pride of mental superiority. Culture, intellect, thought, these are the things that raise men above their fellows. The testing question now is, "Has he any brains?” as if "brains" were everything! They are very useful things, no doubt, but so are bones and sinews, and good digestive powers. Strong arms, swift feet, true hearts, are surely of as much value as brains, only those who have the latter Iwithout the former cannot think so. Pride can scarcely come to us in any more seductive form than this, and it is wonderful how really lofty minds become its prey.

Then there is a great deal too much of spiritual pride. We see things clearer than our brothers, or think we do, and though we say, "Not unto us, not unto us," too often the puffing process goes on all the same. Many people are exceedingly proud of their humility. The words, “I thank Thee that I am not as others," though they are words that we despise and shrink from with all our hearts, are words that often shape themselves in our thoughts.

Really we ought to be very tolerant of other peoples' pride. If we have not theirs we have our own. We smile scornfully at Diotrephes, "who loveth to have the preeminence." But should we have any great dislike to preeminence ourselves if we could get it? Are we always content to take the lowest places, and see others above us? Have we no pride of heart, that we can venture to speak so harshly of others who have ?

"I

"Those that walk in pride He is able to abase." dwell with him that is of a contrite and humble spirit." Pride costs us very dear if it occupy our hearts to the exclusion of the Heavenly Guest. We cannot harbour pride and at the same time be like the meek and lowly Jesus. Must we not pray that by any means we may be made humble? May we not still say, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me?”

Home from Work.

To those who live in towns and cities, different hours of the day present certain sights and sounds peculiar to themselves. Among the experiences of the hour between the lights none is more striking or suggestive than the sounds of home-going feet, and the sights of men, women, and children returning from their daily toil. "Man goeth forth unto his work and to his labour until the evening." It is a very long day's work which has to be accomplished by the busy workers in our land between the morning and the night. But when it is over, and tired hands, aching heads, and wistful hearts are set at liberty, the time of rest so longed for, so greatly needed, must be very sweet and precious.

One cannot watch the crowds of people leaving work without feeling glad that they have homes to go to. They look very weary; their feet do not hurry as they do in the mornings; the work they have been engaged in has left its marks upon them. They look, many of them, rather depressed and uncomfortable, but they are going home. A few words are spoken to their comrades as they walk together along the street, and a cheery good-night is uttered as they branch off into different directions, and then the doors open, and they pass in and are hidden away from the inhospitalities of the streets. Familiar faces greet them; the home circles widen to take them in; glad eyes look up to welcome them, and a little warmth and pleasure steal into their hearts, for the work is over and they have come home. They can take their meal-the most comfortable one of all the day-without having to hurry over it; they have leïsure to say a few merry words and make a few kindly inquiries, and altogether, by the time that the hour between the lights has passed, there has been effected upon them quite a wonderful transformation, for they look and feel almost like other persons. No doubt there may be still some things to grieve them—the home in which their hours of leisure are passed is not a paradise, but it is home, and that is much.

As we think of the home-welcomes that are so sweet to us all, we can scarcely help thinking also of One who knew very little about them. Of all the sorrows that touch us in this world none is harder to bear than the sorrow of loneliness. And yet John concludes the description of a day of toil and trouble with these words, "And every man went unto his own house. Jesus went unto the mount of Olives." The people who were with Him, some loving, some rejecting, left Him when the shadows were thick upon the hills; in their families they could talk together of the strange things He had said, and the still more remarkable things He had done; but no friendly door opened to let Him in, no tender touches soothed away His sorrow, no sheltering roof covered Him from the contumely of the world. "The Son of Man had not where to lay His head."

Another thought may well come to us as we see the people thronging homewards at the close of the day. Here and there, perhaps, as they cross the squares or the bridges, the tired faces are lighted for a moment or two by the glory of the setting sun.

And so it may be when we, too, have finished our day's work, and we have turned our faces homeward. We shall be tired and travel-stained, but we shall be going westward, and even before we see our Father's house its lights may fall upon us, and cheer the remaining steps of the journey. Happy will be that hour between the lights, for when the dusk has passed away, and the work is all done, we shall enter the perfect rest of the day that has no night.

My Father's House.

LITTLE I know of my Father's house,

Away in the better land,

But I know that its mansions are very fair,
And filled with the dear home band.

I know that the night is never dark,
And the day is ne'er too long,
And the happy singers grow never tired
Of singing the praiseful song.

Often I think of my Father's house,
And I long for a glimpse of light;
I yearn for an echo of songs they sing,
And a picture of their delight

Who dwell in peace by the throne of God,
Out of the reach of sin,

In the land that knows not a fading time,
Nor sorrow can enter in.

When shall I come to my Father's house,
When is the time of grace?
When may I lay my burdens down,
And look in my Father's face?
I must be patient and wait a while,
He will nor forget His child,
Son will His angel carry me

To the land of the undefiled.

Friends I love in my Father's house
Are waiting with welcomes there,
And happy spirits in perfect joy
Rest by the mansions fair.

But I weary alone for my Father, God;
Soon as His face I see

I shall awake and be satisfied,

For that will be heaven to me.

Rough Wind and its use.

"She loves her child so well, and cares for her so tenderly, that she would not let the wind blow upon her if she could help it."

Of course, having heard such a remark as this, we shall immediately, as in duty bound, begin to read a new and original, not to say striking lecture upon the faults and

follies of over-fond mothers. We can see-in imagination-hosts of horrors which are to fall upon the devoted head of that unfortunately loved child, and we exclaim, with all the indignation we are capable of, against the spoiling system to which she is subjected by her unwise parent. Undue severity is a bad thing; but what words are strong enough to express our abhorrence of the bad effects of too much fondness!

What is the cause of the universal impatience with which the over-care of others is regarded? Are we quite sure that the only objection we have to it is that the objects of such care will suffer for it afterwards? Is it not just possible that a little bit of envy mingles with our indignation? We don't happen to be over-loved ourselves, perhaps? we go out into the world, and the wind may blow upon us from all quarters at once, and nobody will care. Is it likely that we shall put on rose-coloured glasses with which to look at the favourites who are wrapped in warm arms, and sheltered by loving hearts? Is it to be wondered at if we prefer to glance at the aftertime which must come, when they will be thrust out also to shiver and faint? It must be so delicious to be guarded, and cared for, and watched over; it must be so exceedingly delightful to be a spoilt child while the spoiling lasts, that spectators may well feel half-jealous of its happiness.

But we are not going to admit that there is anything so sinister in our indignation. We know what a bad thing it really is for the child, what mistaken kindness the mother is showing. We know that for the wind to blow upon it is a good thing; it will invigorate, and brace, and strengthen it; it will quicken the blood, and freshen the cheeks, and brighten the eyes. It will clear the brain, and make the limbs active, and the heart buoyant. Who that knows anything about it would not rather have the wind blowing upon them for a part of the time at least?

And so in very love for our children, and because we wish them to enjoy life, to have plenty of it, and to be strong and vigorous, with keen appetites and eager joy, we choose the wiser course. We let the wind blow upon them, we teach them to love the fresh breezes and the invigorating north-easter, we encourage them to bear even