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Many thanks to you, sir," said the good woman, curtseying. "I'll fetch a jug here this minute."

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No, no, my kind friends, I neither need rest nor refreshment at this time of the morning; but if Mr. Barlow is off to the hayfield, and will allow me to walk a little way with him, I shall be glad to do so."

Mr. Barlow was in high good humour; and quite forgetting that his visitor ever talked about souls, cheerfully acquiesced, and went to make ready.

"Sir," said Mrs. Barlow, in a quiet low tone, while her husband was away, "I know who you are, and I'm very glad to see you here; and oh, sir, if John only had a little bit of that he'd be all right, but he can't abide to be talked to."

"A little bit of what, my friend?"

"Why, sir, you know a little religion, sir; he has everything but that."

"A little bit of religion would not do for him, Mrs. Barlow, if I am not much mistaken, and I hope it never will; it must be all or nothing; and a perfect and complete Saviour waits to be gracious both to you and him."

Here John appeared, and they set off for the fields.

"I hope I have not intruded disagreeably upon you, Mr. Barlow," said the stranger, "but I am in search of something that is lost; and as I know you like the proverb that one good turn deserves another,' I thought I would ask you to help me.”

"With all my heart, sir, I'm sure. well as you have done about the ring."

I wish I may do as

"There is no doubt about the ability, Mr. Barlow." "Then I'm sure there's none about the will, so it's as good as done," said the farmer.

"The thing in question is a sheep."

"A sheep! well to be sure, I didn't know you kept any."

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'No, I don't, but my Master does; and there is one wandering away from the fold that he wants to bring in. A lost sheep, Mr. Barlow; and you know they never return of themselves, so it must be sought, or it will die a wanderer from home and safety. My Master is seeking it, Mr. Barlow; his heart yearns to hold it in his arms, and make it feel the power and tenderness of his love."

John Barlow walked silently on, with a curious feeling at his heart, and not decided whether to be angry or not.

He had heard that this strange man talked about souls, and the very word would have put him on his guard at once; but this queer notion about sheep, he didn't know what to make of it at all. He suspected who "the Master" must be, and there was dead silence.

The stranger continued, and left him in no doubt on that point.

"All we like sheep have gone astray, we have turned every one to his own way;' and that is a wrong way, and leads to destruction. My Master would not trust another with the search, so he came himself to seek and to save that which is lost.' I am the good Shepherd,' he says, ' and know my sheep, and am known of mine;' 'and I lay down my life for the sheep.'" 'And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any pluck them out of my hand.' A good shepherd and a safe fold, Mr. Barlow; will not the lost sheep be wise to listen to his voice, to turn round, and come in? Will the jewel lost in the mire resist the hand that would pick it out, cleanse and polish it, and replace it where it fell from?"

"Well," muttered John, after a long silence, pushing his hat off his brow, puffing as if he were hot and out of breath, and kicking at any stones that lay in the path-" Well, I suppose I can't help seeing what you're driving at, but I don't know what right you have to make out that we are lost sheep, or lost jewels; for my part I don't feel like one nor the other."

His companion stopped short in his walk. He was a tall upright man, with a face full of loving-kindness, and a voice. gentle and persuasive to correspond; and laying his hand on John Barlow's massive shoulder

"Answer me but this," said he. "Is there not something within you that at times, by night or by day, in moments of sorrow or even seasons of gladness, seems to speak like this: John Barlow, you have something caged within you, whose value you do not heed; and when that fine brave body is laid low, where is to be my home? whither am I to fly? I am not always to be cheated with the provision for threescore years and ten, when I am to endure for ever and ever and ever, and am not yet provided for at all.' You have felt something like this; it is the gleam of the jewel from out of the mass of corruption and worldliness; it is the never dying principle that the lost sheep bears about in all its wanderings. Oh, I charge you by the love

of Jesus, who need not have given his life for the sheep if they could have been brought home and saved without it, do not turn away from this great salvation, but come now, and let him lead you into his pleasant pastures, and give you rest beside the still waters.'

"You must think I'm in a bad way, sir,” stammered John, not knowing what to say, and yet not wishing exactly to do as the Squire had done.

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Yes, I do. Every man is in a bad way until he comes to Him who is the only way, the truth, and the life;' for you see though every act of your life among men might be pure and faultless, it is God who is entitled to your first and best affections and obedience; and living without him in this world, is not the way to enjoy his company in the next.'

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"There's something in that to be sure," muttered John; "but I've always thought he is merciful, and won't be so very exact about little things that we can't help."

"That is, that he is just such an one as ourselves,' an idea which insults his perfect character, and would make him unfit to be God at all. But he is merciful, Mr. Barlow, or he could never have given, as he does give to all mankind, the choice between two things-to answer before him for every sin of thought, word, and deed, or never to answer ourselves for any at all."

John gave a look of surprise- "For none at all?”

66 Yes, for all or none. Every sin on our own head making us dumb with shame, and unable to strive against a just condemnation; or, John Barlow-mark the perfection of redeeming love-full and free forgiveness, not a charge against us, not a sin to shame us, but all and for ever blotted out in the blood of the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sin of the world. Now, my friend, in whose salvation my God has given me solemn interest, come and be saved on his own terms-the only terms; think not of having done this or not done that; for until you believe in the love and work and salvation of Jesus Christ, you have not made one step towards heaven; you stand under just wrath and sentence of eternal death, for the wages' of any 'sin is death;' but in Jesus Christ, who answered for every sin of every sinner who comes to him believing, and confessing his sin, there is no condemnation,' but the precious gift of God,' 'eternal life' through him. Forgive me, John Barlow, for being earnest with you. My

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Master is seeking his sheep; you know now the way back to his bosom-the jewel of your immortal spirit is at this moment overlaid by the dust of worldliness, and the perishing things of time; let it not lie there to be cast among rubbish to burn, but yield to the cleansing blood, the sanctifying Spirit, and let it arise and shine, the Lord's own lost but found one, to your happiness, and his glory, for ever."

"Shake hands, sir," said John, hastily, as the stranger was turning away, "and don't forget to come again."

WITHIN THE MEANS.

"I've seen a house that will just suit us, Mary. It's next door to Jones's, in Prospect-place. The people that are in it will leave in about six weeks."

John Gibson and Mary Green had been engaged to each other for two or three years past; and they were now about to be married. He was just seven and twenty, and she was about two years younger. John was a mechanic, employed in a large tool-making establishment in Manchester, and he had been recently promoted to the post of deputy foreman, with a salary of fifty shillings a week. Mary was upper nursemaid in the family of John's master. It was the only situation she had ever been in, and she was greatly trusted by her master and mistress, and beloved by the children; so that her intended removal was the occasion of general regret. The fear of God was in both John's heart and Mary's, and on every account there was good reason to believe that their marriage would be a happy one. They had saved between them nearly one hundred pounds with which to furnish their house; for they had made up their minds to wait till they could begin their married life comfortably and without debt.

"They're very nice houses, John," replied Mary; "but what's the rent?"

"Sixteen pounds," said John.

"And all the taxes," rejoined Mary; "and they're very heavy. Don't you think it's too much for us to pay out of your wages? If all went right, and we had no extra expenses, I dare say we might just manage to pay our way; but that would be all."

But," urged John, "I hope they'll increase my wages in a while; and then we shall find it easy enough."

"Let us get the increase first," said Mary, "but meanwhile let us be content with something less."

They had often talked matters over, and had made up their mind that in order to keep out of debt, they must not only arrange just to make ends meet, but to have something to spare. They had been regular visitors to the savings' bank during their single life, and they intended, if possible, to deposit something as regularly after they were married. But they had resolved to keep within their means, not only for the purpose of saving, but that they might have something to give.

John saw that Mary was right, and the idea of Prospectplace was given up. Three months after they were married, and set up their home in a little cottage which they obtained at the moderate rent of ten pounds a year.

They had many cogitations about ways and means; but at last they resolved to divide their income into three portions-not equal, of course. The first and largest they appropriated to subsistence; the second, they set apart for God; and the third they resolved to save. They resolved too, that as God should afterwards prosper them, they would continue to divide their income in the same proportions.

Expenses increased by and by; for first one child came, and then another. John wanted his wife to have a servant; but, although sometimes a little fagged, she replied, "Not yet, John; I'm strong and healthy, and with a little occasional help, I shall do very well. If we get a servant we shall not be able either to save or to give much." So they did without a servant till a time of larger prosperity.

When they had been about three years married, John had a serious accident, which laid him aside from work, and confined him to his bed. It was months before he got to work again. He was a member of a club, from which he received an allowance of ten shillings a week, and his employers also dealt with him very liberally; but his income was all together little more than half what it was when he was at work. Now Mary and he found the benefit of having lived "within the means." Without getting into debt, they contrived to tide over their season of trouble; but by the time John resumed work, the deposit in the savings' bank was nearly gone. What went quite as sorely to their heart, their power to give was greatly crippled.