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gravely concerned and distressed, and my mother wept silently. was sorry for this, for I really loved them both; but was vexed, too, that the last evening should be made gloomy.

"What can I say, mother?" I asked, somewhat impatiently; "you would not have me be a hypocrite, and pretend to what I don't feel, would you?"

"No, George, no," she answered; "anything rather than that; but, George, you know the guilt and danger of rejecting the Saviour; and that He is ready and waiting to be yours, and to make you His. Why do you keep back from giving your heart to Him ?"

Much more passed than I can or need set down. On my part, it was putting off with promises that I would think more about religion than I had lately done, and with hopes that some day I should be all that they wished. On theirs, it was urging me not to delay, while in health and safety, seeking my soul's salvation.

At last my father said, "We cannot do what we would for you, George; but we can pray for you."

'Yes, father," I said-and I felt melted a little with seeing his evident sorrow" and I wish you to pray for me."

"Well," he said, "I should like to pray for you, and with you, now.'

We had knelt together an hour before, at family prayer; but we knelt again; and my father prayed very earnestly and very touchingly for his "dear sailor-boy," as he spoke of me to his God.

Now I have sometimes heard persons in family prayer, and in public as well, who have been very much excited and very eloquent, and perhaps very sincere at the time, who yet have not made much impression on my mind partly, I believe, because I knew their lives were not consistent with the expressions they have uttered. It was

not so with my father. His life and his prayers went together; and every word he uttered made itself felt because there could be no well-grounded suspicion that it did not come from the heart.

Well, my father prayed for me with many groans and tears; he seemed to be wrestling with God for me, and continued praying long, as if he would have said, "I will not let Thee go unless Thou bless me!" He prayed much for my soul, that it might taste and drink deep into Christ's precious salvation; that I might no longer delay, nor halt between two opinions as to whom I would serve; that in the voyage on which I was entering I might be kept from following the evil example of the careless, profligate, and profane. He prayed that I might be kept from danger, be prospered in all my ways, and be returned home in God's own good time, in safety-that God would bless me indeed.

:

There was not much more said that night we soon separated; and none of us went to bed, I think, with dry eyes or thoughtless minds.

I was to start early next morning. The Portsmouth coach left the inn at eight o'clock; and I had some distance to pass through the streets before reaching it. We were all up, therefore, long before it was light; for it was winter. It was a silent breakfast-time, as such times often are, when there seems to be the most to say, but no one ventures to speak. It might be that I was going away for ever; or if I returned, should I find them all living? More than a year, at any rate, would pass away before I could return; and what changes a year often brings about in a family!

"I cannot say much to you, George," said my father, who had been trying to keep up all our spirits without much success; "let us pray together once more before we part."

His prayer that morning was a short one; it was principally that I might have a safe journey that day, and a safe voyage out and home; or rather, that God would take me under His care and keeping, and deal with me as seemed good in His sight, so that all might be well in the end-well for eternity.

I have reason to remember this part of my father's prayer.

It was a fine frosty morning, though scarcely light, when I took my place on the outside of the coach, and shook hands with my father and brother for the last time; but the gloom soon cleared away, and when we were fairly on the road, the sun shone out cheerily and my spirits began to rise again.

The journey was more than halfway over, and we were going gently down a hill, when I felt a sudden lurch, and, without any other warning, felt myself violently thrown forwards in the air. The axletree, as I afterwards learnt, had snapped asunder, and the coach, which was heavily laden, was overturned with great force.

I was ignorant of this at the time, however, and of all things else. When I came to myself, I was lying on a bed, at a roadside inn, in great pain. I tried to move, but could not; and the agony caused by the attempt was so great that I shrieked, and again sunk into insensibility.

This did not last long, however; and when I once more recovered, I found myself under the hands of a surgeon, who was fomenting my head. I had barely sense enough to answer a few questions this gentleman put to me; but I gave him my father's name and direction, and the next day both he and my mother came to the inn.

It was some days before I was pronounced out of danger, and able to be moved; and then, by short stages and in an easy carriage, I was taken back to my home. By this time I understood how narrowly

I had escaped with life. I had been thrown from the coach-top on to the hard frosty ground, and fell on my head. The violence of the fall was partially broken by a thick fur cap which I wore that day; but for this I should probably have been killed on the spot. My collar-bone was also broken, and my whole system received a shock from which I was long in recovering. Strange to say, I, of all the passengers, was the only one who received any severe injury.

I need not say that this accident at once put a stop to my voyage. The Burhampooter sailed without me; and my prospects seemed irretrievably marred.

For some weeks I felt indifferent about this, as about all things else; I was incapable of much thought, and was only thankful that the accicent had occurred within the reach of my father's house. But as I slowly recovered health and strength, sad, murmuring feelings were uppermost in my heart, and sometimes I gave them utterance. Instead of being grateful that my life was spared, I groaned with impatience at the disappointment which my hopes had undergone.

"Mother," I said one day, "I cannot make it out at all."

"What cannot you make out, George ?" asked my mother, who was sitting beside me, as I lay on the sofa.

"How is it I got this hurt? You believe that God hears prayer, I know, mother."

bitterly; "and see what came of it; I was the only one on the coach who did not have it."

"How do you know that ?" my mother asked quietly; "I mean,' said she, "how do you know that all the other passengers had a safe and prosperous journey ?"

"I know that they escaped, and I did not," I said; "and at all events, you cannot say that mine was either safe or prosperous."

My mother was a meek and gentle woman; she did not like argument; she used to say that she could not argue about religion, but she could trust, and pray, and believe. She looked mournfully in my face when I said that, and I could see that her eyes were filled with tears. I repeated my words: "Now, can you say, mother, that my journey was safe or prosperous

"We shall tell better about that by-and-by, George," she answered, in her mild, submissive way. "We cannot see yet what the end will be; perhaps we shall not see the answer to that prayer till we reach another world; but I am sure we shall see it then.'

Many months passed away before I was sufficiently restored to be fit for sea; and then I had to wait a long time before another good opening could be found for me. At last I obtained a berth, though not so promising as that I had lost in the Burhampooter, and was once more making preparations for the voyage.

A few days before going on board, I was in a coffee-room in the city, and took up the day's Times; more from habit than design, my eyes rested on the shipping intelligence, and the first words I read were these -"LOSS OF THE BURHAMPOOTER.”

With dazzled eyes and reeling brain I read on, that on her homeward voyage, the Burhampooter had foundered in a heavy gale; that the catastrophe was witnessed without power of relief; and that all on board had perished.

My story is told. You may say that my accident was a stroke of good fortune; others have said so when they have heard my story; and they smile when I say it was an answer to my father's prayer. I am not to be daunted by a smile!

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