help us with her prayers; now she is with the general assembly and church of the first-born, whose names are written in heaven, with the spirits of the just made perfect. But her soul will rejoice with the angels of God if she looks down and sees us all coming up to where we ought to be. God grant that her prayers may be fulfilled in us. Let us examine ourselves, brethren; let us cast out the stumblingblock, that the way of the Lord may be prepared."

The words, simple in themselves, became powerful by the atmosphere of deep feeling into which they were uttered; there were those solemn pauses, that breathless stillness, those repressed breathings, that magnetic sympathy that unites souls under the power of one overshadowing conviction.

When the Doctor sat down, suddenly there was a slight movement, and from a dark back seat rose the gaunt form of Zeph Higgins. He was deathly pale, and his form trembled with emotion. Every eye was fixed upon him, and people drew in their breath, with involuntary surprise and suspense.

"Wal, I must speak," he said. 'I'm a stumbling-block. I've allers ben one. I hain't never ben a Christian, that's jest the truth on't. I never hed oughter 'a' ben in the church. I've ben all wrong-wrong--WRONG! I knew I was wrong, but I wouldn't give up. It's ben jest my awful WILL. I've set up my will agin God Almighty. I've set it agin my neighbors-agin the minister and agin the church. And now the Lord's come out agin me; he's struck me down. I know he's got a right-he can do what he pleases-but I ain't resigned-not a grain. I submit 'cause I can't help myself; but my heart's hard and wicked. I expect my day of grace is over. I ain't a Christian, and I can't be, and I shall go to hell at last, and sarve me right!"

And Zeph sat down, grim and stony, and the neighbors looked one on another in a sort of consternation. There was a terrible earnestness in those words that seemed to appall every one and prevent any from uttering the ordinary commonplaces of religious exhortation. For a few moments the circle was silent as the grave, when Dr. Cushing said, Brethren, let us pray;" and in his prayer ho

seemed to rise above earth and draw his whole flock, with all their sins, and needs, and wants, into the presencechamber of heaven.

He prayed that the light of heaven might shine into the darkened spirit of their brother; that he might give himself up utterly to the will of God; that we might all do it, that we might become as little children in the kingdom of heaven. With the wise tact which distinguished his ministry he closed the meeting immediately after the prayer with one or two serious words of exhortation. He feared lest what had been gained in impression might be talked away did he hold the meeting open to the well-meant, sincere, but uninstructed efforts of the brethren to meet a case like that which had been laid open before them.

After the service was over and the throng slowly dispersed, Zeph remained in his place, rigid and still. One or two approached to speak to him; there was in fact a tide of genuine sympathy and brotherly feeling that longed to express itself. He might have been caught up in this powerful current and borne into a haven of peace, had he been one to trust himself to the help of others; but he looked neither to the right nor to the left; his eyes were fixed on the floor; his brown, bony hands held his old straw hat in a crushing grasp; his whole attitude and aspect were repelling and stern to such a degree that none dared address him.

The crowd slowly passed on and out. Zeph sat alone, as he thought; but the minister, his wife, and little Dolly had remained at the upper end of the room. Suddenly, as if sent by an irresistible impulse, Dolly stepped rapidly down the room and with eager gaze laid her pretty little timid hand upon his shoulder, crying, in a voice tremulous at once with fear and with intensity, "O, why do you say that you can not be a Christian? Don't you know that Christ loves you?"

Christ loves you! The words thrilled through his soul with a strange, new power; he opened his eyes and looked astonished into the little earnest, pleading face.

"Christ loves you," she repeated; “oh, do believe it!" "Loves me!" he said, slowly. "Why should he?"

"But he does; he loves us all. He died for us. He died for you. Oh, believe it. He'll help you; he'll make you feel right. Only trust him. Please say you will!”

Zeph looked at the little face earnestly, in a softened, wondering way. A tear slowly stole down his hard cheek. Thank'e, dear child," he said.

"You will believe it?"

"I'll try."

"You will trust Him?"

Zeph paused a moment, then rose up with a new and different expression in his face, and said, in a subdued and earnest voice, "I will."

"Amen!" said the Doctor, who stood listening; and he silently grasped the old man's hand.

A REFORMED MAN'S LAMENT.-Anna Linden.

You think my heart is stern and cold
As some dark Winter's day,

And think me feeble, worn, and old,
Because my locks are gray.

Not time, but sorrow, stern and deep,
Has wrought this withering blight;
The bitter woes my heart has seen
Turned morning into night.

In manhood's early prime and power
I loved a maiden fair;

They said when she was by my side
We were a splendid pair.

I wooed and won her tender heart,
And she became my wife;

I took the solemn marriage vow
To cherish her for life.

But bitter memories haunt my soul,

And sting my heart and brain;

For though I loved her, by my hand
My gentle wife was slain.

She was an angel, and she made
My home an Eden fair;

It might have lasted, had I given
A husband's loving care.

We shared two years of wedded bliss,
When one sweet child was given;

A welcome pledge of mutual love
That made our home a heaven.
And when the baby learned to speak
A mother's hallowed name,
A shadow fell upon our home-
Loss and misfortune came.

My fair young wife, without a tear,
Stood nobly by my side,

And tried to cheer and urge me on,
With woman's love and pride.
Her soul was strong, but mine was weak,
Angry with God and man;

I would not hear her words of hope,
Nor aught that she could plan.

I yielded like a feeble reed,

And when the tempter came,

I sowed the seed that cost two lives
And blighted home and name.
I should have been the giant oak-
Brave, strong to do and bear,
And shield the tender, clinging vines
Committed to my care.

I was unworthy of the trust

Of aught so pure and sweet;

And should have shunned, with manly strength,
The snares laid for my feet.

I lost what I might yet have gained
With industry and health;
Yet, fool-like, drank to drown regret
For loss of worldly wealth.
The holy treasures of my home,
With manhood, peace, and pride,
I sank in beastly drunkenness
And cast them all aside.

I tortured my fair, gentle wife
With promise of reform,

That kindled meteor rays of hope
For many a darker storm.

She plead with me, and prayed for me;

I'd promise and forget;

And heeded not the life-wrung tears

With which her eyes were wet.

And oft I gave the bitter words

That made her heart-strings break;

When she, the angel-hearted one,
Was dying for my sake.

I knew that she was very frail,
And trifled with her life;

May God forgive the bitter wrongs
I did my angel wife!

DDDDD

And though she drooped beneath the weight
Of sorrow, want, and woe,

It did not stay me in the course
The demon bade me go.
I made for her a living death
That robbed her of her life:
I was a drunken, loathsome sot,
And she the martyr wife.

The tender child drooped like a flower
Upon its mother's breast;
Want made it close its starry eyes
In long, untroubled rest.
I saw the mother's agony

With half-unconscious brain;
I loved my child, as drunkards love,
But could not feel her pain.

I felt the gnawings of remorse,
And drank the deeper still;
While fiercer demons, born of drink,
Bound me beneath their will.
Then closer crept the angel Death
To my poor Mary's side;

In cruel sorrow, want, and woe
The weary sufferer died.

Then I awoke and saw it all,—

My fiendish guilt and sin,

And prayed that hell might open wide
And swallow me within.

I raved in frenzied agony

No tongue can ever tell;

And knelt beside her coffined form
And bade strong drink farewell.

I've kept the vow and kept the pledge
Made there before my God;

An angel presence lights the path
My feet since then have trod.

Long at the foot of Calvary's cross

I prayed to be forgiven;

And prayed for guiding strength on earth,
And for a hope of heaven.

I've told you of my bitter past,

To warn you, ere too late,

To touch not alcoholic fire,

To tempt so dark a fate.

By all the fair and holy things
In heaven or on earth,

Let temperance dwell in every heart,

And comfort every hearth.