.

"I will see him," he rejoined. "No blame shall rest upon you, dear."

"Do you think you will really be able to do it, Mark?" And Rose drew just a little nearer. They were standing by the window of a rather showy drawing-room, in the September dusk.

He gave her one quick eager glance of intense affection.

"Why not?" he said, with flashing dark eyes, and head proudly thrown back. "Other men have done as much!-why should not I?-when Rose has promised herself to me, as the reward of my

success?

Yes, but only on condition that he succeeded within a year from that time. He thought of the whole matter just a trifle more seriously, as he stood before Rose's father half an hour later.

"A fortune in a year! Make your fortune in a year, my dear Mark! And at painting pictures!"

And Mr. Mayley, who was a rich London tradesman, laughed in indulgent good nature, in which there was, however, a touch of disdain.

"Well, of course, as you say, you may do so! And if you should-I do not say that I might not allow Rose to consider your proposal. But as it

is"

And here came a pause; but Mark knew very well how to conclude the sentence for himself.

"However," continued the successful tradesman, the next moment, "she may keep her promise, if she likes to do so. I see no harm in that. But there must be no engagement," a little sharply.

No; no engagement; and Rose had but agreed to remain true to an old childish promise to Mark for one more year. He was only to call occasionally, moreover, and no correspondence was to be allowed; and this was all.

But Mark appeared quite content, for his hopes were high to-night; and as, at length, he quickly made his way home, they rose higher at every step.

FORTUNE.

Mark Barrett was the son of an early friend of Mrs. Mayley's. But Rose's mother, in these days, had long been dead; and her father's heart was now divided between love for her, his only child, and money-making.

It was a lovely evening, Mark thought, as his eyes swept the sky, now lighted with its myriad stars, and its clear moon riding high.

"When next an autumn moon shines down upon me, my task must be completed," he said to himself. Not a single misgiving struck him. Lightly he strode along, rustling the dead leaves at every step, and soon he reached his home.

It was a small house, but neat and well kept, and situated in a quiet respectable street.

Mark entered.

His mother, a widow, sat by the table of the sittingroom, sewing. She had prepared supper for her son with her own hands, for they were at this time too poor to keep a servant. Everything was quite ready ; and, as his mother rose to put aside her work, Mark sat down, and began to tell her his plan.

And gaily he talked on, all through the meal, his dancing eyes fixed sometimes upon his plate, and sometimes upon the worn curtains of the window opposite. And he did not notice-he would not notice how grave his mother's face was becoming.

And while he still looked into the fire, and talked, his mother, by and by, cleared away supper. And when she presently came and sat down again, and continued her sewing, her eyes were lifted more than once to a small picture which hung over the mantleshelf, and which represented a little girl, with large brown eyes (very like Mark's), and short fair curls, kneeling by her bed, and saying her evening prayer. Underneath were the words

Our Father, which art in heaven.

The picture was, in fact, an early attempt of Mark's own. But the little sister whose portrait it was supposed to be, had long since died; and Mark was now his mother's all.

"Confess now, mother," and he laid his hand on hers to stop her work for a moment, "that you would enjoy being rich as much as anybody!"

But here he lowered his voice, while a tender smile overspread his almost boyishly handsome face. "Let me hear you say, mother, that I should make you happy if I gave you Rose for your daughter!"

"You could not make me happier than you have done, Mark dear," was his mother's evasive reply. "You have always been a good son; and as for riches, it is dangerous to think so much of them; trouble is sure to come of it. We must look first to our Father who is in heaven, and have no Gods but Him, and then all will be well."

"You are always good and contented, dear

eyes to his own portrait of his little dead sister. He saw the little folded hands and raised innocent childish eyes as in a dream, and a voice in his heart seemed whispering the words

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Our Father, which art in heaven."

But now he rose, and made his way up-stairs into the attic which he used as a painting-room, and stood before his rejected picture. What labour ! what hours and hours of weary labour he had bestowed upon it! and all, as it seemed, in vain!

He gazed at it with searching eagerness for a few minutes; then suddenly exclaimed, in a tone of impatient contempt, while an expression as of renewed disappointment crossed his pale hopeless face—

"Pshaw! Every stroke-every touch shows that it was painted for money, and not for love! How could it be anything but a failure !''

He turned impatiently, and was about to leave the room, when he heard his mother's voice and step below. He paused. To whom could she be talking? She had gone out an hour before to take home some plain sewing, which she had been glad to do lately; for Mark had entirely given up painting the small pictures by which he had before easily earned the necessaries of life, and often something over; and more than once during these past months they had wanted even bread. But Mark had been buoyed up by the hope of what his picture would do for them, and had heeded nothing.

His mother's pale patient face looked in at the door now, and she was holding out a note to him, which, with a sudden and undefinable dread, he saw was from Rose, of whom he had seen very little indeed of late. "Is anybody waiting?" he asked in quick unsteady tones, turning away from his mother, and tearing open the note.

"No, dear; at least, not about the letter. But you heard me talking, I daresay. A young lady wishes

But Mark neither heard nor heeded; and his mother stole away, putting up a prayer for him in her heart as she went.

in heaven. .. I forgot I had a Father in heaven; He was not in all my thoughts; and so I failed.” His mother, who had nursed him day and night with untiring tenderness, brought the portrait of her other child, who was safe in the great Ark of Refuge, preserved from earthly trials, and sins, and sorrows for ever, and hung it against the wall, at the foot of Mark's bed, and he lay and looked at it.

He was better to-day. He had been ill for weeks; but the terrible weight of weakness and despair that had oppressed him seemed lifting at last.

The lovely summer days were waning, and autumn was near once more; and every dead leaf that fell would surely remind him of his failure!

"Yes," he thought, peacefully enough. "But the reminder will have lost its sting. Thank God I begin to see already that my failure has done for me what no success could have done."

Each hour now he seemed to gain strength; and by-and-by he said softly to himself-his gaze still resting on the picture before him :

Spared to begin life anew, I will give my Maker the first place in my heart henceforth; and the talent He has entrusted to me I will endeavour in His strength to use for His glory. And as for success, and a fortune, I will think no more of them." And then he paused, for he heard a sweet voice in the room below singing softly :

"Let others boast of heaps of gold,
Christ for me; Christ for me.
His riches never can be told,

Christ for me: Christ for me.
Your gold will waste and wear away,
Your honours perish in a day.

My portion never can decay;,

Christ for me: Christ for me."

The sweet tones caused him no surprise; it was not the first time he had heard them during his illness. But as he listened to-day he slept.

"She has been such a comfort to me, Mark." But Mark only smiled happily.

"What I should have done without her while you were ill I do not know; and now she talks of leaving."

Mark started.

More months had gone by, and he and his mother were standing before his latest picture, that was all but completed.

It was only a small one. Mark had had no time to spare from the sketches, etc., which earned daily bread, to give to a larger painting. And besides, he said to himself

"I'll do the little things that I know how to do, and not be so ambitious. There is nothing like doing what you can do, and putting your best work into it, into the bargain."

His picture represented Mary sitting at the feet of the Saviour. Beneath was written the verse

Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.

Mrs. Barrett-no longer pale-faced and sorrowfullooking-was thinking, with all a mother's loving pride, of her boy, as she gazed admiringly at the beautifully-finished little painting. But Mark was thinking of Mary Chalfont, their lodger, a young daily governess, with scarcely a friend in the wide world, whose pictured face, with its sweet rapt expression of half joy, half sadness, looked up from the canvas. "Where does she think of going, mother?"

But, before his mother could answer, Mary Chalfont's step was heard on the stairs. As she entered the attic, Mark gave her a quick look.

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You are not really thinking of leaving us?" And Mrs. Barrett quietly crept away.

Mark's picture proved a great success.

And more and greater successes followed. And Mary Chalfont became his wife. All he did seemed to prosper. Not a picture but added to his wealth.

But now he did not care for wealth.

Rose Mayley had married long before-a rich man, whom she did not love. And she spent her life, as she had ever done, in diligently seeking for pleasure all day long-but seldom finding it.

"Whereas if she would give up the search," mused Mark, as he stood one morning in a shop in Regent Street, and watched her drive, past, with a world-weary smile on her still fair young face, "and if she would be content to take up the duties of life for love, without looking for reward, pleasure would probably come to her of its own accord, as one may say-even as riches seemed to come to me. It is generally so. It never does to hunt our wishes too eagerly; though, without doubt, it is our intense, almost idolatrous longing for things that works us mischief-not the things themselves; and when the longing is conquered, it may often, at the same time, be harmlessly fulfilled."

LIKE the story that is told of two ministers who had been riding to the same place on a religious engagement. One said, "I had a very wonderful escape on the way; my horse stumbled heavily on a narrow bridge, and nearly plunged me into the torrent below." His friend replied, "I also was mercifully preserved, for my horse crossed that same bridge without stumblingat all." No doubt we are far too prone to think of our visibly narrow escapes only as special providences, not sufficiently appreciating that we are constantly surrounded by unseen dangers, from which only an Almighty Friend could shield us. How many of us can remember little things, our lives through, calling for a song of thanksgiving as on the banks of deliverance, without any very special case of what might seem almost a miraculous escape, whilst others have met with very striking deliverances, doubtless for their own instruction, and it may be for those who do not sufficiently "regard the operation of His hands."

I am not yet what is usually considered old, even by my young friends, but old enough to cast a backward glance over a considerable vista of time, and to recall circumstances which, although they happened many years ago, are well re

membered in every detail, and I select two of the most striking of my many providential escapes, thinking they may interest, and I would hope, prove instructive to some of those who may read this short paper.

When young I was in the habit of riding a great deal on horseback, and, I have no doubt, in my youthful ardour did many things that it would have been far better for me to have left undone. One of my great pleasures was to ride with a colt-breaker, giving him my horse whilst I took his raw colt, only just saddled, but I do not recollect that I ever got into any serious mischief in this way. The narrowest escape I ever met with in riding happened as follows. My own horse was from some cause laid up, and I hired a pony from a farmer of my acquaintance to use in the meantime. One day my business took me to a place where there were many mines, with the usual accompaniment of high piles of rubbish on the rough heathy common in all directions. road was level, and parallel with a railway used for carrying mineral from these mines to the ports at which it was shipped, the railway running in a cutting of considerable depth below the road, with no fence of any kind between them. On seeing an approaching train my pony took fright, became quite unmanageable, and bolted at full speed in front of the slow heavy train, and although I could by no means pull my pony up, I hoped to be able to divert him from the road on which I was, because the train continued to come on behind me.

My

After a long run at full speed I saw before me a road leading away from the railway between two