night as much as possible. We do not get tired of the daylight; we are jealous of it, and would keep it long that the darkness might have no power over us.

And yet it is no good hoping that we shall have nothing but light. Even if we do not want to remember it, the days are growing shorter and shorter, and we have to go down into the winter.

And this is only a specimen of what our lives must often be. However we may dislike the short days and the darkness we must have both. We should like to see our way, but we cannot. Only a step is visible; all the rest is shrouded in gloom. If the objects which gradually loom before us are terrible, we cannot be frightened at them overmuch until we know what they are. If they are prizes we cannot be unduly elated, for even the gold does not glitter Sometimes indeed we may

"Stand upon the mount of God,
With sunlight in the soul."

But often we are deep down in the valleys or in the midst of the thick woods, where no light can penetrate, and where we have no idea as to which path to take, nor what is waiting for us in the way.

But ought we not to believe that, just because so much darkness is given to us by our Father, darkness must therefore be exceedingly good for us? Does any father give to his children an abundance of anything that is injurious to them? If they think at all, must they not feel sure that the parental love is strong enough to be trusted? And shall we doubt our Father though we should have wintry days and starless nights?

We get into the habit of supposing that darkness is indicative of our Father's displeasure. We fancy that He is frowning when we cannot see the brightness of His face. Does the careful gardener who covers up his plants so that they may not be injured by the cold put them into the dark because he is angry with them? Does it not rather show that they are precious to him, and therefore he wants to preserve them, and make them healthy and strong? And is not our Father wiser than any?

We are so apt to be frightened at the dark, silly children that we are. There is safety in the night, only we do not know it. Night is peaceful, calm, holy, restful. Why

should we fill it with all sorts of imaginary evils? Besides, it is in the night that our Father draws the nearest to us. He is never weary or oppressed with sleep. He watches His children when the shadows fall upon them. And, after all, can it be so very dark where He is? Is He not light itself? One would not so very much mind walking blindfold along a path when one's hand was closely held in that of a dearest friend who could see well and perfectly understood the way. And when we find how safely our Father leads us, selecting the best places, leading us over soft turf, carrying us where the rocks are sharp, warding off all dangers, should we not feel glad of the darkness that makes us in our helplessness so dear to Him, and Him in His strength so dear to us? We may be glad to be saved the trouble of choosing our own way, and content to sing constantly—

"Lead Thou me on."

A Change.

"WHAT you want is an entire change of place, change of scene, change of air, change of diet-a change, in fact, in every way." This is a prescription often given by medical men, and many things are more pleasant to take. Very young folks are fond of a change, and some old persons rather enjoy it, but the idea is not always delightful to steady, home-loving people. A change means a different house, the absence of our favourite easy-chair, an alteration in the time of receiving our letters, perhaps an uncomfortable bed, and many etceteras not nice to contemplate. And yet there is no doubt at all but that the draught, however bitter in anticipation, may be exceedingly sweet in the taking, and produce most salutary results. No doubt a change is to some people really a necessity at certain periods. The same dull routine, the same bare patch of waste ground, the same pattern of paper upon the same four walls, all monotonous things of

this kind seem to act upon some temperaments like incipient poison, which deranges the system and makes it altogether out of health. And then it is not drugs, or globules, or anything of the kind that can restore life and energy, but only a change.

But when you have made up your mind to it, and gone through all the dreary work of packing and arranging for the trains, have you ever noticed how dear the old life suddenly becomes? It is not easy to say Good-bye" even for a month, so much may happen in the meantime. And when you have reached your journey's end how desolate are the first few days in the strange place! You cannot help pining for home, and for a sight of the old familiar faces. You pass crowds of people, and many of them have bright eyes and wonderful complexions, and grand and mysterious hair; but none of them are half so beautiful to you as those far plainer ones which you love so well that you cannot think of them without tears. Now and then your heart gives a great leap; you think you have seen some one whom you know, who passed your own window only yesterday. But no; none but strangers are about you now. And then the evenings! It is not so bad when you are climbing up rocks, or walking along the edge of the shore; but when you go back to your lodgings, tired with the day's exertion, with nothing to do in the twilight, and no one to speak to, then is the time for the home-sickness to set in.

But all these feelings are but signs that the medicine is having its proper effect.

The keenness of the loneliness will pass off shortly, and you will be able to enter with greater zest into the pleasures which your holiday-place affords. And when it is over, and the flush of health is back into your cheek, and your step is elastic, and your spirits are high, then you will see what the change has done for you! The street which looked so dingy before you left will be bright and homelike, the fields and the hedges will look pleasant, the work of which you had grown weary will be taken up with the interest of love, and the friends of whom you were not tired, but towards whom you were sometimes petulant and impatient, will receive the penitent affection of true and tender hearts. And so the change will have

wrought its good in many ways, and though it may have been more expensive than bottles of physic, it will have been sweeter and more efficacious.

Sometimes for our spiritual health the great Physician prescribes the same remedy. Without knowing it perhaps we have been falling sick. We have not cared for the food which God's Word or His house supplies. We have grown weary in our work. We have cared very little for things which should have been our greatest joy. Still we saw no cause for alarm. But suddenly we have found ourselves in changed circumstances. We have been removed from our quiet occupations. Familiar objects have been removed. Trouble comes, and we suffer from loss and loneliness. We cannot understand why it should be, but when it is over we see by the vigour which returns to our spiritual life that we needed a change.

We wonder sometimes how we shall feel when the great change comes to us. Shall we at first feel desolate and home-sick there? Oh, no! for it will not be strange. Is it not being gradually filled by our beloved ones, and will not He whom we have so longed to see come to us there? It will indeed be home, for we shall be with Jesus. Let us, then, if we have any indication that that is the change awaiting us soon, get ready to start with hopeful anticipations for the great joy awaiting us. For this is what can be said of us when that has taken place, "Then were the disciples glad when they saw the Lord."

Mothers' Meetings.

ONCE upon a time a meeting of a very interesting character was held in one of our towns. The mayor, a Christian man, whose wife feels an interest in mothers meetings, invited all the members of those societies to tea. In response to this invitation about nineteen hundred mothers and their husbands met together (many of them, of course, bringing their babies with them), and

seemed greatly to enjoy the good things set before them, as well as the convenient opportunity thus afforded for a little friendly gossip with one another. After the tea these mothers, belonging to all denominations, were addressed by the different ministers of the town, who, whatever they were, clergymen of the Church of England, Congregationalists, Baptists, Wesleyans, or anything else, seemed glad of the occasion, and well pleased to say a few kindly and earnest words to so important a meeting.

It was a very pleasant holiday for a mass of hard-working people, and many a mayor might do a worse thing than have such a tea-party, but after all it was not that gathering, but what it represented, that was the important part of the business. It was not so much this large mothers' meeting as the small ones, which, being held every week, must, if they are at all well attended, do great good, to which the thoughts of all thinking persons turned. It seems, on such an evening, in spite of babies who persist in singing at wrong times, to be rather a pleasant thing to be a mother. But there is, as every woman knows, another side to the picture, and that other side reveals the fact that to be a mother is an awfully solemn thing too. It means a great deal more than merely nursing the pretty little things and taking them out to tea-parties. Poor women, who have little time for reflection, feel this great responsibility at times most profoundly. They know that they hold in their arms little creatures who, if God spares the fragile precious lives, will be a power in the world, and as they look in their faces many a mother wishes she were better fitted for her trust, and more able to teach them how to think, and feel, and act.

There is no doubt that this spirit of earnestness is fostered by mothers' meetings, and that helpful words are spoken to very eager ears upon the subject. It is a strange thing, but true, that many women who make no pretensions to Christianity themselves are yet in their secret hearts very wishful that their children should be spiritually richer. "I hope my girl will be a better woman than her mother" is the unspoken thought of many a loving heart regretting its own unworthiness. And these women do what they can to place their children under religious influences. They send them to Sunday-school, and ask "good