He can comfort us in trouble, relieve us in distress, and cast out the evil from our hearts. Even those who are now the willing slaves of Satan are not beyond His power and grace. His work of grace may cause an inward struggle, and sometimes even lead to temporal loss; yet it is for our eternal good. Let us beseech Him, both for ourselves and for those we love, not to depart, but to visit us, and stay with us.

An unspeakable Gift.

KNOW there are some believers among you; and I write to you, O poor broken-hearted believers, all the comforts of Christ in the New and Old Testament are yours. Oh, what a Father and Husband you have! Oh, if I had pen and ink and engine to write of Him! Let heaven and earth be consolidated in massy and pure gold, it will not weigh the thousandth part of Christ's love to a soul, even to me, a poor prisoner. Oh, that is a massy and marvellous love! Men and angels, unite your force and strength in one; you shall not heave nor poise it off the ground. Ten thousand thousand worlds, as many worlds as angels can number, and then as a new world of angels can multiply, would not all be the bulk of a balance to weigh Christ's excellencies, sweetness, and love. Put ten earths in one, and let a rose grow greater than ten whole earths or ten worlds, Oh, what beauty would be in it, and what a smell would it cast! But a blast of the breath of that fairest Rose in all God's Paradise, even of Christ Jesus our Lord-one look of that fairest Face, would be infinitely in beauty and smell above all imaginable and created glory. Rutherford.

*From "Readings from the Gospel of St. Matthew." By the Rev. F. Bourdillon. Just published by the Religious Tract Society.

At the Sepulchre.

JOHN XX. 11-16.

ARY to her Saviour's tomb

M Hasted at the early dawn;

Spice she brought, and sweet perfume;
But the Lord she loved was gone.
For awhile she weeping stood,
Struck with sorrow and surprise,
Shedding tears, a plenteous flood,
For her heart supplied her eyes.

Jesus, who is always near,
Though too often unperceived,
Came, His drooping child to cheer,
Kindly asking, "Why she grieved?"
Though at first she knew Him not,
When He called her by her name,
Then her griefs were all forgot,
For she found He was the same.

Grief and sighing quickly fled,

When she heard His welcome voice:
Just before she thought Him dead,
Now He bids her heart rejoice.
What a change His word can make,
Turning darkness into day!

You who weep for Jesus' sake,

He will wipe your tears away.

He who came to comfort her,
When she thought her all was lost,
Will for your relief appear,
Though you now are tempest-toss'd;
On His word your burden cast,
On His love your thoughts employ ;
Weeping for awhile may last,

But the morning brings the joy.

NEWTON.

IN the little fishing town in the West of England where I first saw the light, and first heard the music of the sea, and made the acquaintance of some of the bravest men in humble life that I have ever known, I had several opportunities of witnessing the fulfilment of this gracious promise. Many centuries have glided away since its hallowed hope of a tranquil sunset to life's darkest day ministered divinest strength to the distressed in all circumstances; but the words are as true now as when Zechariah wrote them, and their gentle music is still as subduing and consoling: "At evening time it shall be light."

In our little town, where every one knew everybody, there was no one more highly esteemed than Widow Peyton. She was not more than five-and-twenty years old, and was left with the charge of two children, a little girl and boy, children as bright and beautiful as ever awakened joy and thankfulness in a mother's heart. Her husband had been the owner of a fishing-smack; he was one of the steadiest and besthearted men on the coast, always ready to give a helping hand to a brother sailor, or to take his place in the life-boat in times of tempest, should a man be wanting.

One night there was a storm which none who lived in our town will ever forget. It blew great guns, and sturdy mariners had as much as ever they could do to hold their own on the shore against the driving wind and pelting hail. David Peyton, who had been an hour or two in bed, was awakened by a blast which threatened not only to break every lattice in his cottage but to raze it to the ground.

"A wild night, Hannah," he said, with a shudder; "may the dear Lord have mercy on those who are at sea.'

"Amen," said Hannah, fervently; "and thank the Lord that you are at home. I should not have slept a wink if you had been out."

"And I can't sleep a wink for thinking of those who are out," said David. "Hark! what was that?"

They listened, and for some moments only heard the shrieking of the storm, which, as it swept by, rattled doors and windows, pierced through cracks and crevices, and ended with an angry growl down the chimney.

"Hark! there it is again!"

"What, my husband?"

"A ship in distress," said David, leaping out of bed, and getting on his clothes almost by magic.

"Do not think of going out to-night !" said his wife, in imploring tones.

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'Hannah, dear," was the gentle reply, we must not make ourselves the first consideration; remember Him who gave Himself for us. If He had cared for Himself could He not have come down from the cross? But He didn't, my wife, and the path of danger in His dear service is always the path of safety."

He was one of the bravest of Cornish boatmen was David Peyton, and I wish I could give some faint idea of the music which thrilled through his rugged dialect as he made this appeal. His wife still pleaded with him not to risk his life on such a wild night; but with a firmness the soul of which was the gentleness of a child, he said it was his duty to go, and having tenderly embraced his wife and sleeping children, he hastened down to the beach. A perfect hurricane was blowing; a hundred yards from the shore he felt the smart of the keen salt spray and sand beating in his face; but he was no stranger to this kind of weather, and stoutly fought his way onward. On the beach he found a group of his weather-tanned companions; they were silent and awe-stricken. They watched with the most intense interest the signals of distress; they shuddered as they heard the boom of the minute-gun, and perhaps even more at their powerlessness to help.

"Where's the boat, men ?" cried David, excitedly; "can't we do something?"