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WILL'S FIRST AND LAST RUN AWAY.

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FOR THE YOUNG.

Will wished that his mother Mrs. Raymond dropped her sew-would not make such uncomfortable ing and ran to the window, then she requests, also that she would look went to the door, where Louie, with somewhere besides directly in his her pet doll clasped tightly, ran face.

sobbing into her arms. "He's On the whole, he concluded that broked my Rosy, and you said to say nothing was the best way I might take it," she explained out of the difficulty. Accordingly between her sobs. "He's a wicked he kept silent. boy," she continued, her indignation getting the upper hand of her grief, "and I strucked him hard."

"I am waiting, Will," said Mrs. Raymond, very quietly and sadly. "I haven't got anything to say," he replied, moving his position a little.

A faint smiled flitted over Louie's tear- stained face at the His mother moved also. Clearly thought of her success in aveng- it was useless to try to avoid her, ing her wrongs. But just at it always was.

that moment Rosy dropped from There was a long pause between her arms, and lay on the floor them-at least it seemed long to before them. "He's broked her, Will-and then Mrs. Raymond my pretty Rosy, that mamma gave spoke. me. Oh dear, dear, dear!" And once more Louie wept bitterly, refusing to be comforted.

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"I think I understand; will you please tell me if I am wrong? I gave Louie your cart to draw her dolls in. You found her with it, and told her, very crossly too, I fear, to give it to you. She refused, because I told her she might keep it. You snatched it from her, upsetting her dolls, and, worst of all, breaking Rosy, the last thing her mother ever gave her. Am Ĩ right?

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Will knew perfectly well that he never ought to speak in that way to his mother, but Will was all out of sorts.

"What

reason had you for striking her? She is a little girl, your poor motherless little cousin, and you promised before she came to be a brother to her. Instead of that, you have been just as naughty and cross and selfish to her as you could be. I am ashamed of you." If Will had not known all this was true, he would not have said what he did next.

"I think if you love Louie so much the best, and want her to have everything, I had better go away."

He almost expected his mother to apologise, or at least to take back something; instead she only said calmly :

"Unless you can make up your mind to treat Louie kindly, perhaps you had."

Will faced her in astonishment. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, my son, I do not; but Louie is going to live here peaceably and happily, and unless you are willing to treat her better, I say perhaps you had better go."

Mrs. Raymond rose and went back to the house. Will sat still for a few minutes.

"She loves Louie best," he said to himself, and boy as he was, something very like a sob came up and choked him.

Well, it was hard for him. You see, during all the ten years of his life he had been mamma's and papa's pet, his every wish anticipated and indulged.

Sometimes the thought had come to his fond parents that they might be spoiling their darling, but with the thought had also come the memory of five little graves in the churchyard, how could they deny the only one left to them of any thing in their power to grant ?

So when Louie came, it was very hard for Will to yield. Of course at first he had been very sorry for her, it seemed such a dreadful thing to lose one's mother, and he had thought he should be glad to have her come to them. But it was harder than he imagined to see papa and mamma petting her as they had petted him, to see them plan for her happiness as they did for his, and to have to share the goodnight talks and kisses.

And then to have them take Louie's part against him-it was very hard.

"I don't see why she need to take my mother and father away from me just because she has lost her own," he said to himself over and over again, and grew more selfish and cross to little Louie each time, until to-night, when he came home and found her so happy with that old cart of his, he had felt so cross. Of course he did not admit to himself that he was cross. Oh no, he tried to make himself think that it was very unjust in his mother to have given anything of his to Louie without his permission.

So he sought to justify himself for his rude demand and rough snatching.

To tell the truth, Will did feel ashamed of himself; and to think he should have broken Rosy, Louie's pet doll!

But then, he said, he did not intend to do it, he had no idea of hurting any of her dolls, he only wanted his cart.

And so Will thought it over as he sat there, until he convinced himself that he was very much to be pitied.

"If they had rather have Louie, I'll let them. I'll go off somewhere, and perhaps when I've been gone awhile they'll wish they had been kinder to me.'

Will really felt sorry for his father and mother.

But then he did not really think

his mother would let him leave ready to comply with my conditions. If you want any clothes, send for them. And I hope you will write now and then."

home; but in case she should, how sorry she would be when she heard he was a great man-for in some way, he did not know just how, Will had become in imagination a great and famous man-how sorry she would be that she had turned him away from home! Perhaps they would send for him. Well, he would be gracious and forgiving. Will picked up his cap and sauntered up to the house.

Louie had sobbed herself to sleep; his mother sat by the window sewing. Will noticed with a pang of regret that his mother looked very sad.

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I thought I'd come and tell you I had concluded to go, so Louie can be happy and have everything."

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"Yes. I might do something to make Louie feel bad if I stayed, and she must not feel bad any way." "No. But where are you going?" "Oh, I don't know, but I'll find a place somewhere."

"To work? Yes, of course you will have to work if you go away."

Will had not thought of that before: it was not a pleasant prospect, for he did not like work. He almost wished he had not said anything about going, and he entirely wished mamma would ask him to give it up.

But she only said, "It looks like rain. I think you had better stay until you find a place, or at any rate till it clears up."

"No, if I'm going I'd better go at once." He turned, hoping even yet to be asked to stay.

"Well, my son; remember, you can come back whenever you are

Will pulled his cap down over his eyes and went out of the yard as fast as possible.

"She's glad to get rid of me," he said bitterly.

An hour later, when Mr. Raymond came home, he was met at the door by his anxious wife, who hastily told him the story of the afternoon's conflict. The clouds had come down, and already great drops of rain were falling fast.

"I did not imagine he would really go. I thought he was trying to frighten me; where can he be?"

"Oh, he'll not go far, you may be sure. The first drop of rain will turn him home any way," answered the father reassuringly.

Then he went to the barn, to look after the horse he said, but really to look up and down the road for the wanderer.

No sight of him anywhere. Mr. Raymond looked and looked in vain, then he came back to the house.

"Ill just go out down the street a little way. Get supper ready,

and we will be home immediately." Meanwhile, where was Will?

He was so wrapt up in his cross, envious thoughts, for quite awhile, that he did not notice where he was going.

When he did look around him, he found himself at a corner. Both roads were the same to him, he did not remember having been in either.

He saw that it was fast clouding up; it was near night, too; and Will thought with sudden anxiety as to where he should get his supper.

Finally, he made a desperate plunge down the right-hand road with a resolve to stop at the first house, and ask for work and supper, But it was a long way before he

came to any house, and he was very tired and wet, for the rain was falling fast.

A cross-looking woman came to the door. He thought with almost a sob of what a pleasant face his mother had. His heart beat fast as he timidly asked if she wanted to hire any one.

"Not such a baby as you are. You'd better go right home to your mother as fast as you can," she said; then she shut the door, but not before he had caught a glimpse of a boy about his size sitting cosily by the fire, and the table set for supper.

The supper table was set at his home too. He knew how it looked. Perhaps papa, mamma, and Louie were sitting down round it now, while he was out in the cold and dark and rain.

Do you know what he did? He sat down outside the gate and sobbed as if his heart would break. He began to realise what a happy home he had had, and what a naughty, selfish boy he had been.

All the time it was growing darker, and the rain was coming faster and faster. Clearly he must do something soon.

All at cnce he sprang up quickly.

"I'm going home to my mother," he said. But oh, how tired and lame he was! Every step grew harder, and the way was so long. When he reached the corner, he was so tired that he sat down to rest for a moment. The next he knew some one touched him on the shoulder. "I'm "-he looked up—“ Oh, papa!" Lame and sore and tired as he was, Will sprang up, put both his arms around his father's neck, and sobbed out,

"Oh, papa, I do love you and mamma so. Mayn't I come home? I'll give everything to Louie."

Papa lifted him up, took his lantern, and trudged off in the rain; and I fancy there were tears in his eyes as well as Will's.

Such a long talk he and mamma had that night, and how happy Will felt to be home again!

"I tell you, mamma," he said as he kissed her for the hundredth time, "I tell you, when I found how dreadful it was to be without a home and mother, I just said I'd be good to any one that hadn't one after this."

And he was; furthermore, he had never again the slightest inclination to leave home.

CLOSE WALKING WITH GOD.

BY THE REV. THEODORE L. CUYLER, D.D.

A MAN is known by the company he keeps. This is as true of his spiritual as it is of his social status. The finest eulogy which is pronounced on any Old Testament saint is that line written opposite to the name of Enoch-" he walked with God." He also had this testimony that he pleased God. That was a long walk which the grand old man took, for it lasted three hundred years, and he never came back from it. The gate of his Father's house suddenly opened, and Enoch walked in; death did not so much as even set his eye upon him.

In order to a spiritual fellowship with God, we must first be reconciled to Him. The carnal heart is at enmity with a holy God, and

how can two walk together except they be agreed? There is but one door of reconciliation, and that is by the cross of Christ; Paul states this most emphatically when he says, "You that were sometimes enemies in your mind by wicked works, hath he reconciled in the the body of his flesh through death." The more deep the repentance, and the more thorough the conversion, the more heartily does the new believer come into harmony with God. That is one reason why so many church-members fall off easily into backsliding, or limp along with such a feeble, unsteady gait; they never, at the outset, broke off sincerely from their sins and gave themselves to God with the whole heart.

When a soul is renewed and brought into harmony with God, there is indescribable delight in walking with Him. No matter how obscure be a Christian's home, or however coarse his raiment, Christ never chooses His intimate friends on account of their externals. He loves to make grandees out of fishermen and publicans, and confers His patents of nobility on poor widows in their garrets, and on negro "Uncle Toms" in their cabins. I never feel nearer to heaven than when I am making a pastoral visit to some of God's "hidden ones in a by-street, or some chamber of suffering.

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How rich the Bible is in its descriptions of the believer's relations with His God! It is described as a hiding under the shadow of His wing as if God hovered his young birds until they were ready to fly heavenward. It is a dwelling in the secret places of the Almightyas if He admitted us into the privileged inner chamber from which the world is shut out. It is spoken of as a drawing nigh unto God, and as a sitting down with Christ in heaven-like places. Truly our fellowship is with the Father, and with His Son Jesus Christ. In order to this intimate walk and sweet converse there must be thorough congeniality of feeling. In wedlock, happiness does not depend on similarity of temperament; for the bold and impulsive are often best mated with the timid and the gentle. But it does depend on harmony of heart. Where there is old-fashioned, unselfish love, a true wife can surrender cheerfully life's luxuries, and go singing into the vale of poverty with the man in whom her soul delighteth. Such is the union of Christ with His espoused ones whom He has redeemed unto Himself.

The benefits of an intimate walk with our Lord are innumerable. It brings a constant sense of His presence, so that we are never lonesome. Elijah is never alone by the desert brook, nor Paul in his Pretorian cell, nor John in his exile on Patmos. In the night-watches our meditations of Him are sweet. This daily walk with God is infinitely stimulating and elevating. There are some people that you never can spend a half-hour with and not be the better for it; their talk is so fertilising. An hour with God over His Word, and in the communion of the closet, lifts the soul into the very confines of heaven. There is one kind of "close communion" that all devout

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