way, rather inclined to be wild, yet a great favourite in Mrs. Wilson's family on account of his good-tempered, genial disposition. As he came into the room, the clean, broad sheet of the almanack at once caught his eye.

"What have you got here, young chap?" he said, crossing over to look at it.

"That's my almanack, Tom," said Harry, starting up in bed, in spite of his sleepiness.

Oh, that's it, is it? What's the good of it to you, young 'un ?"

Why, don't you see, Tom, there's a verse on it for every day in the year? Miss May gave it me, and she says I must learn one every morning, and I mean to: won't you learn it, Tom, as well as me?"

"Can't say," responded Tom; "never was good at learning anything but mischief. What's the use of it, Hal?"

"Why, it's something to think about all day, Miss May says. Look at the text for to-day, Tom. Ain't it a nice one for the first day in the year? Choose you this day whom ye will serve.' Oughtn't we to begin to serve God to-day, don't you think, Tom?"

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There, shut up! don't bother!" said Tom, good-humouredly, as he tumbled into bed; "you'd better go to sleep-I mean to." And a few minutes verified his words. Harry lay awake, thinking, for some little time, and then he followed his companion's example, and slept soundly until aroused by his father at the usual early hour next morning. Mr. Wilson was foreman in a butcher's shop, and Harry had, at this busy time of the year, to help in collecting the orders. Tom Short worked at a sugar manufactory in the town, where early hours and punctuality were rigidly enforced; so with a preliminary grumble he turned out of bed, and set to work vigorously to perform his morning ablutions.

"Look out, Tom! how you're splashing my almanack! just mind, will you?" remonstrated Harry, from the other side of the room.

"Put it somewhere else, then, old fellow," returned Tom, again ducking his head in the basin.

"There ain't another good place for it. You don't need to make such a mess, Tom."

"All right, Hal. I say, have you learnt your text, though? Must be a good boy, you know. Come, let's see if you can say it right off, out of book."

"Of course I can," replied Harry. is death.' Come, ain't that right?"

"The wages of sin

"S'pose so," said Tom, suddenly sobered for a few minutes. Then, as if to chase away any serious thought, he commenced whistling a popular melody as he ran down the stairs, and started off on his morning walk, reaching the factory just as the half past six bell was ringing, and the workmen pouring through the great gate into the yard. All hands were soon hard at work, till the breakfast bell summoned them to half an hour's rest and refreshment.

"What's the news this morning, Tom Short?" inquired a tall, dark man, Stephen Jones by name, as with a terrific yawn he prepared to partake of a comfortable meal just brought in to him by his little girl.

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Don't know," replied Tom; "there ain't no news as I knows on. If you'd ask me, now, what's the text this morning, I could tell you."

"What d'ye mean?" said Stephen, with a broad stare, while some of the men near looked up inquiringly.

"What I say," replied Tom; "the text for to-day, off the almanack the little 'un where I lodge had given him yesterday. He was told to learn it every day, so I learn it too, just to encourage him, you see.”

"I should think so," responded Jones, with a sneer. "You're a nice one, ain't you, to encourage anything good? Well, what is the text, then? Might do us good to know it too."

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"Well, so it might," said Tom. "The wages of sin is death,'-that's the text."

"Well, now, give us a sermon upon it," sneeringly responded Jones; "a nice parson you'd make! I don't believe that's in the Bible."

"It is," said Tom, stoutly.

"How do you know, Tom?" interposed another of the men, Silas Greighton; "didn't read it there, did you?" A laugh arose from several of his companions at the idea of Tom Short reading the Bible.

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Come, now," pursued Jones, "if it's in the Bible, give us chapter and verse for it; out with it-fifty-seventh chapter of Revelation

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"Shut up, Jones," interrupted John Stone, a middleaged, serious-looking man, who had not before spoken; "don't jeer at the Bible; Tom's right, the text is there;

better for many of you if it wasn't. There's some of you earning those wages fast enough, and there'll be a heavy reckoning day soon. If you work for the devil, he'll pay you, never fear; you won't have to complain of short payments when he comes along to see what he owes you.'

The work-bell prevented Jones from uttering the sneering reply that was on his lips, and the men quickly dispersed to their various posts.

There was one man who had sat by in silence while the foregoing conversation was carried on, eating his scanty meal, apparently heedless of the voices of the speakers-a slight, weakly-looking man, with deep lines of care traced on his thin, sickly face. Mark Harper had his share of trouble-more than his share, he was ready to complain to any sympathizing listener-ill-health, a dissipated son, who was a sore burden instead of a help to him, and a wife fast sinking into the grave, slowly dying of consumption. He was noted among his companions for his silence, seldom exchanging a word with any of them from the time he entered the yard in the morning till he quitted it at night. By many he was spoken of as "half-witted" and "simple;" he may have been so, but his senses, at any rate, were sharp enough to take in the meaning of the words spoken by his fellow-workmen on the subject of Tom's text. "The wages of sin is death," he muttered to himself, as he slowly rose from his seat and applied himself to his work; "sure I've earned those wages all my life." The words haunted him; he could not put them out of his head; they seemed to sound in his ears above the roar and crash of the machinery, and to be whispered on every side as he walked home in the dark, rainy evening. He reached his little cottage on the outskirts of the town, and sat down, as usual, by the bedside of his sick wife. They came to him with greater force than ever, "The wages of sin is death;" and unconsciously he uttered them half aloud. His wife caught the sound, and turned her eyes, bright with fever, upon him. "That's it, Mark," she said, in a faint whisper; "the doctor said to-day I'm dying; he can do nothing more for me; and I know that's true, 'The wages of sin is death;' I've done nothing but sin all my life, and now I'm afraid to die."

Mark did not answer; he did not know what to say; poor fellow, he was even more ignorant than she; so he sat in silence by her side, till the night was far advanced,

hearing now and again, amidst her restless moanings, the whispered words, "The wages of sin is death."

The third morning of the year rose brighter than the previous one had done; and when the breakfast-bell sounded through the factory of Messrs. Carter and Vining, a few gleams of sunshine sparkled through the low windows of the room where the workmen were assembling to partake of their morning meal.

"Now what's your text, Tom Short?" called Stephen Jones, the moment the young man entered the room; “in course you've learnt it?"

"Stephen Jones," spoke up John Stone, hastily, "we'll have no trifling with God's word here, if I can help it; I've been taught to reverence the Bible, and I won't sit by and hear it made game of. Look here, now let's strike a bargain," and he pulled a small Bible from the pocket of his working jacket. "If Tom Short 'ill bring us the text off the almanack every morning, and the chapter that it's in, I'll read you the chapter, provided you'll hear it steady like, and no jeering, nor nothing of that kind. It'll do us no harm to begin the day by hearing what the Lord says in his word; may be 'twill do some of us good-all of us, I hope, with the blessing of God. What say you, lads? is it a bargain?"

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Ay, ay!" responded some of the men, heartily. Jones and a few others shrugged their shoulders and muttered "Methodist," but they raised no objection to the proposed plan.

John Stone looked round with a pleased smile, "Well, then, we'll do it, and may it be blessed to our souls!" removing his cap as he spoke. "Now then, Short, for the text; we're all ready."

"Stand out, Tom, let's all hear," shouted Silas Greighton. Tom stood up. "The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin," he repeated in a clear, distinct voice. "I can't mind the chapter and verse, John, I didn't notice particular."

"Never mind, my man," replied Stone; and turning over rapidly the leaves of his little Bible, he began to read the first chapter of the First Epistle of John. The men listened attentively, no interruption was offered and when the reader closed the book there was a deep silence.

To the surprise of all, Mark Harper was the first to speak, "Thank ye John, that's done me good," he said;

and then many of the other men uttered like acknowledgments as they moved away to their daily work.

As the evening closed in, and the workmen were dispersing through the large iron gates, their day's labour over, some one pulled the sleeve of Tom Short's jacket; he turned and saw Mark Harper standing by him, "Would ye mind, lad, just telling me that again?" he said, hurriedly. "That text, what you said this morning."

"Is it The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin' that you mean?" asked Tom, in some astonishment.

"Ay, thank ye, that'll do;" and dropping his hold of Tom's sleeve, Mark turned away, softly repeating to himself the words, lest they should slip from his memory ere he reached his home.

He lifted the latch and entered. It was a poor-a very poor-room, with little appearance of comfort and order; the poor, faithful wife, who had always worked hard to render her husband's home attractive, would never rise to labour more. She lay on a comfortless bed in a sort of restless slumber. Mark's entrance aroused her, and she turned towards him: "Eh, Mark, I'm glad you're come," she said, feebly, "it's been very lonely here all day; and oh, Mark, those words, they're with me all the time, The wages of sin is death!'"

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Martha," said her husband, sitting down on the edge of the bed, "I don't rightly know, but may be you will; you're a better scholar than I am-the chap at our yard as told us that text yesterday, told us another to-dayseems to me it might comfort you like; this was it, The blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin.' I thought may be it would cheer you somehow to hear it." Say it again," whispered Martha, fixing her eyes, bright with the wasting fever, upon him; "Mark, man, tell me again." And Mark told her again and again, till, apparently soothed by the sound of his voice, she sank into a more quiet slumber.

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But in the middle of the night, when Mark lay by her side in a heavy sleep, he was suddenly awoke by the touch of her hot hand on his: " Mark, man," she said, eagerly, as he looked at her in some surprise, for with unusual energy she had raised herself on her elbow, "Mark, man, I mind it all now, I learned it years ago at the Sundayschool, it's all come back to me,-I am happy now-I