woman. That tall weather-beaten Druze, who from mount Gilead" (Cant. iv. 1). From the summit of the mountain we looked down upon so courteously returns our salutation, is such a the Sahara a wide plain, for the most part bar- ploughman as Elisha, on whom Elijah cast his ren and flinty, but in some places cultivated at mantle. No silken priest, or carpet knight; but the part where we were about to cross. The a brave strong man, from the most honest labour crossing of this Sahara is dreary work in sum- in the world, who had always received direct from mer. It occupied us three hours. Several flocks God the sunshine and the shower. And those of gazelles trooped away from us as we approached two jointed sticks-one of them tipped with iron them, and at a distance we saw one hungry--which serve for plough, and that heavy yoke looking fox sneaking round behind a hill; vul- and long ox-goad, are just such "instruments of tures soared over our heads, speculating on the the oxen as Elisha took to prepare the feast for chances of prey; and buzzards dozed lazily his retainers before he left them. With such watching the holes of beetles; but the absence instruments as Elisha employed to till the ground of life, in this and most of the great Syrian plains, the natives turn up the soil to this day; or, as is oppressive. Sometimes you may go hour after my friend Themetri expresses it, "They scrape hour, and see no sign of life, except ants and the ground like one cat." solitary wheat-ears (stone-chatters) sitting scolding on stones. When about half across the Sahara, our attention was attracted by a man rushing wildly over the plain, first in one direction, and then in another. It turned out that he was a shepherd, and while asleep his sheep had strayed from him. Anxiety-almost agony-seemed depicted in his face as he put forth all his powers in search of his straying flock. We thought of the Great Shepherd of the sheep, who "came to seek and to save that which was lost," but who slumbers not nor sleeps, and who never loses one of his flock through carelessness or forgetfulness. The parable of the sower, as it is called in the Gospel-or of the four kinds of soil, as the Germans name it—had all its outlines clearly defined before us. When Jesus from the fishing-boat taught the crowd on the shore the spiritual relation of the kingdom of heaven to the different classes of hearers, he gave point and permanence to his teaching by pointing to things seen and felt. "Behold, a sower went forth to sow." Before us was the sower; but there was no white sheet, nor stately-measured tread, nor generous swing of the arm, nor whirling storm of seed; but a woman, with a little straw-basket, scattering seed carefully as in a garden-bed. Nor did the figure suffer in aptness through wanting the stately accompaniments of our northern lands; for, while the seed may be sown by Apollos, or Knox, or Cooke, with flash of lightning and crash of thunder, breaking up the fallow ground, and shattering the rocks, still, it is more frequently sown amid still small voices, by the thousands of Pricillas who make known the Word of God more perfectly, whose words fall noiselessly as the dew. Any one, on reading Carlyle's "History of the French Revolution," feels anxious to consult some good history of France to learn what that wonderful episode, the French Revolution, was; and so, after the orator has made us tremble like Felix, we would often, like Felix, go away and become more hardened were there not thousands In the distance before us we saw a confused crowd of oxen and white-turbaned Druzes; and as we approached them closer, they resolved themselves into a vivid Old Testament picture. The late rain had once more called forth the plough, and one of the Druze sheikhs of the neighbourhood was ploughing with six yoke of oxen-half the number that was moving in the field of Abelmeholah when the great iconoclast, on his way to Damascus, came upon Elisha "ploughing with twelve yoke of oxen before him, and he with the twelfth" (1 Kings xix. 19). What fine strong men these Druzes are; and, with all their faults, how chivalrous! For, while they ruthlessly destroyed their enemies in 1860, the thousands of women and children who fell into their power were scrupulously guarded from all injury. I-Sabbath-school teachers, mothers, sisters, and have never yet, even in this land of lies, heard the Druzes accused of injuring in any way a other humble men and women of God-who noiselessly bring Jesus Christ home to our souls. It is not the sower, but the seed, that is "quick | thorns had a great advantage over the wheat, as and powerful." The path, unhedged, and beaten hard by the feet of every passing animal, receives some of the seed on its unreceptive surface from even the most careful sower, as the plough had run up to the very edge of the path; and the birds-some of them openly and in flocks, some of them singly and by stealth-" came and devoured them up." What a true picture of the heart that has become the smooth highway of the devil's hosts! The Word lies upon it for an instant; but it enters not in, takes not root; for it has no spiritual perception, and it shall be barer and harder in the time of harvest than in the time of sowing. And there were rocks showing their tops over the surface of the ground; and the thin layer of earth upon them, easily turned up, and favourable to an early and showy vegetation-how true a type of the shallow heart in all lands and in all times! The Druzes had fought a hard fight with the thorns (a sort of slow thorn), as they had taken up whole bundles of them by the root; but some were left untouched, and some were only cut off close to the ground. But it was patent that the they had occupied the ground first, and had their roots deep in the soil. In fact, the thorns were in their native element; and notwithstanding the Druzes were using all their efforts for the repression of the thorns, and for the furtherance of the wheat, it was clear that the wheat would have a hard struggle for existence. And unless the constant care of the husbandman prevented it, the crop would be in many places choked altogether, or at best he would find in harvest only long slender straw topped with chaff, lighter than the wind. So in the relation of the kingdom of Christ to the heart of man. The seed must be sown in it. The seed is not indigenous, but the thorns are. They have occupied the ground before it with root and stem, and grew with it, and over it-" The care of this world, and the deceitfulness of riches, choke the Word, and he becometh unfruitful.” But it was pleasant to remark, that even in the wilderness there was much good ground, that would amply repay the sower, and cause the heart of the reaper to rejoice-ground which, even with slight, unskilful ploughing, and careless, faithless sowing, "brings forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, and some thirty." DAMASCUS, 21 STRAIGHT STREET. OUR FATHER'S LOVE: A STORY OF LONDON STREETS 鳳 ROM this time Elfie began to pay some attention to her personal appearance. She washed her face and hands, and combed her hair every morning, before she went out, and, of course, looked less wild; but her rags, poor child, were past mending, and there seemed no hope of ever being able to replace these with better clothes now. New ones,-new frocks, new shoes, that gave other little girls so much pleasure,-Elfie had never had. Sometimes she wore a pair of old shoes or boots picked up in the street, and sometimes she went barefoot; and it was much the same with frocks and bonnets. Sometimes she picked up a rag that would cover her, or had one given her, and she wore it until it dropped to pieces. She had never been quite naked; but many times she had been almost so, until some one had given her something to put on. She began to wish now that some one would do so again; and formed all sorts of plans for saving enough money to buy herself a frock at a second-hand clothes' stall,-plans that always failed, for winter was drawing near, and the two girls found it harder work than ever to pay the rent, and buy bread to eat. The rent must be paid, Elfie said over and over again, as if to convince herself of a fact she half doubted. Susie said nothing, but stitched away as fast as she could, and always contriving to have the shilling for the landlord when he called; for she knew if it were not paid they would be turned into the street, and for Elfie's sake, as well as her own, she did not wish this to happen. Elfie said she did not care, she had always been used to a street-life, but that it would never do for Susie, and so for her sake, to keep Susie's home for her, she grew more careful and steady, that she might be trusted by people to do odd jobs for them, and thus bring in a few pence to add to the weekly store. But with all Elfie's care and steadiness, and Susie's close stitching, they had a hard time of it to make ends meet; and Susie grew pale and weak, and often suffered from a pain in her side. She went regularly to church on Sunday; but she could never persuade Elfie to do so. Church was for decent folk, not for her, she said; but she looked forward to sitting down with her arms round Susie's neck, to listen to her reading from the Bible, on Sunday afternoon. Sometimes they contrived to have a fire on Sunday, but it was not often they could have one all the week, except to boil the kettle sometimes; for Susie still kept up the habit of having regular meals, and was gradually winning Elfie to like this plan too. People began to notice the pale, pinched little face under the shabby black bonnet, that was seen so regularly every Sunday in a quiet corner of the church; and at length a lady spoke to her as she was coming out one day. "Where do you live, little girl?" asked the lady kindly. It was very cold, and the lady could not help shivering in her warm furs, and she noticed that Susie had only a thin cape on. "In Fisher's Lane, please, ma'am," answered Susie, dropping a courtesy and blushing. But the lady did not know Fisher's Lane. you go to the Ragged School ?" she asked. "Do to end all further discussion on the subject, Elfie ran on home, leaving Susie to follow more leisurely. There was nothing for her to hurry home for. The room looked cold, bare, and desolate, for they could not indulge in a fire to-day; they had not been able to make up the rent-money, and the thought of this had troubled Susie until she went to church. There, however, she had heard the message bidding her to cast her care upon God; and she came home to the cheerless room, and her dinner of dry bread, feeling as blithe as a bird. "Why, what's come to you, Susie?" asked Elfie. "You was crying and fretting about the rent-money before you went out, and now you look as though you'd got it all safe in the tin box." The mention of the rent brought a little cloud into Susie's face, but it was quickly dispelled as she answered -"O Elfie, I wish you could have heard the minister to-day, and what he said about God taking care of us." "It don't seem as though he took much care of you and me," said Elfie sulkily, as she looked at the empty grate, and tried to draw her rags over her bare shoulders. "Are you very cold, Elfie ?" asked Susie tenderly. "I shouldn't think you was very warm," said Elfie crossly. "Your frock ain't in rags, perhaps, but it's as thin as mine." "Yes, it is thin," said Susie, "and I'm cold; but it seems to me God does care even for our being cold, for he's sent to tell us we may go where there is a fire Susie shook her head. "I don't know where it is," this afternoon." she said. “That is a pity," said the lady; "for there is a Sunday school there afternoon and evening, in a nice, warm room, and the teachers would be glad to see you, I am sure." "Would they?" said Susie. "I used to go to Sunday school before we came to live here. Perhaps Elfie knows where it is, and maybe she'll come with me." "Ask her," said the lady; "we shall be very glad to see you both." She did not stay to ask who Elfie was; but she looked after Susie as she ran down the street, and was surprised to see her join poor, ragged, neglected-looking Elfie-for Susie still contrived to keep a decent appearance, although her clothes were so thin and old. The lady's invitation was repeated to Elfie; but to Susie's surprise she did not look at all pleased. "Do you know where the school is ?" asked Susie. "Where's that?" asked Elfie sharply. "At the school the lady told me about," answered Susie. "She said there was a fire there, and they would be glad to see us." “Well, I shan't go,” said Elfie. here in the cold." "I'd rather stop This seemed unreasonable to Susie. "Do tell me why you won't go?" she said. "No, I shan't. And if you go, don't you body you know me," said Elfie. 66 tell any Why not? Have you been to the school before?" asked Susie. "I shan't tell you, and I won't go," said Elfie doggedly. Susie was puzzled. She hardly knew what to do, for she did not like to leave Elfie, and yet she wanted to go to school; but at length she decided to stay at home and read to her companion, and go to the Elfie nodded. แ "Yes, I know where it is; but I school in the evening, if Elfie would show her the way; shan't go." "Oh, Elfie, do," said Susie, coaxingly. "No, I shan't. You may, if you want to leave me all alone on Sunday afternoons," said Elfie sulkily. "But I don't want to leave you, Elfie; I want you to come with me," said Susie. "I don't want to come," said Elfie doggedly. "Why not?" persistently asked Susie. "I don't like schools, nor them that go to 'em ;" and for they had no fire and no candle to burn to-night, and it would be very dull to sit there in the dark listening to the noises in the other lodgers' rooms, for there was rarely a Sunday evening passed without a quarrel in the house. Elfie would go out to play with some of her companions as soon as it grew dusk ; but Susie had given up going out to play on Sunday. After a little persuasion, Elfie agreed to take Susie to the corner of the street where the school was; but she would not go any further, and she promised to meet her at the same corner when she came out after school. "But I don't know what time the school will be over," said Susie. "I do," said Elfie, with a short laugh; “but mind you ain't to tell any of 'em who showed you the way," she added in a more serious tone. Susie promised not to mention her name, and she hoped the lady who had invited her would forget that she had said she would bring Elfie with her; but she could not help thinking it very strange that Elfie should dislike the idea of coming so much. The children had begun to assemble when she reached the school; and hardly knowing where she was going, Susie went into the large, light, warm room, and looked round for the lady whom she had seen in the morning. She was not there, but another teacher came forward and asked her name, and where she lived; and on hearing she could read put her into the Bible class at once. Susie looked shyly at her companions, who were, of course, looking at her, but not very shyly, for many of them looked as though they were used to a street-life, and most of them were older than herself. What a treat it was to these poor girls to sit down in a warın, light room, Susie could only guess. To her it was very delightful, the mere sensation of light and warmth; and the only drawback to her enjoyment was the thought that Elfie was not sharing it. She could join in singing the opening hymn; and then, when the books were given out, she found her place more quickly than the rest, and ventured to lift her eyes to the teacher's face for a minute, and then saw that the lady was looking at her. "You have not been to the school before, have you, my dear?" she said in a gentle voice. “No, ma'am," answered Susie. "I hope we shall see you very often now. come every Sunday ?” said the lady. Can you "Yes, ma'am," replied Susie; and then, the others having found their places, the reading commenced. The lady explained the meaning of each verse as they went on, but spoke more particularly of God's care for his children. When school was over, and Susie met Elfie, she told her of the evening lesson, and how like it was to what she heard in the morning; but Elfie answered, "Well, I'm going to take care of myself now, and then perhaps God will do it for me by-and-by." "I think we need God's care now," sighed Susie, thinking of the deficient store of halfpence in the tin box at home. "Well, we don't get it," said Elfie defiantly; "and going to that school won't bring it neither. Don't go again, Susie," she added. "But I like it; and I must go now, because I've promised," said Susie. "I do wish you would go with me; it is so nice, Elfie. We sing, and read, and pray to God; and the room is so beautiful with the fire and the gas." "I know all about it," said Elfie sulkìly; "and I know just what you'll do too: you'll go to that school, and then you won't like me. Some of 'em'll tell you I'm a bad girl, and then you won't speak to me;" and the thought of this so overcame poor Elfie that she burst into tears. Susie put her arm round her neck, and drew her own thin cape over her shoulders. "Nobody shall make nie say that about you, Elfie," she said; "don't cry. I'll love you always; and you shall come to school with me, and learn to read." But Elfie still shook her head about going to school. "I can't go there," she said. "Yes, you shall, Elfie. I know why you don't like to go; it's because your frock is so old. But we'll try and make another this week. I think mother would like you to have her frock to go to school in," she added; "and there's her shawl; perhaps we could make two of it; and I don't think she'd mind, as we are so cold.” Susie was determined that nothing should damp her happiness to-night, and she would not listen to Elfie's refusal to go to school. She felt brave, too, or she could not have spoken about cutting up her mother's dress and wearing her shawl as she did. Yes, the little girl was brave and hopeful. What she had heard of God's care and tender love to-day had brought back all the lessons of her childhood; and she could believe that God was her Father, and cared-really cared for and loved her. When they reached home she said, "I wish you'd kneel down and say 'Our Father' of a night, like I do, Elfie." "But I don't know it," said Elfie. “Well, I'll teach you; shall I? You can say it after me in bed until you know it by yourself; only, I'd like you to kneel down and say it first, like I did to mother." Elfie was generally willing to do anything to please her companion, and she very readily consented to this. And so, after shutting the door, the two girls knelt down in the pale moonlight beside a chair, and Elfie repeated the words slowly and reverently as Susie uttered them--the divine words that make all men brothers, and all women sisters. There must have been some such thought as this in Susie's mind, for as she crept into bed after Elfie, she said, "I did not think of it before, but you are my sister, Elfie, so I shall never forget to love you ;" and she kissed her as she spoke. Elfie threw her arms round her. "Say you'll love me always,” she whispered; "for there's nobody else in all the world if you don't." "I do love you," said Susie. "But oh, Elfie, I wish you'd believe God loves you too-that he is our Father." "I don't know nothing about fathers; I never had a father," said Elfie. "But if you'll love me, perhaps I shall believe that God does by-and-by-especially as the | persuaded herself that she would come in yet. But in Lord Jesus was a poor man. I like to hear about that, because, you see, it makes it seem somehow that he knows all about poor people-even street rubbish like I am, if he had no bed and no home." Before they went to sleep that night Elfie had learned to repeat the Lord's Prayer almost perfectly. She could learn quickly if she liked; and at last dropped to sleep murmuring the words, "Our Father, our Father." And Susie thought over all she had heard that day of the Heavenly Father's love; and at last fell asleep, to dream that her mother had come back to lift all the care off her shoulders, and shelter her from every rough wind that blew. But Monday morning brought the every-day anxiety with it; and Susie's first thought was of the landlord, and what he would say when he came in the afternoon and found she had only tenpence of the rent saved up in the tin box. She tried to recall something of what she had heard the previous day-tried to cast her care upon God; but it was very hard; and it was not until she had knelt down and prayed-ay, and sobbed out her trouble before him-that she could believe any of it this morning, although she had felt so sure of it the day before. Elfie had woke up first and gone out. She often did this if there was only a small piece of bread in the house, because then she could leave the bread for Susie, and pick up her breakfast at the market, or about the streets. So, after eating her bread, Susie took out her work, sitting upon the low stool, with the blanket of the bed wrapped round her, for it was bitterly cold this morning, and they had no fire. They had been afraid to buy coals or wood, as they could not make up the rent. This was Susie's great anxiety this morning. What the landlord would say she did not know. He was a gruff, cross man; and Susie dreaded his visit-sat trembling with fear at the thought of hearing him come up the stairs; and again and again lifted her heart in prayer to God, asking that they might not be turned out of their home. CHAPTER IV. ELFIE'S SIXPENCE. a minute or two the opposite door closed, and then there was a knock at her own. Susie could hardly walk across the room to open it, she trembled so violently. "Good morning," said the landlord pleasantly, as he stepped in and looked round the room. "You keep the place nice and clean," he said approvingly. "But why don't you have a fire, child? it's cold to-day, and you sitting at your sewing." "Yes, sir," said Susie meekly, glancing at the empty grate, and hardly knowing how to tell him she had not been able to make up the rent. "You ought to have a fire," went on the man, not noticing her confusion, and wishing to say something kind to the poor little orphan. “You ought to have a fire this cold day; every other room in the house has one." "Have they, sir?" said Susie, thinking the man was displeased. "I'm very sorry I can't get one too, but I don't think the place will get damp; we have one sometimes." "The place get damp!" repeated the landlord; "what do you mean, child ?” "Please, sir, I thought you was afraid the room would spoil," said Susie, still dreading to make the revelation that she had only tenpence of the rent. "Spoil!" repeated the man-and he looked round on the patched, discoloured walls and laughed—“why, child, you keep your room nicer than any other in the house. I was thinking you must be cold." "I don't mind that much, sir, if I can only stay here," said Susie; "but-but please, sir, I've only got tenpence of the rent to-day. I hope you won't turn us out for the other twopence. I'll try and pay it next week, sir," she added. The man took the halfpence and counted them, and then looked at the little pale pinched face before him. He loved money, and was used to scenes of misery, but was not quite without human feeling, and Susie's mute distress was almost more than he could look upon unmoved. "Who told you I should turn you out, child?" he said. "No one, but-but I was afraid you would if I didn't keep the rent paid," said Susie. "Yes, to be sure-of course I should-I can't do without my rent," said the landlord; “but still, in the case of a little girl that's honest and tries to do her best, I shouldn't be hard on her for twopence. But you mustn't let the others know I said this," he added quickly. "No, sir; and I'll try to pay it next week," answered Susie with a sigh of relief, as the man turned towards the door. SUSIE's suspense as to the result of the landlord's visit came to an end sooner than she expected. He called earlier than usual to-day, and the poor girl's last faint hopes that Elfie would be able to earn twopence and get back before he came was cut off as she heard his halting footsteps coming up the stairs. He knocked at the opposite door first, and Susie hoped he would be detained there, and she crept to the top of the stairs and looked over, in the hope of seeing Elfie coming up."Good-bye, child," said the man, still toying with the But Elfie was not to be seen; and with a sinking halfpence he held in his hand. Susie thought he had heart Susie went back and took down the tin box, and gone, and took up her work again, but the next minute then sat down to her work again, waiting for the door he was back. to open and Elfie to come in, for somehow she had "Never mind about the twopence next week," he |