BIBLE TRUTHS.

SUNDAY, September 6.-" For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh" (Gal. v. 17).

IT

his sins. As often as he thuoght of the cross of Christ he could say, He loved me; he gave himself for me. His death is my life; his suffer

T is better to "hunger and thirst after righteousness" than to beings secure my everlasting joy. By filled with sinful pleasures-better his cross I am raised to a throne of to be fighting and struggling against glory above the stars, at the right the lusts of the flesh than to be hand of God. Well might he expeacefully led captive by them. A claim, "God forbid that I should dead body is perfectly still, and feels glory, save in the cross of our Lord no pain. But who would not rather Jesus Christ." We ought to feel suffer pain and trouble than lie as he felt; and if we are really insensible like a corpse. Let Chris- saved from sin and hell, we shall tians remember this, when tempted to complain of their hard fight with temptation. This inward conflict is

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a sign of life. When we were dead in trespasses and sins," we were "led captive by the devil at his will," and made no resistance, though he was dragging us down to eternal death. Let us thank God that he has given us his Holy Spirit, and led us to strive against the world, the flesh, and the devil. May he help us still to fight the good

fight of faith, and continue steadfast unto the end. We shall have perfect peace in heaven. There the flesh will no longer lust against the Spirit, for we shall be made perfect

in love and holiness.

"Heaven is a place of rest from sin;
But all who hope to enter there
Must here that holy course begin
Which shall their souls for rest prepare."

SUNDAY, September 13.-" But God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord

Jesus Christ" (Gal. vi. 14).

BY the cross of Christ is meant the sufferings and death of Christ upon the cross. What can there be to glory in here? Yet the apostle says that, by God's help, he will glory in nothing else. And he was right. For those sufferings were endured for his salvation. They were to him the pledge that God loved him, and had forgiven

do So. The monarch should

glory in this more than in his crown, and the poorest cottager

may forget all his poverty and sor

row as he joyfully looks to the

cross of his Lord Jesus Christ.

"Sweet the moments, rich in blessing,
Which before the cross I spend,
Life, and health, and peace possessing,
From the sinner's dying Friend."

SUNDAY, September 20.—“ Of whom [Jesus SUNDAY, September 20." Of whom [Jesus Christ] the whole family in heaven and earth is named" (Ephesians iii. 15).

WE VE are here told that Christians that it is Christ who makes them form but one family, and

So.

Through him we become the children of God, and Christ himself "is not ashamed to call us brethren." But those who have the same father and the same brother belong to the same family. Christ teaches us, when we pray, to call God "Our Father." Surely he means us to understand and feel that all who use these words are brothers. Do we "love as brethren"? Do we feel and act towards

one another as children of one family ought to do?

This is true not only of God's people on earth, but of his people on earth and in heaven too. The The Christian when he dies only passes from one part of the family to another. Dying is but going home."

Heaven is our
Heaven is our Father's house.

Many of our brethren have gone there already, and are waiting for us to join them. The friends whom we leave behind will, in their turn, soon follow us. Why, then, should we fear to die? It may seem hard to leave friends on earth, but let us think of friends in heaven.

"One family we dwell in Him,

The Church above, beneath,
Though now divided by the stream,
The narrow stream of death."

SUNDAY, September 27.-"I therefore, the prisoner of the Lord, beseech you that ye walk worthy of

the

vocation wherewith ye are called " (Eph. iv. 1).

AN empty profession of religion

without the reality, is worse than useless. It is to have "a name to live" whilst we are dead. Our vocation as Christians is something more than a name. We must constantly endeavour to walk, that is, to live, worthy of it. He who calls himself the son of a king ought not to live like a beggar; and we who claim to be the children of the King of kings, ought to act accordingly. Let us be careful not to degrade ourselves to the low, base pleasures of sin. This would be to dishonour our profession and to disgrace ourselves. The Christian calling is the most noble on earth. Let us never be ashamed of it, but rather, like the apostle, glory in it. Even though we should have to suffer persecution for Christ's sake, and become "prisoners of the Lord,” let us try to bear it cheerfully, and

show the world around us that our religion can make us patient in tribulation, cheerful in the midst of suffering, and even joyful in the prospect of death itself.

"So let our lips and lives express
The holy gospel we profess;
So let our works and virtues shine
To prove the doctrine all Divine.”

WHAT DO YOU GET FOR

NOTHING?

"SO you won't give me won't give me any

thing!" "You needn't have put it in

that way: way: I've got nothing to give. Nobody gives to me; I get nothing but what I work for and pay for, and it's rather hard to come upon such folks: you should go to them as you may say get plenty for nothing, and have more than they want.'

And old Allan Barrow leant both his elbows on his garden wicket, and turning away from the person he spoke to, looked up the road that led from his cottage, as if he wanted to see some fresh company coming.

The person he spoke to was a grey-headed man, in workman's clothes, by name Silas Pyne. He carried a little book in one hand, and the other held a pencil, ready to write.

"You have told me of two sorts of people,” he said, "that I don't expect to meet with-those that have nothing but what they pay for, and those that have more than they want."

"Very like," said Allan; "but there's some of both in the world, for all that: I've got nothing but what I pay for, but I haven't got more than I want."

Silas smiled and shook his head. "What d'ye shake your head at?" asked Allan gruffly.

"Why, at the mistake you are in, friend," answered Silas, "in thinking you pay for everything."

"Make it out that it's a mistake, and I'll give you leave to put me down five shillings in your book,"

said Allan.

"Thank you," said Silas, with

a laugh now; to do it, will you just give me a draught from your well? it's the best water in the parish."

"but before I begin

"That it is," answered Allan, readily fetching a cup for him; "and it's a prime thing for me, that can't drink much of anything else."

"Ay; what should we do without water," said Silas, taking a deep draught, "when you come to think how it comes into all the things that keep life together?"

"Oh, it's wonderful useful," replied Allan; "maybe the most useful thing in life."

"As to that," said Silas, "we couldn't live in it, though we couldn't live well without it. Air, good fresh air, is the thing we couldn't by any means do without."

"And for that," said Allan," you'll never have finer than this as blows over the common. I take it, it's worth ten years of life to be in a good air."

"You are right there," said Silas, "and I should say you're a proof of it: you look as firm as a rock, and as red as a rose.'

"Not amiss," said Allan: "never knew much about sickness."

"And yet you've lived many years," said Silas.

"Just up to my threescore and ten," answered Allan, nodding.

Silas began to write in his book. "What are you putting down?" asked Allan.

"Your name for five shillings," said Silas: “didn't you say that I should have it if I could prove that you had things that you neither worked for nor paid for?"

"Yes; but you've never begun to do that yet," said Allan.

"For water?" said Silas. "Pooh!" said Allan again.

"For health, and having been brought through threescore years and ten?" continued Silas.

"Oh, as to them-of course we never count up the things that God gives us," said Allan: "I wasn't thinking of them."

"No, friend; few people do think of them," said Silas. "The best blessings, I mean of those belonging to this life, are such as cannot be bought with silver or gold; and they are freely given to the rich and poor, without any difference, and are taken as matters of course without any praise or thanks to the Giver. Come now, I have shown you that you don't pay for the things that you couldn't live without, and I could tell you of many more--can't you find in your heart to give a few pence towards sending his missionaries to preach

to

poor sinners of the better blessings of salvation to eternal life? Surely such a thank-offering would be but becoming.”

"Well," said Allan, putting his hand in his pocket, pocket, "I'm not against giving you a trifle, but I didn't know you was going to talk that way when I said about the five shillings."

"Name your own sum," said Silas. "Give what you will, it must be trifling, looking at what you have received. I've told you of four blessings that the Bank couldn't buy: aren't they worth a shilling apiece?"

COMING HOME.

THE COTTAGE AT THE FIRS.

THE

OHAPTER IX.-A FORESHADOWED EVENT.

HE young man Bryant, who lodged with Godwin, although he had been sent down from London to work at Newton, was not a Londoner by birth, but a native of one of the northern counties, and had served his apprenticeship in the town in which he was born. Like many other country workmen, he had gone to the great city, for the double purpose of obtaining better wages and more experience; there he had followed his trade for five years, and he must have been a good workman by that time, and have had a character for steadiness as well, or he would not have been trusted to overlook the work of others away from his master's eye. He was a well-grown, broadshouldered young fellow of six-and-twenty, with a frank expression of face, a laughing dark eye, and a frame that seemed to bid defiance to fatigue. He was much liked in the village for his fair and candid dealing towards those employed under him, and whose labours he had to direct; he had won their respect also by the example of activity and energy which marked his own conduct.

Godwin, always slow and cautious in judging another, either for good or ill, was among the last to form an opinion of his lodger. He could not help noticing, however, that Bryant was never idle and never entered the doors of a public-house. In fine weather he would seize a spade or a hoe, and lend him a hand in the garden; or he would bring hammer and nails, and repair the fence, the sty, or the fowl-house; and if it rained he would take a book from his box, and pore by the hour together over a page of odd-looking lines and figures of which John could make nothing, though he knew they had something to do with the trades of carpentering and building. But when the evenings grew long, and the fire felt comfortable, and the family gathered around the cottage hearth by the light of a single candle, Bryant would shut up his book, put away his compasses and scales, and drawing up in front of the blazing fagot,

would beguile his host into a conversation, in which, if possible, he would get the wife and children to take a share, mingling now and then some funny joke of his own, which would set them all alaughing till the room rang again. These evening talks, however, generally led the way to some interesting story of London life.

On the Sundays Bryant accompanied the Godwins to church, save on rare occasions, when he would walk over to Bolton to see a friend who had been an old fellow-workman in London, but who now lay bed-ridden in his native village. Poor Adam's constitution had given way under the exacting labours and bad air of a London workshop, and it was almost doubtful whether he would ever again be able to earn his own living. The kindly visits of his old comrade cheered him and did him good; and they were certainly not the less welcome that Bryant rarely went empty-handed, or without some choice cooling fruit, or nourishing vegetable from Godwin's garden.

On one Sunday in every month, Nancy, after attending the service in the morning, was allowed to stay to dine and spend the rest of the day with her parents, always returning at an early hour in the evening. It was Nancy's mother who first remarked that though Harry Bryant went frequently to spend a part of the Sunday with his sick comrade, he did not go when it was Nancy's Sunday at home. In the young man's civility to his daughter Godwin saw nothing remarkable: he knew that the two must necessarily be acquainted, from passing so much of their time under the same roof, the young carpenter having been busy at Cray's Cliff for several months. When Mary hinted at the probability of an attachment between them, John joked her on the score of her extraordinary penetration, but assured her there was no ground for any notion of the kind. "Mr. Bryant," he said, "will, I dare say, look higher than a poor man's daughter when he thinks of settling, and he is not thinking of that just now, you may depend upon it." Mary, of course, did not set up her own judgment against that of her husband; so she said nothing, though she remained much of the same opinion. "You must not think," continued John, "that because this young man offers Nancy his arm when he walks home with us from church, that he has made up his mind to marry her. That is only his good manners and politeness, likeand it is Bryant's nature to be good-mannered, you know and mind, Polly, be sure you don't put such a thing into the girl's head; and perhaps the best thing you can do is to think no more of it yourself."

Whether Mary Godwin thought much or little of it from this time we do not know, but she did not mention the subject again. On the other hand, Godwin, though he had given his opinion so positively, could not help turning the matter over in his thoughts again and again, in consequence of what his wife had said. If he watched Bryant more narrowly than he had ever done before, and passed judgment in his own mind upon the young man's words and actions, it may be that the hints which his wife had dropped had some weight with him, notwithstanding his declared opinion. One thing is certain, and the reader may attach what importance he likes to it. On the Saturday that

followed the above conversation with his wife, Godwin was sent with a load of corn in the wagon over to Bolton, and the first thing he did, after transacting his master's business there, was to call and introduce himself to poor Adams, with a capital dish of sea-kale dug from his garden. With the sick man he talked about Bryant, and as he talked, and listened to the poor fellow's grateful praises of his comrade, who had been his bench-mate and close companion for five years, John was made acquainted more fully with the kind and generous character of his lodger, and he felt that whatever might be the young man's feelings with regard to Nancy, he, as her father, could have no cause for uneasiness. That night, on reaching home, he told Bryant of his visit to Adams, and received his warmest thanks for the kindness shown to his friend.

It was the middle of November; the cold winds had stripped nearly the last of the sere leaves from the trees, and they lay in drifted heaps along the garden walks. Poor Adams slept peacefully in the churchyard, and the grass was already growing green over his grave. The alterations at Cray's Cliff were completed; the men were all dismissed, and Bryant had only remained behind for a few days to put the finishing touch to some work inside, which could be trusted to none of the village hands.

Mary Godwin sat by the cottage fire late in the evening, knitting, and talking now and then to Tom and Bessy, who seemed to be rather out of spirits.

"Oh, Tom," said Bessy, "aren't you sorry that Mr. Bryant is going back to London ?" "I just am sorry," said Tom: "it wont be half such fun when he is gone. Shouldn't I like to go along with him!" "Nousense, boy," said Mary: "what could do in London?"

you

Tom was about to reply, when his father's footstep was heard outside, and Godwin entered.

"What, not gone to bed yet, children? Come, kiss and away, and mind you are up betimes in the morning."

When the young ones had gone up-stairs, Godwin turned with an odd look to his wife. "Has Nancy said anything to you?" he asked. "Has Harry Bryant said anything to you?" was the response; and then both were ready to laugh.

"Well," said Godwin, "I was wrong, and you were right, Polly, that day. It's all settled. Bryant and I have been talking for these two hours in our walks, and I trust I may say that we are satisfied with each other. He is gone now to bid Nancy good-bye. Tomorrow he starts for London, and"Yes," said Mary, "I know the rest, for I was at the Cliff this afternoon, and, of course, Nancy told me their plans. Oh, John, I do hope and trust they will be happy!"

"We can do no more," said John: "they will have our fervent good wishes and our prayers, and we must leave the ordering of their lot to Him who orders all."

The next morning Harry Bryant bade adieu to the Godwins, and returned to London, there to do manful work, in preparing a home for the wife he had chosen.