"Because I am only daily governess, and I must have a place to live in." Why did he put affection last? happiness complete when he walked He stopped; he trothed husband of Ruth Smith? judgment say to it? "Won't Mrs. Mudfordhardly knew what he meant or wished to say. "No," said Ruth, sorrowfully; "she says she would take me if she could, but the house is small, and she has been wanting to make a change." "Make a change?" repeated Horace. "Yes, I am not quite sufficient governess now the children are getting older. She wants them to learn more than I can teach them." "What a pity!" exclaimed Horace, abruptly. "Yes, because I am so sorry to leave the town and go among strangers. I love this place-I was born in it." And a tear trembled in her eye again. "Where do you think of going to ?" asked Horace, after a moment's pause. And was his away the beWhat did his "You look quite fagged out, ma'am! Let me hold the child." "No, no!" and she clasped the child tighter, and spoke hurriedly and excitedly. Then, as if recollecting herself, she added, in a quieter tone, "No, thank you; I am not tired," and she looked down at the little fair-haired creature nestling in her arms. "That's curious!" said the man, as if speaking to himself. He was a decent-looking working-man, who was "I hardly know. That is the advertisement I| taking a long journey in search of employment-not have just answered. It is a long way off." so long a journey, however, as his fellow-traveller. She had been in the carriage a couple of hours when he got in. And only a very small salary and a great deal to do," rejoined Horace, reading it. "I can never think of letting you go." She smiled and blushed. How pretty, how helpless, how forlorn she was! Could he let her go tossing and drifting away to a place where she would be lost to him for ever? What a wretched thing for her to be the drudge of the household for a sum of fifteen pounds a year! And perhaps be unkindly treatedwho knows? My "What a shame!" exclaimed Horace, indignantly. My aunt was very fond of Martha, and she never liked me," was the meek reply. "And if you don't get the situation, what shall you do then?" asked Horace. Ruth's eyes were turned upon him with that look of innocent wonder which was so charming. "I don't know-I can't imagine," she replied. Ruth," said Horace, calmly, though his heart had never beat so fast in his life-" Ruth I cansot let you go anywhere. You must stay here-here, with me." She trembled from head to foot. He saw she did. And she turned pale and red. He could see that che knew what he meant. And it was impossible to stop on that border-land, where to hesitate or to retract would be dishonourable. He took her hand; his feelings were excited. It was love, he thought, and pity, and a desire to rescue the weak, all combined. His judgment, calmer and cooler, stood aloof while the deed was done. "You must stay, Ruth. Your home must be my home. You must be my wife." Unconsciously he assumed more the tone of command than of entreaty. He knew he should not be refused; he knew his offer would afford her what she needed-protection, a home, and affection. She was a small spare woman, poorly, nay, insufficiently, clothed; for, though it was autumn, the weather was stormy and winterly. Her black print gown and thin shawl did not keep out the cold, for now and then she shivered. But whatever her externals might be, there was something in her speech and manner that bespoke the lady. The man was not far wrong when he called her "ma'am." Though she would not allow it, she must have been very weary. It was getting late in the gloomy autumn afternoon, and she had taken her ticket at six that morning. Her child was a little fragile creature, with a tiny white face, and a pair of wondering blue eyes. It was as lovely a child as could be, in spite of its delicate, almost puny, appearance. "A breath of wind might have blown it away," was a remark that had been more than once made of it. The mother was a widow-you could see that, by the cap under the poor shabby bonnet-a widow, and this her only child, perhaps the one tie which bound her to life! Where she was going to no one could find out. Many questions had been put to her in the course of the day, but had elicited nothing. A bundle and a small box were her only luggage. And onwards sped the whirling steam, from place to place, onward and onward. Yet the widow never moved. She was still on her way. Once, when the train stopped, she said to the man who had spoken, "Is this East Bramley?" "No, ma'am, not yet awhile. There's six more stations. I get out at the next." She was She gave a little sigh of weariness. giving way, he thought. It went to his heart to see the pale face opposite, hour after hour. "I wish I was going farther," said he, good IN DUTY BOUND. naturedly. "I could have been some help to you, maybe." "I do not want help," replied she, quietly. He did not say any more. Her distant manner repelled him, but his heart was touched all the same. He could not but see how she wrapped her shawl round her, in the vain attempt to keep out the cold. Her child was better and more suitably clad than she was. It had on a warm cloak, trimmed with fur, and warm mittens, and a comforter round its neck. At the first glance, you might have fancied it was the child of her mistress; but not at the second; the mother's love was apparent in every line of her face. 5 the landlady, when the bargain was completed, and the stranger had taken possession. "Nothing, thank you, except some milk and bread for the child." "Poor little thing, how ill it looks," said the landlady, pityingly. She was herself the mother of seven. "Ill! She is not ill," cried the widow, sharply; "she has never had a day's illness in her life." "No offence · -no offence!" said the landlady, quickly; and, with another glance at the child, pray how old is she?" 66 "She will be two years old next month, bless her!" said the mother, fondly. "Ah! you should see mine of that age. I've one Six stations more, and the name was shouted up that will be two in January. Such arms and legs and down the platform-"East Bramley." Though her usual demeanour was so quiet and patient, she had every now and then a quick, impetuous way with her. She had it at this moment. "He's one of our first men," continued the porter, carelessly, and reading the address on the box; "he lives at Bramley Hall." A look of surprise, anxiety, and alarm were blended in the woman's face. It would have been difficult to say which was uppermost. "Thank you," she replied, taking up her bundle. "Is there a lodging close by?" "Close as can be. Just over the way. You go through that door." "Are they expensive-the lodgings I mean ?" asked she, timidly. "No-oh no! I'll carry the box across. You see all this part of the town is new. That row of houses was not built two years ago. Mrs. Mason is the name. That's the card in the window." "Thank you," she replied again. He set down the box, and ran quickly away, for the bell had rung, and another train was approaching. He left the widow standing in the street. She stood a moment looking about her with the same half-bewildered air. Then the wind rushed by her with such a nipping blast, that she was glad to knock hastily at the door. she has! and such a colour! Why, she can run about anywhere; but then mine are all hearty children, thank Heaven for it!" The widow did not speak, nor did she begin to undress the child till the other mother was gone. Then she took off the little hat, and showed the full beauty of the golden curls; and she unfastened the cloak, and took off the comforter. What a fragile creature it was that lay on her lap! What tiny arms it had! how thin and wasted! Its little hands were like those of an infant. The look of delicacy in its mite of a face was almost unearthly. She sat with it in her lap, looking at it as it lay still half asleep. It was a yearning, heart-broken look. You might have fancied she would have burst into a flood of tears; but she did not. Her tears never lay very near, and perhaps their source had been dried up. "She has never been ill," repeated the widow to herself, holding an oft-recurring argument with her fears; "and I was a little puny child, and difficult to rear. Besides " A look of sharp distress came into her face. Surely she will weep; but she does not. The child by this time was fully awake. It opened its large wondering eyes, and began to look round. "Yes, my darling-my sweet one-my treasure! and she kissed it and pressed it nearer to her. The wondering eyes-blue they were as heaventook note of everything. Something seemed to be absent. The child turned to her mother, and said, with a plaintive cry, " Papa-papa!" Again the widow pressed the child to her heart. 66 Ethel, papa is in heaven!" and she looked upwards—" in heaven, with God and the angels." The child's eyes followed the direction of the mother's, and were raised upwards. The little face The lodging she took consisted of a bedroom only, looked so pure, so frail, so ethereal, you might have fancied the spirit was about to wing its way upwards and she took it for one night. "Shall you like tea or dinner, or what?" asked too. But a struggle arose in her mind. She could not let the night slip by without doing her errand. The very purpose and gist of the journey lay in that errand. And she must leave the child in charge of a stranger. The mother knew it might be so in her heart; remarked upon. It was like touching a wound that she dare not gainsay the fact. Her child rarely festered. laughed; it had a smile of almost angelic sweetness; it would sit quiet for hours; it was obedient and good and loving; for its age she thought it was a prodigy. It could understand all that was said to it; it lisped its little prayer morning and night, its small hands reverently put together; she almost dreaded to see it, it looked so unlike all that appertains to this grosser world; it was never fretful, and had never been absolutely ill. But the doctor had shaken his head, and said something about want of stamina; that the best of living was needed, and the best of care. "She cannot rough it," the doctor said, "like other children. She is a hot-house plant by nature. If she has to rough it, she will die." This speech had made the widow desperate. She eculd not screen her child. What shelter had she for herself? But a step was on the stairs. She was of a reserved sensitive nature; she laid the child on the bed, and drew the coverlet over it; she could scarcely bear the woman of the house to see it; she did not want the little wasted arms and tiny hands to be The stranger was as kind as could be. When the child had eaten, and was laid to rest, she offered to sit by it. 66 My little ones are in bed and asleep," said she, The mother had scarce tasted bit or sup. Her lips it. When she was gone, the landlady sat down by the "Ah!" said she, laying it hastily down, as if WORDS IN SEASON. THE TRANSFIGURATION.-I. BY THE REV. CANON BATEMAN, M.A., VICAR OF MARGATE. E are taught in Holy Scripture that 'God and man is one Christ;" and never was the veil of the humanity so nearly dropped as on the Mount of Transfiguration, when for a little while the "earth was lightened with his glory." The disciples were overpowered with the vision. It was with them, as with Abram when the word of the Lord came unto him in a vision, and a deep sleep fell upon him (Gen. xv. 12); as with Moses, when, hidden in a clift of the rock, the glory of the Lord passed by (Exod. xxxiii. 22); as with Isaiah when he saw the Lord upon a throne, high and lifted up, and his train filled the temple, and one cried unto another and said, "Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord of hosts: the whole earth is full of his glory" (Isa. vi. 3); as with Daniel when he was left alone and saw the great vision, and there remained no strength in him, but he was in a deep sleep on his face, and his face towards the ground (Dan. x. 9)-so with Peter, James, and John, the three chosen disciples, on the Mount. They had seen the countenance of their Master change, and his raiment become "white and glistering;" they had heard Moses and Elias talk with him of "the deccase which he should accomplish at Jerusalem;" they had felt that heavi ness and oppression of the senses which a vision Such is the general narrative of the Transfigu- 1. CHOSEN DISCIPLES. Peter, James, and John were the three disciples chosen to be witnesses, not only of their Lord's highest exaltation, but of his deepest humiliation : they were called to be with him alike on Mount Tabor, and in the garden of Gethsemane. The Evangelists give no reason for this selection, and throw no light upon it. The three" may be taken as the chosen representatives of Christianity in its earliest days, when to believe, to love, and to suffer, were its distinctive peculiarities. For this is that PETER on whose confession of faith, that Christ is "the Son of the living God," the Church 1 66 WORDS IN SEASON. 7 Let us see to it, then, that we are chosen disciples. Ah! that every reader of these words were but impressed with a sense of the supreme blessedness of reconciliation with God through Jesus Christ, and of having both the title and the meetness for the inheritance of the saints in light. May God inspire the prayer which shall ask for this preparedness alike for life and death, for things temporal and things eternal! has ever rested; and this is that JOHN whose the Divine image-if then we responded to God's motto, even to extreme old age, was "Little call, and yielded to the influences of God's grace; children love one another;" and this is that JAMES if we went to Christ without the camp bearing his who, when Herod the king stretched forth his reproach; if we cast in our lot unreservedly with hands to vex the Church, was "killed with the the people of God; if we were found" fellow-helpers sword." Christianity needs to be represented by to the truth," standard-bearers of the church, "these three," and without them it is little worth. teachers of the young and ignorant, visitors of the Without faith, it has no rock; without love, it has "fatherless and widows in their affliction," comno cohesion; without suffering, it has no reality. municants at the table, confessors of the Gospel— Read the sad doom, as recorded in the Epistle to then no harm can happen to us. We are prepared the Hebrews, of those who "were once enlightened, for troublous times. To live is Christ, and to die and have tasted of the heavenly gift, and were is gain. We may go in and out like Ruth among made partakers of the Holy Ghost, and have the reapers; no one will touch us nothing will tasted the good word of God, and the powers of the harm us, friends will be raised of the Lord, and world to come;" the impossibility, "if they shall sheaves will be dropped for us, beside us-all will fall away, to renew them again unto repentance' be well. We are safe, for we are true penitents for (Heb. vi. 4). You behold here a fairly constructed sin, true believers in Christ, true followers of them building; plenty of light has been admitted; there who through faith and patience have inherited the is variety, if not abundance, in the larder; one promises. To us the word of promise appertains: heavenly Visitant seems to have turned aside, "My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and like a wayfaring man, to tarry for a night; there they follow me; and I give unto them eternal life, is a good look-out. Wherefore, then, does the and they shall never perish, neither shall any man building fall to pieces? Because there is nothing pluck them out of my hand." by which the whole is compacted together. Examine as narrowly as you may, you will see no signs of Peter, John, or James having ever been there; no signs of the "work of faith," or "labour of love," or patience of hope," of which they stand as representatives. Without these, every Christian temple falls to pieces; and it is impossible to rebuild it. Whether our Lord by his choice would teach us this, we know not; but He "knoweth them that are his," and chosen disciples must have the necessary qualifications. They must be familiar with the heights and depths of Nothing is said about prayer in St. Matthew's Christianity. Theirs must be the faithful and account of the Transfiguration. We read only fearless confession, the love above all things, and that, "After six days Jesus taketh Peter, James, the willingness to suffer for his dear name's sake. and John his brother, and bringeth them up into Then are they fit companions for the Lord, an high mountain apart, and was transfigured whether he is transfigured on the mountain, or before them." This shows the value of separate sheds as it were great drops of blood in the garden. Gospels. What one omits, another supplies. Chosen disciples need never fear. What is it Minute but interesting information is furnished. that makes the soul sink when clouds are gather- Questions suggested by one narrative, are ansing, and prospects darkening, and families sepa-wered in another. We might have supposed-and rating, and friends passing by on the other side? there would have been no harm in the supposition It is a sense of insecurity, a trembling, a heart--that our Lord had taken the disciples to the quake. There comes over us a feeling that we mountain-top with a view to the Transfiguration are not safe; that we have not obeyed the call of grace, not signed and sealed the covenant, not been made partakers of the Divine nature, not escaped "the corruption that is in the world through lust," not kept our garments "unspotted," not walked "as it becometh saints." The want of this conviction daunts the soul. If in the time when the power of choice was given us, when all things were quiet, when God "preserved us," and his "secret was upon our tabernacle;" when the heart was tender, and the habits could be pressed easily into the Divine mould, and thus formed into II.-MOUNTAIN PRAYERS. only, and that his chief object was to confirm their faith by a manifestation of his glory; but this would seem to be a partial, if not an erroneous conclusion. St. Luke tells us that, "he took Peter, and James, and John, and went up into a mountain to pray." That was his object; but as he prayed (Ev T Tроσεúxeσ0α) the fashion of his countenance was altered." The transfiguration then came upon the prayer. The shining countenance and glistering garments were consequent on it; as in our own cases, we shall soon see, they often are. But first, let us contemplate THE LORD in prayer. The bended knee in his case is a great mystery; but as an example, how far does it transcend all commands to pray! Who can restrain prayer when we see our Lord, himself an object of worship, worshipping; when so many nights are spent in, and mountains consecrated by, prayer? What, then, is prayer? It is making known our requests to God, spreading our wants before him, acknowledging sinfulness, entreating forgiveness, imploring help, seeking counsel, telling sad tales of sorrow, recounting glad instances of deliverance. We have specimens of prayers like these from holy men of old-from Moses, from David, from Ezra, from Daniel-but these give no idea of what prayer must be, as uttered by the LORD OF ALL. What dropped from his lips during the still and solitary watches of the night? What aspirations rose to heaven from those mountain-tops? There must be something higher and holier in prayer itself than we have any conception of by our own experience, or from the records of earlier days! If we would learn what prayer really is, we must go to the upper chamber in Jerusalem, where Jesus is keeping the last passover with his disciples. He washes their feet, answers their inquiries, allays their apprehensions, speaks peace to their souls, promises the Comforter: and then bids them "Arise," and "go hence." They " rise," doubtless; but before they "go," there is the lingering, and grouping, and clinging, and more last words, so natural and touching when ties are stretching, and hearts are aching, and clouds are gathering 66 "And days are dark, and friends are few." The little company still stand grouped around their Lord in that upper chamber, and He, who having loved his own, loved them unto the end," has still last words to speak-of a union amongst his followers close and mysterious, as between the vine and branches; of a life to be laid down for his friends; of love knitting hearts together; of a world hating and persecuting; of good cheer in the midst of tribulation. Then prayer bursts forth; and if any one would know and feel what prayer really is, if he would know what really passed on bended knees and mountain-tops, let him, distrusting memory, and seeking a fresh impression on a prepared mind, turn to and read each word recorded in the seventeenth chapter of St. John, after the Lord had lifted up his eyes to heaven and appealed to the Divine fatherhood of God. That is prayer. That is what causes the face to shine, and the garments to become white as snow. In the case of our blessed Lord the change was real and visible; in our own cases it is figurative and spiritual, as may be easily explained in several cases, and in few words : 1. Our souls are disquieted within us: we may be heavy with sorrow: the world may have cast out our names as evil: trouble may be hard at hand, whilst there is none to help: and we may be ready to cry out, "Lord, I am oppressed; undertake for me." For a time there is neither "voice nor metion, nor any that regardeth." The heavens are "like iron and brass." Our prayer seems to "return into our own bosom." But how, thus unanswered and unrelieved, can we face again the enemies that have prevailed before? How go up and down the world amidst the snares which have entangled our feet already? How with "ten thousand" meet him that cometh against us with "twenty thousand ?" Again-and yet again, if needs be the knee is bent, and the prayer poured out before God. The threefold retirement; the threefold prostration; the threefold repetition of the same words, as exhibited in the Garden of Gethsemane, are not unknown to the tried and tempted believer. And as at length there appeared an angel from heaven "strengthening Him," so now the Holy Spirit helps our infirmities, and there gradually comes over the mind a calmness, an acquiescence, a resignation, a freedom from all prepossessions, a submission unfeigned and unconditional, which displaces the complaints, the recriminations, the claims, the passionate appeals, the importunate requests which would take no denial, just before. The surface of the sea was agitated by fierce winds: there is now a great calm: the matter is left in God's hands, the care is cast upon him, the choice is laid aside, the decision is left. "Thou shalt answer for me, O Lord my God," we say: "Thou knowest best:" "Thy judgments are right:" "Not my will, but thine be done!" What a transfiguration is here! How has the spirit of heaviness given place to the garments of salvation! How surely will the way be made plain, and the songs of deliverance be put into the mouth! 2. It is the same when we are vexed with "pining sickness," as Hezekiah was, or when we are constrained, with the sisters of Bethany, to say, “Lord, he whom thou lovest is sick:" or when, with Ezekiel, we hear the Divine decree," Son of Man, behold I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke." When from any of these causes, or others of a like kind, the voice of joy and gladness ceases, and the house is hushed in sadness, how wonderful is the transfigurationhow blessed to be able to draw near to the mercy seat, and to feel Nature, with its floods of tears, and clamorous complaints, and torrents of remonstrance, and self-upbraiding reminiscences of the past, and hopeless anticipations of the future, giving place to grace, with its recognition of God's hand, and silent acquiescence in his blessed will, and tracing |