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Poor Willie! It was a sad fight, but conscience had something more to say yet. "What did the teacher at the Sundayschool talk about last Sunday, Willie? What was the text? 'Thou God seest me!"" "O," cried Willie, "Thou God seest


In a few minutes the boy was at his master's house, and handed the sovereign back, saying there had been a mistake. The master said little at the time, but soon after Willie was placed in a better situation, from which, by good conduct, he rose to a position of comfort and respectability. He found that, even as respects this world, honesty is the best policy; and St. Paul's words, living “in all good conscience before God," were also not forgotten.

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is it?" "Ten years ago," she said, "I was left a widow with eight children utterly unprovided for, and nothing to call my own but this Bible. By its direction, and looking to God for strength, I have been enabled to feed myself and family. I am now tottering to the grave; but I am perfectly happy, because I look forward to a life of immortality with Jesus in heaven. That's what my religion has done for me. What has your way of thinking done for you?" "Well, my good lady," rejoined the lecturer, "I don't want to disturb your comfort; but-" "O! that's not the question," interposed the woman; "keep to the point, Sir. What has your way of thinking done for you?" The infidel endeavoured again to avoid the question; the feeling of the meeting gave vent to applause, and the infidel had to go away silenced by an old woman.

NE day an infidel was lecturing in a village in the north of England, and at the close he challenged discussion. The challenge was accepted by an old, bent woman, in most ancient attire, who went up to the lecturer and said, "I In have a question to put to you." "Well, my good woman, what


HEN foolish lambs forsake the fold,

Through thorny ways to wander wide,

noontide's heat and darkness


To stray upon the mountain side,

Does not the faithful shepherd then

With tireless steps those lambs

pursue O'errocky height, through darksome glen,

To bring them to the fold anew?

Great Shepherd! let Thy watchful


With vigilance Thy flock survey, And by Thy presence, ever nigh, Restrain those lambs that else would stray.

But if, despite Thy warning voice, One wilful lamb from Thee should roam,

Ah! overrule his fatal choice;

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fine creatures as ever I saw. I was to buy groceries and dry goods before I came back, and, above all, a doll for our youngest, 'Dolly;' she had never had a proper doll of her own, only the rag ones her mother had made her. Dolly' could talk of nothing else, and went down to the very gate to call after me to buy a big one.' No one but a parent can understand how much I thought about that toy, and how, when the cattle were sold, the first thing I hurried off to buy was

Pursue, reclaim, and bring him 'Dolly's' doll. I found a large







American Western drover related the follow

ing story: "My name is Anthony Hunt. I am a drover, and I live miles and miles away upon the Western prairie. There wasn't a home within sight when we moved there, my wife and I; and now we haven't many neighbours, though those we have are good ones. One day, about ten years ago, I went away from home to sell some fifty head of cattle

one, with eyes that would open and shut when you pulled a wire, and had it wrapped up in paper and tucked it up under my arm, while I had the parcels of calico, and tea and sugar put


"It might have been more prudent to stay until morning, but I felt anxious to get back, and eager to hear Dolly's ' prattle about her new toy. I mounted on a steady-going old horse, pretty well loaded. Night set in before I was a mile from town, and settled down dark as pitch, while I was in the middle of the wildest bit of road I know. But I could have felt my way,-I remembered it so well; although I was almost,

when the storm that had been brewing broke, and pelted the rain in torrents, five miles, or may be six, from home.



to me, and I mounted, tucking the little soaked child under my coat as well as I could, promising to take it home to 'mammy.'

"It seemed tired to death, and soon cried itself to sleep against my bosom.

"It had slept there over an hour when I saw my own windows. There were lights in them, and I supposed my wife had lit them for my sake; but when I got into the door-yard, I saw something was the matter, and stood still with fear of heart five minutes before I could lift the latch.

"I rode on as fast as I could, but all of a sudden I heard a little cry like a child's voice. stopped short, and listened. heard it again. I called and it answered me. I could see nothing. All was perfectly dark. I got down from my horse, and felt about in the grass-called again, and again I was answered. Then I began to wonder. I'm not timid, but I was known to be a drover, and to have money about me. There might be a trap, I thought, to catch me "At last I opened the door, unawares, and rob and murder and saw the room full of neighme. I am not superstitious; bours, and my wife amidst them, but how, I asked myself, could weeping. When she saw me, a real child be out on the prairie she hid her face. O, don't tell in such a night, at such an him,' she said; it will kill hour? The voice might be more him!' 'What is it, neighthan human, and I was half bours?' I cried, and one said, inclined to run away. But once 'Nothing now, I hope; what's more I heard that cry, and I said, that in your arms?' 'A poor 'Ifany man's child is hereabouts, lost child,' said I. 'I found it Anthony Hunt is not the man on the road. Take it, will you? to let it die.' I searched again. I've turned faint,' and I lifted At last I bethought me of a the sleeping thing, and saw the hollow under the hill, and face of my own child, my little groped that way. Sure enough, 'Dolly.' It was my darling, I found a little dripping thing, and none other, that I had that moaned and sobbed as I picked up upon the drenched took it in my arms. I called road! my horse, and the beast came meet

She had wandered out to daddy and doll' while

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was born in Dublin, in 1751, and in his childhood heard Mr. Wesley preach in that city. When he went to live in London he often attended the preaching of Mr. Wesley, and thus his early religious impressions were renewed. On his return to Ireland, he heard that a clergyman named Smyth had been expelled from his church, though the nephew of an Archbishop, on the charge of being a Methodist. "This," said Mr. Moore to himself, "must be a good man, and I will go and hear him." He did

so, and henceforward regularly went to the Methodist chapel at the place in which he lived. After his conversion, he felt very desirous to bring others to Jesus, particularly his own family and friends, who were greatly opposed to him on account of his religion. He visited prisons, where fever and pestilence prevailed, and tried to teach condemned felons the way to the Saviour, not being ashamed to accompany them in their last sad moments to the gallows. It was not long before he became a preacher, his first sermon being delivered in a deserted weaver's shop, which was furnished for the purpose with seats and a desk.

Mr. Moore laboured to make known the Gospel during several years in his native country, notwithstanding much opposition. Violent mobs of Roman Catholics and of ungodly people assailed him with clods of earth, as well as with foul language, and often his life was in danger. He afterwards removed to this country, where he was very useful and much honoured. He was one of Mr. Wesley's chief friends, and was often his companion in journeys through almost every part of England. Mr. Wesley appointed

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