"Let us mend it, while you put behind the pine grove which shelters up your hair and button your boots.” Longwood on the north and west.

This was done, and as Madge Again Hamlet and the barouche slipped the dress on, she said, and the prancing steeds were at the “ There's a hole in the pocket, too, door. but nobody will see that, and I've “Good-bye, my dears,” said Aunt nothing but my handkerchief to put Sarah. “I hope you have enjoyed in it."

yourselves so much that you will When at last Madge was arrayed want to come again ;” and she gave in her suit of dark blue serge, her each one a basket of oranges and of white felt hat and blue feather, with great yellow Bartlett pears. her fair hair braided and tied with “Of course they'll want to come a ribbon of the same hue, she was again, and a good many times, I as fresh and trim-looking a little hope," said Uncle Peter. “Remaiden as one would wish to see. member, the little craft are always Of the basted ruffles and the torn welcome here.” And he bade them pocket none would have dreamed. farewell with a real sailor-kiss and

Mr. Sanford stood ready to help a hearty grasp of the hand. the girls into the carriage—they And in each hand he left a piece looking back and kissing their hands of money. The girls knew it was to Mrs. Sanford in the doorway as money, though they would not look they took their seats. The man at it till they were out of sight, lest Hamlet cracked his whip, the horses he should think they were eager to pranced, and away they all sped, ascertain its value. But when at a through the gateway, down the safe distance, Bell unclosed her street, out of sight.

fingers and exclaimedIt was six miles to Longwood, "A sovereign, I declare !" but the roads were smooth and “And so is mine!” level, the horses were swift, and it “And so is mine !” exclaimed seemed but a few moments before Madge and Cynthia. they drew up at Uncle Peter's ele- Then they fell to discussing what gant but somewhat fanciful resi- they should do with it. " There dence. He had been a seafaring are so many things I want, I don't man, and his house, like himself, know what to choose," said Madge. seemed to be the product of all “But then, a sovereign will go a climes and countries. Within it great way," said Bell. “I never was a museum of curiosities, brought had so much before to spend just as from all quarters of the globe. I pleased, had you ?".

There were no children at Long- "No," replied the girls, laughing, wood, but jovial, mirth - loving and Madge added, “It is really a Uncle Peter, with his inexhaustible case of the embarrassment of store of " yarns," and kind Aunt riches." Sarah, with her heart of universal “Embarras de-du—what is it? motherly love, made it a delightful Why don't you say it in French ? " spot to all young people.

said Bell. I shall not tell you precisely how - English is good enough for the cousins spent that memorable me," said Madge. day-for though it was quick in the "I think,” said Cynthia, “ that passing, it would be long in the we ought to spend it for one article describing—but all too soon it was something that will be a present over, and the sun, which pays so from Uncle Peter." little heed to the wishes of us poor All agreed to this, and various mortals, began to hide his face articles were named-a muff, a ring, a locket, and many other things. I pocket, and her countenance fell. In fact, except when a diversion was The money was not there. effected by the sight of some fine She took out her handkerchief autumn leaves and a bush of bitter- and shook it. She turned the poco sweet, which the good-natured ket wrong side out. And then, for Hamlet stopped for them to gather, the first time, she remembered that the sovereign and the manner of fatal rent. She had slipped the appropriating it formed the chief piece into her pocket, that she subject of conversation. Finally knew-and now it was gone. the decision rested on a seal-skin It might be in the bottom of the cap.

carriage; it might be lying at her to It will be both useful and orna- own door ; but more likely than mental,” said Bell.

| either, it was lying among the moss, “Besides, seals come out of the and ferns, and grasses, and broken ocean, so it will be a delicate com- twigs, where she had gathered the pliment to Uncle Peter by remind- autumn leaves, or in the bottom of ing him of his seafaring days," said the pool on whose margin the

bittersweet grew, and where it would Then the cousins bade each other never be found. good-night, and Madge ran into the And it never was found. Instead house.

of a ring, or a muff, or a locket, or "Oh, mother, we have had a a seal-skin cap, poor Madge had splendid time!" exclaimed she; only that hole in her pocket? " and only think, Uncle Peter gave Poor Madge! for we can afford to us each a sovereign ! and what do pity her a little, even though it was you think we are going to buy with all her own fault. Is it not true it?"

that " a stitch in time saves nine"? Madge put her hand into her!

Madge.

PAUL'S CLOAK AND PARCHMENTS.

BY THE REV. F. W. FARRAR, D.D. I HAVE purposely omitted the one simple, touching message, introduced so incidentally, and with such inimitable naturalness. “When you come, bring with you the cloak that I left at Troas, at Carpus' house, and the books, especially the parchments." The verse has been criticised as trivial, as unworthy the dignity of inspiration. But men must take their notions of inspiration from facts, and not try to square the facts to their own theories. Even on these grounds the verse has its own value for all who would not obscure divine inspira. tion. . . . But even on other grounds how little could we spare this verse! What a light does it throw on the last sad days of the persecuted apostle! The fact that these necessary possessions—perhaps the whole that the apostle could call his own in this world—had been left at the house of Carpus, may, as we have seen, indicate his sudden arrest, either at Troas or on his way to it. A prisoner who is being hurried from place to place by unsympathising keepers is little able to look after his property. But now the apostle is settled again, though his home is but a prison, and he feels that it will be his home for life. Winter is coming on, and winter in a Roman prison, as he knows by experience, may be very cold. He wants to get back his rough travelling cloak. It was one of those large sleeveless garments which we should call an " overall " or " dreadnought." Perhaps St. Paul had woven it himself of the black goat's hair of his native province. And, doubtless—for he was a poor man-it was an old companion-wetted many a time in the water-torrents of Asia, whitened with the dust of Roman roads, stained with the brine of the shipwreck when Euroaquilo was driving the Adriatic into foam. He may have slept in its warm shelter on the chill Phrygian uplands, under the canopy of stars, or it may have covered his bruised and trembling limbs in the dungeon of Philippi. It is of little value ; but now that the old man sits shivering in some gloomy cell under the palace, or on the rocky floor of the Tullianum, and the winter nights are coming on, he bethinks him of the old cloak in the house of Carpus, and asks Timothy to bring it with him. “The cloke that I left at Troas with Carpus, bring with thee.” “ And the books, but especially the parchments.” The biblia --the papyrus books—few we may be sure, but old friends. Perhaps he had bought them when he was a student in the school of Gamaliel at Jerusalem; or they may have been given him by his wealthier converts. The papyrus books, then, let Timothy bring, but especially the parchments-the vellum rolls. What were these ? Perhaps among them was the diploma of his Roman franchise; or were they precious rolls of Isaiah and the Psalms, and the lesser prophets, which father or mother had given him as a life-long treasure in the far-off happy days, when, little dreaming of all that would befall him, he played, a happy boy, in the dear old Tarsian home? Dreary and long are the days the evenings longer and drearier still—in that Roman dungeon; and it will be a deep joy to read once more how David and Isaiah, in their deep troubles, learned, as he had learned, to suffer and be strong. A simple message, then, about an old cloak and some books, but very touching. They may add a little comfort, a little relief, to the long-drawn tedium of these last dreary days. Perhaps he thinks that he would like to give them, as his parting bequest, to Timothy himself, or to the modest and faithful Luke, that their true hearts may remember him when the sea of life flows smooth once more over the nameless grave. It would be like that sheepskin cloak which centuries afterwards the hermit Anthony bequeathed to the archbishop Athanasius—a small gift, but all he had. Poor inventory of a saint's possessions ! not worth a hundredth part of what a buffoon would get for one jest in Cæsar's palace, or an acrobat for a feat in the amphitheatre; but would he have exchanged them for the jewels of the adventurer Agrippa, or the purple of the unspeakable Nero ? No, he is much more than content. His soul is joyful in God. If he has the cloak to keep him warm, and the books and parchments to teach and encourage him, and Mark to help him in various ways, and if, above all, Timothy will come himself, then life will have shed on him its last rays of sunshine; and in lesser things, as well as in all greater, he will wait with thankfulness, even with exaltation, the pouring out in libation of those last few drops of his heart's blood, of which the rich full stream has for these long years been flowing forth upon God's altar in willing sacrifice.

But there are no complaints, no murmurs—there is nothing querulous or depressed in these last words of St. Paul. The characteristic of waning life is disenchantment, & sense of inexorable weariness, & sense of inevitable disappointment. We trace it in Elijah and John the Baptist; we trace it in Marcus Aurelius ; we trace it in Francis Assisi ; we trace it in Roger Bacon; we trace it in Luther. All is vain! We have lived, humanly speaking, to little or no purpose. • We are not better than our fathers." “ Art thou He that should come, or do we look for another ?" " I shall die, and people will say, “We are glad to get rid of this schoolmaster.'” “My order is more than I can manage.” “Men are not worth the trouble I have taken for them." “ We must take men as we find them, and cannot change their nature.” To some such effect have all these great men, and many others, spoken. They have been utterly disillusioned ; they have been inclined rather to check the zeal, to curb the enthusiasm, to darken with the shadows of experience the radiant hopes of their younger followers. If in any man such a sense of disappointment such a conviction that life is too hard for us, and that we cannot shake off the crashing weight of its destinies—could have ever been excusable, it would have been so in St. Paul. What visible success had he achieved ?—the founding of a few churches of which the majority were already cold to him ; in which he saw his efforts being slowly undermined by heretical teachers; which were being subjected to the fiery ordeal of terrible persecutions. To the faith of Christ he saw that the world was utterly hostile. It was arraying against the cross all its intellect and all its power. The Christ returned not; and what could his doves do among serpents, bis sheep among wolves ? The very Dame " Christian " had now come to be regarded as synonymous with criminal; and Jew and Pagan-like " water with fire in ruin reconciled," amid some great storm—were united in common hostility to the truths he preached. And what had he personally gained ? Wealth ? He is absolutely dependent on the chance gifts of others. Power ? At his worst need there had not been one friend to stand by his side. Love? He had learned by bitter experience bow few there were who were not ashamed to own him in his misery. And now after all-after all that he had suffered, after all that he had done—what was his condition ? He was a lonely prisoner, awaiting a malefactor's end. What was the sum-total of earthly goods that the long disease, and the long labour of his life, had brought him in ? An old cloak and some books. And yet in what spirit does he write to Timothy ? Does be complain of his hardships ? Does he regret his life? Does he damp the courage

of his younger friend by telling him that almost every earthly hope is doomed to failure, and that to struggle against human wickedness is a fruitless fight ? Not so. His last letter is far more of a pæan than a miserere. For himself the battle is over, the race run, the treasure safely guarded. The day's work in the Master's vineyard is well-nigh over now. When it is quite finished, when he has entered the Master's presence, then and there, not here or now, shall he receive the crown of righteousness and the unspeakable reward. And so his letter to Timothy is all joy and encouragement, even in the midst of natural sadness. It is the young man's heart, not the old man's, that has failed. It is Timotheus, not Paul, who is in danger of yielding to languor and timidity, and forgetting that the Spirit which God gave was one not of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. “Bear, then, afflictions with me. Be strong in the grace of Jesus Christ. Fan up the flame in those whitening embers of zeal and courage. Be a good soldier, a true athlete, a diligent toiler. Do you think of my chains and of my bardships ? They are nothing, not worth a word or a thought. Be brave. Be not ashamed. We are weak, and may be defeated; but novertheless God's foundation stone stands sure, with the double legend upon it-one of comfort, one of exhortation. Be thou strong and faithful, my son Timothy, even unto death.” So dues he hand to the dear but timid racer the torch of truth which in his own grasp, through the long torch-race of his life, no cowardice had bidden, no carelessness had dimmed, no storm had quenched. “Glorious apostle! would that every leader's voice could burst, as he falls, into such a trumpet-sound, thrilling the young hearts that pant in the good fight, and must never despair of final victory.” *

“WHAT CAN I DO?" A LADY was sitting alone in the summons, “ Come up hither!" He deepening twilight in a large had gone to join the perfect service school-room that looked cheerless of heaven, and she was left alone. and dreary, deserted by its usual Mournfully she contrasted with occupants. There was an expres- those anticipations of former days, sion of sadness on her thoughtful the realities and prospects of the countenance, and tears were in her present. eyes. Her thoughts had gone back Her efforts during the last few to the past, with its light and shade; years to bring to Christ those young to those days when life was full of girls in the morning of life amongst joy, and hope had pointed to a whom her lot was cast, appeared bright future of happiness and to have been in vain; as yet she usefulness in the mission field. But could see no success attending not so was she to serve her Lord. them. All seemed dark and cheerHe whose labours she had fondly less, and she felt very lonely and thought to share, had heard the dispirited, tempted to doubt even

* From " Farrar's Life and Work of St. Paul.”