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 our love will grow cold when it ought to be fervent. We 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.

He Daeth Well.

He doeth well, though oftentimes we seem to toil in vain, And though the blessing tarry that would make amends

for pain;

Where'er we rest, whate'er we do, oh, not in vain is given The blessing that can make us glad as the fruitful dew of heaven.

He doeth well who loveth us, although His hand may smite, And early draw around our heads the curtains of the night. Although His voice may sound severe, it yet is full of love, And what we understand not here we shall at home above.

He doeth well in gloomy days, when hope shall faint and fail,

His arm is strong, His love is great, His mercy must prevail,

And though the sorrow lasteth long, His comforts make us glad:

He gives the song to mourners, and the pleasure to the sad.

He doeth well; oh, nevermore should doubting words be said,

But let us only cling to Him in the dark hour of dread. And nought can come of pain or joy, of song, or hopeless knell,

But we may say in loving trust, He doeth all things well.

Erowded Lives.

ARE Some lives really very much fuller than others, or do they only appear so? Perhaps all lives, however placidly and leisurely they may seem to pass, are in reality full of incident and interest. Onlookers cannot see everything. And there is so much hidden life connected with every

person, that it is scarcely possible for us to judge correctly of each other. Nor is it at all necessary that we should judge at all. There is enough in one's own life to afford matter for conjecture and reflection.

And one thing which will probably strike all, is that we have very crowded lives. Whatever may be the case with other people, there is in our own life no lack of incident, no dearth of absorbing interests. Our lives are as full as they can hold. We are obliged to be constantly doing something to prevent ourselves from being overwhelmed by a torrent of duties. We think, and plan, and endeavour; we strive, and fight, and execute; we endure, and suffer, and grow weary. There is with few of us any need to wish-as the young so often do that something may happen to us; quite enough things happen to us every day. Occurrences follow each other so rapidly that we have scarcely breathing time between. We are surprised by sudden emergencies that call forth all our powers. We are startled by unexpected difficulties which we have to surmount. We are compelled to perform unanticipated tasks. Joy comes to us out of dark clouds, in swift, lightning-like flashes; and sorrow, even in summer-time, rolls above us in thunder-claps. If we would at all keep up with the times in which we live there are not only great but very constant demands upon our strength; and our lives are so crowded that space for leisure or ease is denied to at least many.

Perhaps we all feel content that our lives should be so full. As they are never very long it may be well to have as much in them as we can possibly put. And no doubt

many people crowd as much into a year as would have sufficed our slower-going forefathers for eighteen months. We have lost all taste for an insipid existence, and prefer our own way to theirs.

But who does not feel that after all-however much we may crowd them-our lives will not hold everything? Some things are pushed altogether out of them that are great losses, if we only knew it. We see a man who amazes us by his power; he can do almost everything ; his brain is constantly at work; he manages two or three businesses; he thinks not only for himself but for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of others. What a full life his is! Yes, but some things are crowded out. He has

strength, shrewdness, foresight, genius even, and, better than all, success. But he has not everything, as one can tell by looking at him. He has not happiness, nor serenity, nor peace of mind. There are some homes from which it is sad to find love altogether pushed out; the members of the family are so busy getting money, and dress, and position, that they have neither time nor space for tenderness. Something must be crowded out,—let it be love. In some other places it is refinement that has to be excluded; in others it is good temper; in many it is health. From how many hearts is religion crowded out! Pleasure; wealth, fame, love—they must all come in; but when it is Christ who stands at the door there is no room for Him in the inn! If sometimes He is invited to enter, how many other guests, treated far better than Himself, will He find there? How can He stay? What have ambition, and envy, and hatred, and pride to do with Him?

It is very plain that some of our lives are too crowded; something must be pushed out; what shall it be?

Let us make a wise selection. Let us not crowd out the Friend who could alone fill our souls with satisfaction and peace.

Waiting.

It is wonderful how many disagreeable things we have to do in this life. And one of them is to wait. We are very apt to be impatient, to be equal to working or even enduring, when we feel almost unequal to the calm and quiet of simple waiting. And yet how much of it we have to do! How many hours have to be passed, not in the strife, with the battle-cry nerving us to action, not in the race for the prize, not in doing great things, but in quiet sitting down with folded hands and patient hearts! For we cannot wait properly without these. If God sees that the discipline which is necessary for us is just this,