my company has been so agreeable; and I assure you I feel quite flattered.

Richard. That's nothing, sir. What I was going to say, in a word or two-for I am nothing of a talker, as you have noticed, I dare say; but what I want to say is

Traveller. (Encouragingly, seeing that the countryman stopped short, as though embarrassed.) Yes, what you wish to say, is

?

Richard. Sir, there is one wrong turning you took today, and it has given you some trouble; but that is all set right now and to-morrow I hope you will be none the worse for it.

Traveller. I hope not, my friend.

Richard. But I can't help being afraid, sir-I can't help thinking-about that other wrong turning the Bible tells us of you are a college gentleman, sir; and you know what I mean.

Traveller. Nay, but, friend, what do you mean? How should I know?

Richard. The Bible tells us, sir, that "all we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned every one of us to his own way." Now, sir, that must be a wrong turning. And then, again, sir; the same blessed book says, "There is a way which seemeth right unto a man; but the end thereof are the ways of death." You said you would not mind my speaking boldly, sir, and would not be offended.

Traveller. Offended! Oh, no; but you must tell me more plainly what you mean. I suppose, though, that you fancy I have got into that wrong turning; and I don't see how you should know anything about it.

Richard. Please to pardon me another word: sir, I do not make any pretence to judge the heart; but from different things you have said as we came along, I cannot help being afraid that it is with you, sir, just as you have said. Traveller. What, that I have taken a wrong turning? Now, I wonder what I have said to make you think so, my good friend.

Richard. Well, sir; you have talked about some things, which, to my poor mind, seemed to be sinful, and in a sort of way that makes me afraid you love them, because it is "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh;" and you have made game-not much, sir; but you have a little, of the blessed word of God; and (you promised not to be offended, sir) you have taken the name of the great

God in vain, more than once since we have been in com

pany.

Traveller. And so you think I am in a very wrong road, I suppose?

Richard. I must think so, sir, without judging uncharitably.

Traveller. Well, I thank you for your concern.

a Methodist I suppose, my friend?

You are

Richard. If I am a true believer in the Lord Jesus, and a disciple of his, sir, it does not matter what men call me, does it now?

Traveller. I do not know; and I do not care much. It is nothing to me, you know. But you think I am in a bad way, that is plain Never mind, my friend; I may be all right at last for all that.

Richard. The Lord grant it, sir, for his mercy's sake. But you see, sir, from your experience to-day, that if you have taken a wrong turning, and are in a bad way, every step you take carries you further away from your journey's

end.

Traveller. My journey's end? What is that?

Richard. Oh, sir! as if you did not know what life's journey ought to end in-in God, and happiness, and

heaven.

Traveller. (Hastily.) Well, well, well; I am obliged to you, my friend. You mean kindly; but the sun is getting low, and I have a long stretch of earthly road before me yet; and, if I stand talking here much longer, I shall be benighted after all. So, good-bye; and thank you once more for your kindness.

Richard. Good-bye, sir; and may the Lord bless you and show you

The good wishes and prayers were lost upon the traveller, who walked off abruptly and quickly. If he were not offended, he certainly was not pleased.

OUR VOCATION.

PART III.

THE circumstances of the family in the drawing room could not fail to be subjects of inquisitive interest in the kitchen; and the servants held their consultations, and delivered their opinions on pending changes.

"I'm pretty sure we shall all have to go," said Dixon the

housemaid to her confidential friend Powell the parlourmaid; "and I don't mean to lose any time in looking out for myself."

66

Well, I'm sorry for one thing, for missis is easy and quiet, and I can't abide meddlesome missises that's always ferreting into everything," said Powell; "one never knows where they are, nor when you have them."

"I don't know but what I should have given notice before long, though," rejoined Dixon, "for I've no notion of being put upon by Mrs. Cook when she's in her bad tempers."

"I never mind her much," said Powell, "for I've heard say that what with the hot fires and the cool cellars, cooks is always queer tempered; but I wouldn't be in poor Martha's shoes for a good deal. I often wonder how she manages to bear with it; not that I like the girl so very much; I'm sure she's a spy, with her demure looks and still tongue, only I never found out that she tells anything."

"It's more than she dares, a little bit of a kitchen maid as she is," said Powell, indignantly. "I told her long ago her business is to do as we tell her; and if she chooses to hear and see, we choose she should say nothing. You see Miss Charlotte takes a deal of notice of her, and if she's spoilt it aint our fault, you know. But, Powell, I declare there's the bell again; do run and answer it."

But Powell had given up running to obey those whose altered position must soon deny them the right to her services, for she was not scrupulous about the means of information concerning anything she chose to find out, and she knew almost as much about their affairs as the ladies themselves; so she only sauntered lazily to answer the third peal of the bell.

The little kitchen maid, Martha, had her own thoughts and cogitations too. She was an orphan, about seventeen years of age, and had been taken into the family at the solicitation of Charlotte, whose class she had attended in the Sunday school. She was quick and intelligent; and the whispers among the servants concerning the poverty which threatened the family of her patroness sank with a thrill of sympathy into her affectionate heart. If there are many servants like Dixon and Powell, there are some like Martha too; and the events which expose selfishness and time-serving, often elicit also disinterested attachment and honourable principle.

It happened that on the day the servants all received notice to leave, a lady called to inquire the characters of the confidential friends, Dixon and Powell.

"Dear me, they have lost no time," remarked their troubled mistress, as a kind sister, who had come to offer her a temporary home during the settlement of affairs, announced the lady's errand. "But I cannot talk to her; do see her for me, dear Mary."

"What shall I say about them?" asked Mrs. H.

"I hardly know. I should not like to deprive them of good places, but really Dixon has been very troublesome, and Powell is a vain, silly pretender, fancying she knows everything, while in fact she does nothing well. I was deceived and disappointed in both of them, and I've borne with them too patiently."

"We must take care not to deceive or disappoint any one else then. I will tell this lady exactly what you say."

"Stop, Mary; I am only telling you this, you know. It is a serious thing to hinder them from getting into such a good family, and I should have let them go on, I dare say. am not turning them away for any fault, you see."

"But it is a serious thing to mislead any inquirer," said Mrs. H." She doubtless thinks these servants are worth having because they have been with you more than a year, but she does not know how forbearing you may have been with them. Very often lengthened service proceeds more from the employer's reluctance to change, or patient hopefulness, than from any special merit in the employed."

66

Very true; but this lady is too wise to expect perfection, I dare say."

66

She expects to hear the simple truth from you, dear sister, and will depend on what you say. If we are not careful about the faithfulness of the characters we give, we are in a great measure responsible for the pretensions of servants to do and seem what they are not."

"Well, I always say as little as possible. I have had to earn my own experience; and if a servant is not actually dishonest, she may suit another person though she has not satisfied me."

"My dear sister, you take too light a view of your responsibility in this matter: you owe a duty to the servants, and to this lady, for whose situations they have applied. Here are two young women, who, you say, have

greatly disappointed and deceived you: is not this a right opportunity to make them better acquainted with their own characters, and to prevent them from imposing on another family?"

"Ah, but perhaps they can do much better if they choose to try."

"That only makes their case so much worse; it brings on them the just imputation of dishonesty, to receive your wages for the fulfilment of duties they can perform, but will not."

"You are quite too particular, dear Mary. No one expects to get very good servants now-a-days, so we believe as much as we can of their suitability, and are very glad if they are not outrageously bad: otherwise one must always be changing, and so earn a disagreeable character oneself for never being satisfied, and all sorts of unreasonableness. I have heard ladies spoken of very unkindly on this subject by those who believed such reports; and I know a lady who persisted in telling something about her servant's conduct which deprived the woman of a situation, and she came to the house uttering the most fearful curses on the mistress who had thus prevented her from earning her daily bread."

Surely you do not heed the idle words which only added proof to the justice and truth of the character given? To be judged of man's judgment is a small thing in comparison with that of Him who searcheth the heart, and will demand an account of our stewardship in the duties he has commanded us to fulfil with a conscience void of offence. Believe me your arguments, if such they can be called, are only a part of that fear of man' which bringeth a snare,' and have no connexion with the true charity which 'rejoiceth in the truth,' as well as suffereth long and is kind.'

"You put it in such a serious light, Mary, that you quite embarrass me; and there is the visitor waiting all this time."

"I cannot carry to her anything but the straightforward truth, dear sister, and therefore must decline to be a messenger in this matter."

Mrs. Derwent went herself, and the servants were engaged on the spot. They were greatly delighted with themselves, held their heads a little higher, and thought no situation at all beyond their merits and abilities.