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The things of the world, its hopes, and ambitions, and struggles, sink down considerably lower, and your heart opens to other and surely better influences. It does not matter so much to you now that you have gained such an amount by the day's labour. It is not so bitter a thing that some one has gone beyond you. You look back a little wonderingly on all the fuss you have made, and care a great deal more about being good than being rich. For the noise of carriages, and footsteps, and machines, and rough voices is dying away, and you hear with a sort of tender observation how happily the children are playing in the distant street, and how sweetly the nightingales are singing their passionate, pensive songs. You do not care to think about large buildings, and fine houses, and rich dresses, for your eyes are caught and held by the opal colours in the western skies, and your thoughts wander even beyond them while some mystic words steal into your memory. "And I, John, saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven prepared as a bride adorned for her husband."

The time between the lights is, as everybody knows, a very tender time. You want your beloved ones near to you. You begin to feel sorry for all the quick, hard words you have spoken to them during the day. You had other things to think about then, but now you find yourself caring very much that nothing shall grieve them or lessen their love for you. Home grows dearer than it was in the morning. The fields around your house are more beautiful with the shadows upon them than they were when all the daisies had their eyes wide open. Your gardens, with their two or three trees, and common flowers, make you think of Eden. And your own room over which the dusk is stealing, grows quiet and restful until you fancy that a benison of peace is breathed over it. You can scarcely see the faces that are there, but you feel that they are beautiful because they belong to you. To-morrow, at eleven o'clock in the morning, all this will seem nothing but nonsense and waste of time; but between the lights, if you allow yourself to be still, you cannot help feeling tender.

Surely it must have been between the lights that the prodigal son came to himself and said, "I will arise and go

to my father." For that is the time when so many of us do come to ourselves. We see how worldly and foolish and forgetful we have been. We think of our Father's love and all He has done for us, and wish we were better children than we are. And somehow, as it gets darker we find our way to Him, and ask not for success, not strength to toil, not for riches or honour or greatness, but only for His forgiveness.

Are we better or worse, weaker or stronger, for the hour between the lights? Surely the time is not lost, though all it seems to do is to make us sing—

"Abide with me: fast falls the eventide."

For Somebody's Sake.

"For Hiram was ever a lover of David."

Ir is wonderful how much is done by all sorts of people for the sake of others. The temple had to be built; Solomon was ready and eager to begin, but he could not do it entirely alone. Hiram, King of Tyre, sent his servants unto Solomon. David knew that this Hiram possessed an abundance of timber, so he sent a message to him requesting that he would furnish some. "Hiram was ever a lover of David,” and when he heard the words of Solomon, he rejoiced greatly, and his love showed itself in the grateful words which he used: "Blessed be the Lord this day, which hath given unto David a wise son over this great people." But did his love spend itself in words only? Would he send the timber for the Lord's house?

So Hiram gave Solomon cedar trees and fir trees according to all his desire." He might have done the same in consideration of the "twenty thousand measures of wheat, and twenty measures of pure oil," but he certainly never would have sent to Solomon at all, only "Hiram was ever a lover of David."

Love is a wonderful thing, and hard to be appeased. It never can do enough. Even when it has loaded its

beloved with all the wealth it possesses, it is not satisfied -it must go on showering its blessings from father to son. There are plenty of Hirams in the world to-day, and there are plenty of Solomons all the better off for it. Many a young scapegrace is regarded with favour, watched over, assisted and cared for, not by any means because he deserves, or has any right to expect it, but just because of the name he bears, or a feature in his face, or the tone of a voice, which is like a friend who is gone. He is loved for somebody else's sake. "I was his father's friend." That is enough. Take care of him, pray for him, teach him, take all his anxieties and even his sins to yourself, love him as much as you can for his father's sake.

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Why do we so readily undertake a responsibility for the sake of a departed friend? Perhaps because he is departed. Blessings brighten as they take their flight." Our friends are dearer than ever when they have passed away. Already they have exchanged their earth-soiled. robes, and are dressed as angels in our minds; all that was little and mean and sinful has passed away, only the good remains; the dross has fallen off, we see only the purest and finest gold. But we love our friends too late. Who has stood beside the open grave, and heard the solemn words "Ashes to ashes," without a regret that has more bitterness than anything else could bring, born of the conviction that some time or other he has failed toward his friend? He has been less pitiful, less true, less friendly than he might have been. And so it seems almost like an atonement to make up to the children what has been kept from the fathers. The heart can almost satisfy itself now. There is some one left for whom our friend cared; we will give that one all the tenderness which he would have lavished upon him. Perhaps who knows?—even our friend in heaven will understand why we do it, and that it is all for somebody's sake.

Those who love Jesus have plenty to do for His sake. Even to give a cup of cold water to a repugnant, unappreciating person is not in itself a pleasant thing. But then we do it for Jesus' sake. There are many so besotted in ignorance and vice, that we cannot love them. But the All-merciful would have touched them, laid His hands upon them, and healed them.

Only tender, pitiful words

would have fallen from His lips. No scorn, no contempt would have crushed these miserable sinners if He instead of us had to speak. Well, then, for His sake we can surely do as He would have us!

Ought we not? We are ourselves constant petitioners of the mercy which we are asked to extend to others. We are bowed down with guilt; we have offended our Father; how shall we dare to look in His face? Yet we may do so "for Jesus' sake." Happy are we; for though there is nothing in ourselves, we shall be loved and pitied, blessed and accepted for somebody else's sake.

Fear Not.

As we look down into the dark vista of coming months we can scarcely do so without fear. For is it not with us as it once was? Once, indeed, we had happy dreams and fair picturings, and no limit to our anticipations. Always we stood on the threshold of a palace of delights, while the rosy hues of the warmth and brightness within fell upon our faces, and made us glad with a wild joy of expectation. But we have grown wiser and sadder since. We are not so easily deceived now as formerly, and our expectations are far more moderate now than then. And, indeed, instead of being lifted up with too much hope, we are likely to be depressed by too much fear.

We look forward with a feeling of dread and misgiving. We shall have dark corners to pass, round which may be hidden all sorts of terrible things. We shall have rivers or seas to wade through, and the waters may be very cold and deep. We shall have hills to climb, and our feet are already footsore. We have to go forth to the battle, and the enemies are all armed Goliaths, while we have nothing but pebbles to fight with. Is it any wonder that we are afraid?

But why do we fear? Have we any misgivings about our Guide? Do we imagine that He will mislead us, or that He will be absent or forgetful in the time of our

adversity? Do we think He will ever fail us? Are we afraid that those who trust in Him shall ever be confounded? We cannot be. Our fears have all reference to ourselves, and never to Him. He is strong, and steadfast, and true. He is faithful and unwavering in His tenderness. No change can come over Him. We cannot, dare not, doubt Him. We may doubt our friendsour dearest and our nearest-ourselves, every one, but we cannot doubt our Lord. And this thought, this strong assurance, may well cheer and comfort us. There is one abiding Friend-One who is so constant that we shall never raise appealing eyes to Him without meeting His ever-responsive love.

And if so-if "He who is our life" is so strong and faithful, and tender, is there any real reason that we should fear for ourselves? That is what we do at present. We fear that we shall turn out of the strait and narrow way, and find ourselves in "By-path Meadow." We fear that we shall fail in our duty, and grow languid and indolent when we ought to be diligent and earnest. We fear that

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our love will grow cold when it ought to be fervent. fear that we shall fail to do the perfect will of God. And so, indeed, we shall if we trust even in the least degree to ourselves. If we think we can walk well, if we imagine that by great effort on our own part we shall please God more, and live grander lives, we are indeed mistaken. "Without Me ye can do nothing." How often must these words ring in our ears before we believe them? "All things are possible," but only when we are "looking unto Jesus." "I can do all things through Christ, who strengtheneth me." Certainly not otherwise. But those who are in Christ Jesus walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.

Dear friends, let us give up trying, and take to trusting. Let us be content to fail of ourselves, that no honour may come to us, but all go to the Master. Let us offer ourselves really and truly to Him, being willing to be taught only as He will teach us. Let us strive to be empty, that we may be filled with Him. We shall be happier and more peaceful, and altogether free from fear, even of ourselves, if we are content to lose ourselves in Jesus Christ our Saviour.

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