look into ours, and which we expect to appear so cold and strange that we shall shrink from it with awe and trembling, shall prove to be the well-known and familiar face of a friend? Death an enemy? It may be a father, a mother, a sister; it may even be the Saviour Himself. And it is very certain that heaven will contain many surprises for us. It will be probably altogether different in locality, in appearance, in the occupation of its inhabitants from what we have dreamed. And especially may we not hope that we shall be gladdened by the sight of some whom we scarcely dared hope to see?

"They died and made no sign." But who knows what passed between the fear-stricken spirit and the near and yearning Redeemer? Who can tell but that they who looked so late to the Saviour of the world may have been surprised to find themselves safe in heaven? It may that when we look at our lives and the lives of others, as a whole, we shall be astonished to find how much unnoticed " goodness and mercy" they had in them.

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Any way we may hope, and trust, and be quite content to leave everything to our Father.

Left Alone.

GRIEF is often accompanied by querulousness. The sad, and especially those suffering bodily pain and weakness, are tempted to be slightly self-important and unreasonable, and not a little impatient. Plenty may be said in extenuation, for hearts already sore may not be expected to be able to bear much, and therefore, when unwise, would-be physicians only make the pain greater, and harsh reprovers preach long sermons to the weary, it is indeed no wonder that the one cry breaks from the white lips, "Oh, leave me alone, and let me try to find rest and peace." There is surely some excuse for us, when, weakened and worn, we long for the quiet which we cannot find, if we desire then at least to be left to ourselves.

But have we always this excuse to urge? Do we not often desire to be left alone when really we have neither sickness nor sorrow to bear? We cannot help being fond of pleasure and ease, and impatient when others would take them from us. Gourds are pleasant things, and the withering of them is very trying to the patience. We spend our time in building snug little resting places, full of comforts and delights, and is it likely that we shall cherish amiable feelings towards those disturbers of our peace who break our quiet with trumpet-calls of duty, and burst open our doors, letting in the cold air, that we may perforce look out into the night, and seeing stern armies fighting by the light of the stars, grow uncomfortable and ashamed of our own indolence? We get angry with these irrepressible instructors, and their unpopular insinuations. We do not want to be reminded of the battle of life, or the needs of the people, or the work of the world; we only want to be left alone. We hear of mountains to scale, and crowns to be won, and victories to be gained; but heights are difficult, and crowns are heavy, and victories are costly. Let those gain them who will; as for us, we will be left alone to enjoy peace and quiet.

Do not too many of us feel thus? We dislike being disturbed and roused and invigorated; and the truths that "This is not our rest," and " Here we have no continuing city," are very unpalatable ones. Ah! but we have reason to be profoundly grateful that we are not left alone as we wish. It is well for us that there are voices that will not be silent, accusing spirits who will not be denied. Conscience, circumstance, the providence of God, losses, disappointments, personal afflictions, all these are monitors that will not leave us to ourselves, but will speak out great truths in our hearing, whether we wish to listen or not. Our querulous cry, "Leave me alone," is altogether disregarded, and if nothing avail to rouse us into action, then the nest is stirred up, the palace is blown down, the trees are stripped of their sheltering leaves, and we are fain to go forth into the world active, if not brave-dogged, if not eager.

And, whether we recognise it or not, the fact is that this is one of the many blessings for which we should give thanks to God. To be left to ourselves would be a great

calamity, one of the greatest that could befal us. It is not only that our work would be undone, that the right would lose a supporter, and the cause of good be less prosperous. That, indeed, would not be of great moment, because truth and goodness shall be triumphant, whether we choose to be idle or diligent. The loss would be to ourselves we should miss the blessing; we should become poor and miserable. There is no joy in idleness, no luxury in stupor, no delight in self-engrossment. It is unnatural to be quiet and dreamy, for God gave us energies and strength and skill, as well as work to be done. And, however we may talk about wishing to be left alone, there is that within us all which is dissatisfied with an existence that is not active and full and complete.

Oh! whether our days be many or few, let us live in them. Let us not be angry with disturbing influences, for they are God-sent, and come to us laden with mercies. We cannot see their wings; our eyes only discern the unlovely robes in which they are disguised; but they are angels nevertheless. Let us thank our Father for them, and pray that, whatever may happen to us, we may never, never be left to ourselves.

Unattained Desires.

In an omnibus, which late at night was carrying to their several destinations quite a load of weary men and women, was a pretty, healthy-looking child, with her widowed mother. Her bright face presented such a contrast to all the other occupants of the vehicle that she received rather more than her share of glances and attention. But the child, in no way discomposed by these, grew sleepy, as it was natural she should do, seeing that her usual bedtime was long since past; and even the efforts of her mother to interest her in the objects they were passing failed to keep her from closing her eyes and nodding.

Next to the child sat a woman whose face was even more

worn than the others, and who looked in that crowded omnibus the very personification of loneliness. She looked at the child wistfully several times, edging a little nearer now and then until at last the little tired head dropped on the shoulder which was invitingly near, and, apparently finding it comfortable, rested there contentedly. Instantly a light, which was almost a glory, flashed into the woman's face, and transfigured it with the marvellous beauty of joy. The lips, which had been hard enough before, quivered, and the eyes first brightened and then filled with tears, and though the woman tried to control her emotion, she was evidently very deeply moved. At length the mother, seeing the child leaning against the stranger, tried to remove her. But in a tone which was almost piteous in its entreaty, she begged her to desist.

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'Pray do not waken her. She is tired, and I am quite glad that she should rest against me."

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But she will weary you?"

'Oh, no, not in the least. Pray allow her to remain.” "You are very kind;" and the mother, contenting herself by holding one of the little hands, said no more about it. But the stranger's face did not once lose its look of joy. She was no longer tired and lonely, and old and miserable. She forgot all her trouble as she watched the child who was not her own, but to whom the woman's natural tenderness had turned so spontaneously; and once surreptitiously, when no one was looking, her arm stole round the little form, and she pressed her faded lips for one moment to the red, tempting ones of the child.

Bless the children! Are they not almost angels in this sorrowful, sin-stricken world? The woman had probably plenty to make her sad; but she was certainly made brighter and happier that night by the little incident in the

omnibus.

Does it not seem a pity, seeing that there are plenty of children in the world, that this woman should not have a few, instead of one of those women who vote "children a bore?" What a capital mother she would have made, who had in her heart so much love for children that it gushed up even at the sight of a little stranger!

But there are plenty of people in the world besides her, whose dearest wishes are unfulfilled. There is many a man

who all his life thinks how delightful it would be to be in fair circumstances, with a competency that would enable him to live comfortably, and satisfy his generous heart by helping the needy, who never gets beyond poverty after all. And there is many another who cares nothing for wealth and honour, but who has ever a longing for a home-life, with some one to care for and to share with him the peace of a "domestic paradise," who never gets what he wishes; for one whom he loves dies, and another changes, and all things go wrongly with him, until he gives up that dream, and tries to be content with his more undesirable lot.

But what shall we say about these things? Are they mistakes or failures in the direction of Providence? No; there is this to say:-If all desires were granted, the world would be much worse than it is. There is work to be done, which can only be well accomplished by those who have "hearts at leisure from themselves," who have no strong personal ties, who have found that in this world their dearest desires will never be fulfilled, and who are content to have it so if they may be of use to others. Therefore, if any are mourning over unattained desires, let them be of good courage. It is better to be useful than to be happy; and if they may not be the one, it is perhaps only because they may the better be the other.

Opinions.

IT is impossible, and it would be undesirable, to go through life without forming our opinions upon the circumstances and persons associated with us. We must think, for even sluggish minds are aroused sometimes, and though our hands should be idle our minds may be constantly busy. And it is an undeniable fact that every one has a perfect right to his own opinion, whatever it may be. He may believe what he likes, even though sometimes he had better not give expression to his