"BYE AND BYE."

ONE fine summer's evening I bent my steps to the churchyard of the village of Thornham, that from the knoll on which the Church stood, I might gaze on the crimson sky and the glowing landscape as the sun went down. When I passed the gate I saw that the vicar was standing by a grave on which the turf had been freshly laid. Though I made no effort to prevent him hearing me, yet he did not seem aware of my approach; his eyes were bent earnestly on the new grave; he appeared lost in thought, and an expression of great sadness crossed his face.

As I drew still nearer, he seemed still unable to hear my steps; and as if he were talking to himself he exclaimed in a melancholy yet somewhat excited way, "bye and bye, bye and bye!" There was something in the tone with which he spoke these words which raised my curiosity and made me wish to know what he meant. As he stood by the grave saying with a sad and sorrowful voice, "bye and bye, bye and bye," I felt

sure that there was some deep meaning in the words he uttered.

At last he turned from the grave, and as I was resting myself on an old tomb-stone to which I had withdrawn that I might not disturb him, he came near me and recognised me. After a few words of friendly greeting I could not help telling him that I had overheard what he had said, and I confessed my curiosity to know what he meant.

" It is," he answered, a sad, short, and alas, common tale. Beneath that green turf," pointing as he spoke to the grave he had been gazing upon, "lie the earthly members of one of my flock. He once felt, moved, talked, looked upon the world as you and I do this day; and yet now think of the decaying body that lies beneath the grass; think of the stiff limbs of him who once stepped so actively over the fields; of the closed eyes of him who once looked on the very scene on which we now look; of the silent tongue which was once wont to speak in gay and thoughtless tones. O think of that vile body, that dead, decaying, crumbling body which lies at our feet. And yet we may And yet we may think more of

the soul, of the

soul that has gone forth to the

unseen world, of the soul that has passed from these earthly scenes, of the soul that is now". here he abruptly stopped and burst into tears.

After a time he partly recovered himself. "We must not judge," he continued, “and yet what can I say? What is the tale of this man's life who died in his very prime? When he left school he forgot the lessons that he had been taught; he lived a careless life; he did not break out into any gross and desperate sins; but he lived carelessly; he did not think about his God; he had no thought for the salvation of his soul; he came every now and then to Church, but it was evident that his heart was not there the whole matter of religion was dull and tedious to him. He was all for the world; he minded earthly things, and lived just as if there were no such things as death and judgment to come.

;

At last, when he was about one and twenty, he was thrown from a waggon in the hay season and broke his leg. He was for some weeks in the house and I often visited him; for a time, when the pain was bad, he seemed inclined to listen to me, he appeared to have some regret for his wasted and careless life; but as his trength returned, he pushed off serious thought; and when I earnestly pressed him to do his

Saviour's will, to wear his cross, to die to the world, to seek heavenly pleasures and heavenly wealth, he was wont to say, "Well, sir, I hope to be better bye and bye.'

When he was perfectly recovered and went about his usual work, he lived just as carelessly as before. Sometimes I would stop him and speak to him of his accident, of the warning which he had had, of the call which his Saviour had given to him, of the terrors and of the mercies of the Lord, of the uncertainty of life.

Yes, sir," he would say, in reply, “it's all true; it must be very dreadful to be lost; we ought all to live better; there's plenty of room for mending; I've had my warning, and I hope to think more of these things bye and bye."

A few years past on; a fever broke out in the parish; there was scarcely a house in which some one did not die; grave after grave was opened, and with so many fearful deaths of young and old, a deep impression was made upon the place. the place. The sister of this young man sickened, his favourite sister; a few days closed the scene. The brother's grief was great for the time; he was startled by the suddenness of his sister's death; I seized upon the time, and while his heart was somewhat softened by af

fliction I endeavoured to sow the seed of eternal life. For a time he listened; he read the books I lent him; I found him more regular at Church; he did not hurry out of my way as he had been apt to do; his soul seemed at last to be awakened; I rejoiced greatly at the token of deeper thought; I began to have hope concerning him; but before long, again he slackened, and when I besought him not to take his hand from the plough but to persevere in Christian ways, the old answer was upon his lips, "O, I shall be better, I hope, bye and bye."

One evening I was returning home from a distant part of my parish, when a man pale with terror rushed up to me and said, "O, come, sir, for God's sake, to poor James Bond; come this minute, sir; not a moment is to be lost. O Lord, Lord, have mercy on him!"

"What's the matter?" I exclaimed, in great fear. "O, sir, I fear there's no hope, no hope; and what, sir, if he should die! He was riding on the shafts of his waggon as it was going down hill; something frightened the horses and set them off; he leapt off the shaft to get at the leader's head, but in so doing his smock caught, and down he rolled under the wheel. O, sir, it