song all the time he had been talking about the flowers and vegetables.

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"Well," said I, "it's a good thing to get rid of it any way one can, for it's dull enough; and, for my part, I don't see a better way than that the song tells about."

"How old may you be, George?" he asked.

"Three-and-thirty," I said.

"And how long have you and your wife been married ?” "Ten years," said I.

"And have you always been so able," he asked, "to dance and sing, that you never had any troubles and cares in which you could do neither ?"

I considered before I replied, and then I said: "Well, I can't say we have. I have always had plenty of work; and we've had plenty to eat and drink; and we've all had good health. I don't think Mary has done much dancing since we were married; but I've done a lot of singing; and I don't think we've had much care."

"God has been very good to you, George," said John; " and I don't want to say anything to make you dull or sad; but you will be very different from most people if a time does not come when you will want something better than either dancing or singing to drive away your care."

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Ah, well," I said; "it will be soon enough to think about that when it comes."

"I don't know that," replied John. "I don't think there's any good in forecasting troubles, which, after all, may never come; but is it not wise, if one can, to be ready for anything that may happen in that way?"

I saw what John meant. Now I liked him very well; but I should have liked him a great deal better if he had not been so religious, for I had a notion-I see now how wrong it was that religion was about as dull as care. Thinks I to myself, "He wants to make me religious: I'll stave that off, anyhow."

I could not but see that John was not dull, nor his wife either; but it takes a good deal to drive a wrong notion

out of a man's head, especially when he wants to keep it— and I did want to keep that.

Just then, our little Charlie-that was the youngest of our children-came toddling down the garden. He stopped at a flower-bed, about half-way down, and he looked as if he were going to pluck one of the flowers. I did not really care about the flower-there were plenty of the sort-but I jumped up directly and stopped him, and then I took him up in my arms, and brought him to the seat where John and I had been sitting, and began to talk to him and to play with him. John looked disappointed, for he saw what I meant. However, he said no more—that is, about religion, but spoke kindly to little Charlie, and talked on some other matters, and then went into his house.

It was not long before John's words proved true. Troubles came in which I could no more sing than I could fly. I'll tell you how it was.

There was a good deal of scarlet fever in the town, and it carried off a great many children. It got into Green Court, and went through at least half the houses. I don't think there was a place in the town where it was worse. As we heard how bad it was, Mary and I said to one another, "What a good thing it is we are out of Green Court !"

But it came to us in Vine Street, after all. We did not know till poor little Ned, our oldest lad, fell sick, that about a week before he had been playing with some of his old playmates in the court, and that he had been into one of the houses where the fever was worst. The doctor said that there was very little doubt he had caught it then.

The fever seized all our four children; and a terrible time we had of it. Poor Mary was worn out, and so was I, for the poor little things had to be attended to night and day. We would not have cared about that, if they had only pulled through; but we lost two of them. Ned went first; and I can't tell you what a pang struck to my heart when they told me he was dead. Then little Charlie followed. Their mother was broken-hearted, and so was I. If I live to be an

old man of four-score, I shall never forget what I felt those two days when I followed my little lads to their graves.

I don't know what we should have done, if it had not been for Mrs. Varley. She had no little ones of her own, for all her children were grown up, and none of them were living at home; so she had no need to be afraid for them, and she was not a bit afraid for herself. She came in every day; and though she had all her house-work to do herself, she sat up every other night as well. As for John, why, he was as kind as kind could be.

The Sunday after poor little Charlie was buried I was sadly down-hearted. I could not help fearing that we might lose the other two, just as we had lost the two that had gone; and then I was afraid for Mary—she fretted so sorely, and she had been so harassed by waiting and watching. Everything looked gloomy, and there was not a gieam of sunshine anywhere.

In the afternoon I walked down the garden, and sat down on the seat. In a little time I heard John Varley's footstep-I knew it was his-coming down the walk. He sat down beside me, after he had shaken hands, and said what a fine afternoon it was. I could not help thinkingno more could he, I am certain-of the last talk we had on that garden-seat. I thought to myself that maybe it would have been a vast deal better for me if I had let him say what he had to say that night; and I made up my mind that if he had anything to say now I would hear it all.

"It's a great trouble, George," he said; "I know all about it. It's five-and-twenty years since we lost our little Nelly. She was about the same age as your Ned. These losses of yours have made it all come up almost as fresh as if it had been only yesterday."

And the tears stood in his eyes as he talked of his little girl who had been dead all those years. People sometimes try to comfort you who know nothing about your trouble. It is very kind of them; but their comfort does not comfort you much. It is when a man has passed through troubles

like your own, and can really sympathise with you, that his comfort is really comforting.

"It's all right, George," he continued; "and you'll see that some day, if you don't see it now. I would gladly have given all I had in the world to keep our Nelly; but I have often thought what a blessing it has been, both to me and my wife." I looked at him with wonder. "Why, the tears

are in his eyes," said I to myself, "as he thinks of his little lass; and yet he tells me that it was a blessing he lost her! Anyhow, it is aught but a blessing that we have lost our bonnie lads."

I dare say he saw what was passing in my mind. He went on, however, whether he did or not:

"I'll tell you what I mean, George. Grace and I loved one another before that; but I am certain we've loved one another better ever since. There's nothing like a great common trouble for binding hearts together. But, far more than that, we've loved our heavenly Father and the Lord Jesus Christ; and we did not do that before. We found we wanted better comforts than we could give one another, or than anybody else could give us; and we found them in God, through the Lord Jesus Christ."

``I did not know much about these things. I had been very little at either church or chapel since I was a lad, and I had an idea that religion was all nonsense. Mary was a deal better than I, and went to chapel when she could; but that had not been very often, on account of her family. She had sent little Ned, and Harry too--that's our next lad -to a Sunday school. And Ned had heard there what did him good; for when he was dying he said he loved the Lord Jesus Christ, and he was going to heaven.

"Well," I said, "I can't deny I've thought very little about religion-not nearly so much as I ought to have done."

"And don't you see, George," he said, "that these troubles are the way God takes to lead you to think about it? Ah, if you only would, you would be so happy! You

would not only get comfort in your present trouble; it would make you happy for all your life."

"But I hardly know how to begin to think about it."

"I'll tell you, George," he said; "that is, if you will let me. We are all poor, lost, guilty sinners, and first of all we need salvation. The Lord Jesus died for us on the cross, and if we only believe in Him He will forgive us all our sins; and we are all freely welcome. He gives us his Holy Spirit, too, to make our hearts clean, and to deliver us from the love of sin. That's the first thing-to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ for salvation."

I sat still, and said nothing. I did not know what to say. "Come with me, George, to service to-night," he said. "We've a good minister, and I am sure you will hear what will do you good. And take Mary with you. Hannah”— that was John's wife-" will take care of the children."

We went. The minister might have known we were going, and have made his sermon just for us. It was on the text, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." Mary and I talked a good deal together that night, and we resolved we would go to the house of God regularly. Better still, we soon found our way to Christ.

I don't deny we have had our troubles and cares since; but we know where to take them. We have learnt to call God our Father, and to cast our care on Him in faith and prayer. Thank God, He has never failed us!

I am as fond of singing as ever-ay, and fonder too; but I have dismissed all the old songs, and now I sing about the Lord Jesus Christ, and salvation, and heaven. I sing at chapel, and I sing with Mary and the bairns, and I sing at my work; and there is not a hymn I like better or sing oftener than that beginning,

"Oh for a thousand tongues, to sing

My great Redeemer's praise.'

And I often think what a joy it will be to sing his praises in heaven.