sat the centre and cause of this surrounding misery. His slatternly wife was there with a sharp but pale, and sickly, and old-looking baby in her arms. Two other children of uncertain age stood near, ever and anon casting looks of dread at their besotted father, and evidently prepared in case of need for a rapid flight from the house. Such was the picture which met the gaze of the two ladies as they entered-not a thing or person to be seen on which the eye could with any pleasure rest. Mrs. Mason stepped forward, stood before her husband, and with a wife's devotion tried to hide him from them, while a deep blush of shame suffused her face. At that moment there entered a boy of about twelve or fourteen years old, whose clothes were ragged, and dirty, and dripping with wet. The boy seemed greatly confused at seeing Mrs. Brown, and his entry was evidently a new source of agitation to Mrs. Mason. Addressing him, Mrs. Brown said 66 Well, Sam, how are you? You are very wet, and must change your clothes." "I've nothing to change to." 66 Nothing to change to? Why, where are the clothes and the two shirts I gave you the other day?" "I don't know; mother's done summat with 'em." Thus appealed to, Mrs. Mason said "I've had to part with them for food. The children must have something to eat, whether they have clothes to their backs or not.' "Then you've pawned or sold what was given you to clothe the children? "Yes, they must have food." "Has not the money gone in drink'? "No, not a penny of it, I assure you." do "Friend? No friend. What do you come spying here for ?" "We came to see if we could be of any service to your wife, or your children, or to you, but as we don't wish to obtrude, we bid you good evening." They then left the house, glad to get away, but for a considerable distance could hear the sound of voices in angry altercation, alternately the shrill tones of a woman or the gruff tones of a man. Mrs. Brown was, as might be expected, much chagrined, and Mrs. Jones felt she had in this at any rate got a case illustrating her own point of view. as "That's a difficult case," said Mrs. Brown. "The husband earns regular wages, twenty-eight shillings a week, and often as much thirty-five shillings, but he spends much, sometimes all, in drink, and, although a good workman, is often out of work through his intemperate habits. His poor wife and helpless children have to suffer for it. They are often without food or fire, and are scantily clothed. They were a hopeful, happy couple when first married, but are sadly degenerated now, and drink has done it all. It is hard, very hard, to see the children so ill clad, and to know they are always hungry, and they scholars in our Sunday-school; but it is vexing that what is given should go in drink." Mrs. Jones did not say anything. She began to think after all that she was not so sure of her case; she had got hold of one of the puzzles and perplexities of those who would do good to their fellows. Make this man a sober man, and times he had taken the pledge and broken it. How? Yes, that was the question, and how to solve it she did not know. all would be well, but how? Many | room, which was scantily furnished, but in addition to the few articles indicating a cottage parlour, there was a bed in one corner, on which lay a young girl. She had almost a baby-face, and it was beautiful to look upon. Her eyes sparkled with unnatural brilliancy. The cheeks were very pale, but at times delicately tinted. The fingers were long and tapering, and you could almost see through the thin hand. The frail girl looked so wan and fragile, and yet wore such a happy, gladsome, joyous, contented smile, that pity struggled with pleasure, as our two friends looked upon her. Even as she lay she was busy with some kind of light fancy work; and thin as they were, her nimble fingers quickly formed the graceful pattern. As they were passing along the street, "She's gone,' said one woman to another. "Gone? God help her, then, for it's a bad end to come to." It seemed that a woman had just died who had only been taken seriously ill the day before. She was that worst of all drunkards, a drunken woman, wife, and mother, and yet she had a good, patient, sober husband. Two or three months ago she had a baby. Since her recovery she had scarcely ever been sober, and one day her baby was found dead in the house. At the inquest the verdict was, "Died of disease brought on by neglect." That had so preyed on her mind that she drank still more deeply, and so had hastened-nay, had she not caused ?-her own death. Again does the problem meet Mrs. Jones. Happy will this nation of England be when the problem is satisfactorily solved! Turning into a quiet street of somewhat small but decent-looking houses, the two ladies quietly entered one of these, and were met by a smiling, elderly woman, who seemed not a little pleased to see them. This house presented a marked contrast to any they had yet been into. Those who lived there had evidently little to spare for luxuries or ornament, but all was scrupulously clean, bright, and cheerful. It looked what it was, a poor man's home, and that poor man was honest, sober, industrious, and a Christian. "Well, Mrs. Hermon," said Mrs. Brown, "how is Eliza to-day?" "Thank you, she's much the same; I don't see as there's much change in her. But please come in; she will be so glad to see you." They went forward into the front The old woman is Eliza's grandmother, who, while the father and mother are at work, stops at home to tidy up and take care of the house, and this, an only child. Right lovingly, if with tottering steps, does Mrs. Hermon perform her duty. It is hard for a grandmother to have to drudge and nurse, but she never thinks of that. The girl's bright eyes follow her as she goes about her work, and when their eyes meet, tender smiles pass from one to another, while ever and anon the hale and elder one turns to do some little act of loving service to the weak and younger one. Thanks are looked-nor only looked, but spoken in few and simple words, and in tones that sound as sweet as chimes from silver bells. Mrs. Brown has been here before, but to Mrs. Jones the sight is such a touching one that it awakes chords in her heart of pure womanly, motherly sympathy. Somehow neither of the visitors could say much, and few were the words which Eliza uttered, but there was such a thrill of purity about them that it seemed as if much had been said. She quietly spoke her thanks for garments which the Dorcas So-bling itself away, she thought she was one of those children Christ took into His arms and blessed. She smiled as it were questioningly into His face, and there stole into her heart a joyous answer and sweet peace." ciety had given and for other kindness shown, but, I think, most of all for a bunch of flowers which Mrs. Brown had sent. How is it the sick are so pleased with flowers? Is it that they speak of beauty, of fresh air and health, and to some at By such a way, rough, painful, least bring a message from that sad, had she been brought to Christ. Heavenly Father who in such love- Many a Sunday-school lesson, or liness arrayeth them, and careth too hymn, or kindly appeal was rememfor us? Would you have a pure bered now, the brightness of her pleasure, send a flower to a sick former life, and the mad gladness of and sorrowing one! The two friends that Whit-week. Her pain is almost would fain have lingered long in forgotten, so great is her joy as, that house, but yet would not weary with ever-enduring gratitude, she Eliza, nor hinder the grandmother, tells of a Saviour's love. And so and so they went their way. They from that time to this she has been did not speak for some minutes, calmly waiting to be restored to and while there was a smile on health, or to be called hence "to be Mrs. Jones's face, there was a tear for ever with the Lord." She, her in her eye. At length Mrs. Brown mother, father, and her grandmother ventured this explanation. "Two have received from the Dorcas years ago last Whit-week Eliza, a Society occasional gifts of warm scholar in our Sunday-school, was clothing. a blooming, healthy, hearty girl of These we have narrated were not fifteen. She was the life and soul all the cases visited by our two of her class, loved by her teacher friends. So interested did they and all who knew her. She was as become that they forgot the oricareless and indifferent as most ginal object of their visits. They girls of her age, but yet had some- have been the means of drying thing exceptionally true and hopeful many a tear, binding up many a about her. She entered on the broken heart, making bright many pleasures of that Whit-week with a sorrowful home,and clothing many more than usual zest. She missed a helpless little one who otherwise no party or trip. Blithe as a lark, would have been subject to pinching day after day saw her early at the cold. Think you that they too have train and late to her bed. It was not been blessed? They will tell a wet week, but what of that? you that they have found it more Strong and robust, her cheerfulness blessed to give than to receive, and never forsook her; she laughed at that there is a true and unspeakable the rain, nor feared a chill, but the joy in the practice of that "ritual" chill came! A surfeit of cold of which James speaks when he seized her, and within a week she says, "Pure religion and undefiled lay ill, helpless, and joyless. Long before God and the Father is this, she tossed in misery, impatient, to visit the fatherless and widows fretful, rebellious. One tumour in their afflictions," as well as 66 to after another took the yet remain- keep himself unspotted from the ing strength from her poor, worn world." body; then came a time when, too weak to cough, and reduced almost to such a skeleton that she could scarcely be any more a prey to disease, and her life seemed just trem One day said Mrs. Brown, "Well, Mrs. Jones, how do you like our Dorcas Society? دو "Well, you know, I've got to like it so much you can't think. I never thought I should, but I really do. I quite look forward to our monthly meetings, they are so pleasant and chatty. No, we don't talk gossip and scandal, not we. I wish all other meetings were as free and happy as our Dorcas meetings, and it would sorely grieve me if anything were to come amongst us to spoil our happiness. Of course we do a deal of talking; that's part of the pleasure of the thing. But we do really enjoy meeting together, and best of all doing a good and Christ-like work, thus perpetuating the memory of that certain disciple named Tabitha, which by interpretation is called Dorcas, a woman full of good works and almsdeeds which she did.'” ANANIAS. BY THE REV. T. R. STEVENSON. "And there was a certain disciple at Damascus, named Ananias; and to him said the Lord in a vision, Ananias. And he said, Behold, I am here, Lord."-Acts ix. 10. WHAT differences may lurk under the same name! We read of Judas Iscariot, and of "Judas, not Iscariot "-the one a betrayer and an apostate, the other a thoughtful listener, eager inquirer, and loyal follower of Christ. There is, too, Ananias of evil fame, who fell dead after his deception, and also the Ananias of the verse just quoted. Some one has said, "Happy is the nation which has no history!" The records of men are so much occupied with war, violence, wrong, that those who have none of the former have little of the latter, and are therefore blessed. Even so, we may exclaim, Happy the Ananias who has no history, or, at any rate, a very brief one,-for the more extended and familiar biography is marked by sin and shame of the deepest dye. What may we learn from the story of that Ananias introduced in the chapter from which the text is taken? A man not illustrious may help another who is. Who was Ananias? Only a brief reply can be given to the question, for we are told but little about him. The sum total of our information is as follows: "A "A certain disciple named Ananias," "A man named Ananias, devout man, having a good report of all the Jews that dwelt there.' Scanty materials these. Evidently, he was what we should call a private Christian, without extraordinary gifts or endowments. Moreover, we are not warranted in supposing that he sustained any office in the Church: no hint is given of his being an elder, cr pastor, or preacher. He was simply a disciple. But though he did no great work, he aided another who did a work great and memorable indeed. He introduced Saul of Tarsus into the Church, took him by the hand, and sent him forth on his grand mission. May we use a homely figure? Ananias was like the little steam-tug that takes in tow the stately ship, leaving her at the end of the river to make her voyage over the broad Atlantic. She smiled as it were questioningly into His face, and there stole into her heart a joyous answer and sweet peace." calmly waiting to be restored to health, or to be called hence "to be for ever with the Lord." She, her mother, father, and her grandmother have received from the Dorcas Society occasional gifts of warm clothing. for garments which the Dorcas So-bling itself away, she thought she ciety had given and for other kind- was one of those children Christ ness shown, but, I think, most of took into His arms and blessed. all for a bunch of flowers which Mrs. Brown had sent. How is it the sick are so pleased with flowers? Is it that they speak of beauty, of fresh air and health, and to some at By such a way, rough, painful, least bring a message from that sad, had she been brought to Christ. Heavenly Father who in such love- Many a Sunday-school lesson, or liness arrayeth them, and careth too hymn, or kindly appeal was rememfor us? Would you have a pure bered now, the brightness of her pleasure, send a flower to a sick former life, and the mad gladness of and sorrowing one! The two friends that Whit-week. Her pain is almost would fain have lingered long in forgotten, so great is her joy as, that house, but yet would not weary with ever-enduring gratitude, she Eliza, nor hinder the grandmother, tells of a Saviour's love. And so and so they went their way. They from that time to this she has been did not speak for some minutes, and while there was a smile on Mrs. Jones's face, there was a tear in her eye. At length Mrs. Brown ventured this explanation. "Two years ago last Whit-week Eliza, a scholar in our Sunday-school, was a blooming, healthy, hearty girl of These we have narrated were not fifteen. She was the life and soul all the cases visited by our two of her class, loved by her teacher friends. So interested did they and all who knew her. She was as become that they forgot the oricareless and indifferent as most ginal object of their visits. They girls of her age, but yet had some- have been the means of drying thing exceptionally true and hopeful many a tear, binding up many a about her. She entered on the broken heart, making bright many pleasures of that Whit-week with a sorrowful home, and clothing many more than usual zest. She missed a helpless little one who otherwise no party or trip. Blithe as a lark, would have been subject to pinching day after day saw her early at the cold. Think you that they too have train and late to her bed. It was not been blessed? They will tell a wet week, but what of that? you that they have found it more Strong and robust, her cheerfulness blessed to give than to receive, and never forsook her; she laughed at that there is a true and unspeakable the rain, nor feared a chill, but the joy in the practice of that "ritual" chill came! A surfeit of cold of which James speaks when he seized her, and within a week she says, "Pure religion and undefiled lay ill, helpless, and joyless. Long before God and the Father is this, she tossed in misery, impatient, to visit the fatherless and widows fretful, rebellious. One tumour in their afflictions," as well 66 as to after another took the yet remain- keep himself unspotted from the ing strength from her poor, worn world." body; then came a time when, too weak to cough, and reduced almost to such a skeleton that she could scarcely be any more a prey to disease, and her life seemed just trem One day said Mrs. Brown, "Well, Mrs. Jones, how do you like our Dorcas Society? it 66 'Well, you know, I've got to like so much you can't think. I never |