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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."

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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

what seems sharp and unpleasant because we love them too well to spoil them.

But, strange, contradictory creatures as we are, we do not feel always content when our heavenly Father deals with us in the same way. "Let us always have summer, let the flowers always grow, let us always sing pleasant songs, let our days be fair and bright, let us be sheltered from the storm and the cold. We do not like the sharp, searching winds; we do not enjoy the brisk breeze, we would rather live in the light and the sunshine."

Ah, but our Father is wise, and does not listen to us. He sends us winter. He does not intend that we should be weak, puling babies all our lives; we are to grow and to be strong, and to be able to enjoy all His good gifts as well as to work for Him. It is true that He has provided a shelter from the storm, but He will not have us always there. We must go out and brave the weather and fight against the winds. We must climb mountains in the very face of the blast, we must bear trouble, and disappointment, and sorrow, and not only bear them, but make stepping-stones of them. And every windy day we must count as so much gain.

Does not our Father love us, then, when He makes so much that is unpleasant accompany us? We know He does.

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It is because He loves us that He lets the winds beat upon us. He loves us best when the storms come. We need not fear. We never need tremble lest the wind should be too strong for us. He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.” 'Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him." Do we mind what happens when our Father is over us all ?

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"Redeeming the Time."

We do not always remember the injunction of the wise man-“Thy father's friend forsake not," for many maxims and rules which stood our fathers in good stead are either

forgotten or ignored by us their children. We are rather fond of marking out ways for ourselves, which are far enough from the footsteps which they have left behind. them; for they did not always choose the smooth and pleasant paths, and we take the roughness or the pleasantness very much into consideration. There was a ruggedness about our fathers which, though we may have no inclination to imitate, we cannot but admire. They were noble and strong, we say in ungrudging generosity of speech; but it is, after all, rather delicious to be easeloving, and luxurious, and self-gratifying. We prefer our own way, and we have a consciousness that, after all, in our altered circumstances there is something to be said in its favour.

For instance, they have left us a very neat motto, which we cannot help remembering, about retiring and rising early, and the immense advantages, consisting of health, wealth, and wisdom, which will arise from that very uncomfortable but wholesome habit. But we, having a taste for gas, and music, and social converse, and the fireside, and a distaste for semi-darkness, and unwarmed rooms, and foggy mornings, are apt to take an hour or two from the night and repay it with property belonging to the day, and are actually vain enough to believe that we are gainers thereby. They have left us directions as to the improvement of time, and warnings against wasting it; but, alas! we have grown prodigal, and instead of taking care of the pence that the pounds may accumulate, we squander minutes and half-hours, and such small change, without so much as a blush at our extravagance. We live in different times, we say. We smile half-pityingly at the wonderful biographies of wise men who became exceedingly rich because they always picked up pins, and old nails, and pieces of string, and replied to their correspondents on the backs of their own letters. We are sorry for them, because paper was so dear and time of so little value. We can earn pounds as quickly as they saved pence, and we look back rather slightingly upon the good old times. We lay ourselves out in a widely different way, and, instead of being so over-careful of minutes, we wilfully and deliberately give up whole hours to what we are pleased to call necessary recreation.

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