STRAYED. "AND are you really going away to leave us, teacher?” "I am sorry to say I must go. I have got a situation in town where I am likely to get on much faster than in Erndale. But I will come to see you very often, and tell you about the wonderful things I have seen.' "Yes, teacher; but we shall have no one as kind as you have been; we are all sorry you are going." Thus spoke his class to Richard Wilton, about to leave his native village. He was a good youth, the only support of his mother, a widow. Well trained so far, and having an unblemished character, he was expecting to do great things, and already looking forward to returning a rich man, to comfort his mother. He had not been long a member of the Church, but it was confidently hoped that the profession he had made before so many witnesses, and in which he had given utterance to the holy emotions of a genuine soul, would be sustained among the temptations of City life. On the evening previous to his departure he walked out alone. It was the merry month of May, and the godlike sun, as if unwilling to hide from men the beauty itself had made, was pouring forth on hill and dale a flood of golden light. All the earth was still. One by one the happy birds had ceased to sing, nature's deep song had died into silence, earth's music hid its head as it began to hear the music coming from the far immensity. Hills and trees sank into the darkAmidst it Richard stood alone with the Maker of us all, and bent in prayer to Him whose ear is ever open to the cry of His children. When he came home, his mother was busy arranging his clothes, pleased in caring for her lad. He was dearer to her than life. They knelt together, as they had often done, and Richard besought God to protect his mother, and grant unto himself strength to follow her example. And his mother blessed the lad. ness. Next day he went into the great City with a brave heart, carrying with him the good wishes of all in the village. Ere long news came that he was prosperous and happy. But dark days were near at hand. This was how they came. When Richard was leaving the village, he called upon his minister, who had a strong interest in him, and asked what Church he should join when he went to the City. "Ah! well, I don't know. Take a run among them, and see which you like best; don't be in too great a hurry to decide there are plenty of them, and it will do you good to hear the famous men of our denomination." Richard acted upon this unwise advice, and instead of settling down to work as a young Christian should, wandered for several months, seeking rest and finding none. Tired of this, he resolved to join the Church of a well-known minister. He expected a cordial welcome, and was not a little daunted by the formal business style in which he was admitted, and then lost to view in an obscure seat in the back gallery. No one cared about the soul of a lad from the country. Had they invited him, he would have taught in the school, or made himself useful in any form, but he was allowed to come and go unnoticed. At the Lord's Supper, the person next him sometimes shook hands, and said, "How do you do?" but this was all. Richard felt it keenly, and began to lose interest in the services. He seldom came in the morning, absented himself from the Communion for a slight cause, took to wandering from one Chapel to another, till he became careless. He was in danger, but no one warned him. The minister did not; he had enough to do besides: the deacons did not; in fact, they had no recollection of his existence: and as for the members, each one said in effect, "Am I my brother's keeper ?" There he stood, a youth alone with his passions, in a great city, temptation on every side. It was not long before he was keeping untimely hours, and coming home with an unsteady gait. Those who did not see and counsel him in Chapel now saw him in sin; he was accused of taking strong drink; the Church, instead of tenderly seeking to restore him, threw him out into the wide world. He was only an obscure |