"A letter, surely. From Boston!" It is quickly opened -a bill drops out-she opens it. "Forty dollars. Is it possible?" It certainly is possible. Dr. Wisner has remitted a small sum from the Clergymen's widow and orphan's fund, to which she was entitled, her husband, at his death, being a settled pastor over a church in Massachusetts. That noble fund! What tears has it wiped away!

It was stated that on one occasion a hundred widows of ministers were found sustaining themselves entirely by their own exertions, and many of them entirely dependant on the aid of this Convention, and many others extremely destitute.

The golden bands of love are thrown around the church of Christ. The badge of every disciple is love. The errand of the Son of God to our world was love! Love is the air of heaven. Love touches the strings of every harp, and is the theme of the eternal song.

Love dwells in the bosom of every true disciple the record of every faithful minister's

family is kept above. It will soon be opened. It would not be amiss for the churches to inquire what are we doing for the bereaved and afflicted?

A youth was travelling from the New England states to the far west, away from friends and comforts he was suddenly attacked by a violent fever. Consumed by the burning heat of a southern fever, in a miserable log house, no physician near; a good Samaritan in the shape of an Odd Fellow, found him. He was immediately removed to a comfortable dwelling, attendance of a nurse and physician secured; mother and sisters at home could have done no more; from the edge of the grave he was restored to health. Every bill paid, he went on his way rejoicing. Let us gather up useful hints as we pass along the way-side.

A few months longer were necessary to perfect this gentle woman through suffering. Heavy rents went on as usual. Pecuniary losses and at length, sickness, debility, wasted strength, were all workers together in the discipline.

One incident more must not be omitted, a similar fact to the foregoing; another debt of thirty dollars was incurred the purse was empty, and no prospect of its being heavier at present. But the dun came in again, and again. Enfeebled by disease, which was rapidly carrying our lovely friend home, she laid the case upon her covenant-keeping God. She did not look for a miracle, nor think once of the Post Office. But ministering angels may be hovering over the daily crowd around a Post Office as easily as they go any where. Certain it was, that on leaving her chamber, as she descended the stairs, the door bell rings the post boy has a letter. Again it is from Dr. Wisner, and thirty dollars the sum enclosed.

Christain, does God's angel stand near thy heart, suggesting some benevolent purpose? Hasten to obey the call. A thousand miles from your door, an open pathway may be seen from an agonized sufferer to the court of heaven.

CHAPTER III.

SUBMISSION IN PRACTICE

"How many have submitted to God" in the late revival? said one christian friend to another. "Submitted to God!" words easily spoken, a short, expressive sentence! Everybody uses it. Everybody knows what it means.

"The young converts give up all!" time, talents, opportunities, strength, influence all the way through life, very plain terms - nothing obscure about it! ah yes-submission to God is a lovely, blessed spot to reach-no wonder these young people are so happy. The only spot on earth where rest can be found.

"Submit to God" was the last text, the last sermon of one who lately dropped down in perfect health into the arms of death, and who

had learned through the period of sixty years, that it was a life-struggle, a daily struggle, a conquest with invisible powers, with selfishness, with inclination. Yet blessed be God, as his foot was lifted to dip into the waters of Jordan, the closing words of the life-long instructions were, "Submit to God!" as if the dark chasm about to open upon his surviving family had flung its deep shadows upon his spirit! What would sustain them in that low valley like these precious words? and if in repeating them over, one spark is elicited like the strokes on the flint to light their dark way, the reader will accompany them through the few thoughts which have been suggested.

I have stood by many death-beds, but I think of but few who have said, "There is no spot in the universe where God can lead me that I shall be unhappy, for where He is, it is enough!"

The painter selects with care the appropriate crude color. He grinds it down with cheerful, patient labor, then mixes the colors and pre