"IN LOVE FORBEARING ONE ANOTHER." and day. There was a nightly worship in the Temple by Levites, though not by the people generally. See Psa. cxxxiv. 1,2. Her words concerning the Infant Jesus, added to those of Simeon, would be doubly impressive. Spake of Him, not only then, but continuously, as the form of the word implies; no doubt so long as she lived. It was the language of farewell and of hope. Long had the faithful looked for redemption; now, on the part of the long-waiting church, Simeon and Anna declare that redemption has come ! QUESTIONS. 1. The Consolation of Israel'; the Redemption of Jerusalem.* What Old Testament prophecies are recalled by these descriptions of the Messianic era? 63 "Brian," said his father, "calling of names is neither civil nor useful." Brian rose and walked to the door, which he opened to look out at the storm. He muttered some words which the violent wind carried away, and they were not exactly complimentary to Micky Quigley. His hot Irish blood found it very hard to put up with injury or slight. ་ Michael Quigley was a near neighbour of the Elliots', a man who was friendly with scarcely anyone. Naturally surly and taciturn, he lived all alone, for his young wife had died 2. What was the original ground of the Temple-dedication of years and years ago, and he had never asked any other person the firstborn to God? to share his home. Of all his neighbours he disliked the Elliots most heartily. 3. Where in the prophets is the revelation of God's mercy to the Gentiles foreshown? 4. Show by instances in our Lord's ministry that He was set for the 'fall' as well as for the 'rising' of many. 5. What light does the mention of Anna throw upon the history of the Ten Tribes after their exile? Quote illustrative passages. HE waves were beating angrily on the "A coarse night," remarked Patrick "Leagh" is the Irish word for the drift-weed thrown upon the shore by a storm; and it is a very precious prize to the people of those wild regions. They use it as manure for their crops, and when the weather is dry they make from it a substance called "kelp." This kelp is used in the manufacture of soap, and many other things; from it the drug iodine is extracted; it is what is called an "alkali." At the time of which I write it used to command a ready sale at a good price. It is made from sea-weed dried crisp in the sun, and then burned in kilns upon the shore; the slaty-blue ashes are collected and beaten into large blocks, and then shipped off for sale at Glasgow. "What a pity that our new harness hasn't come home yet from 'Deny," remarked Brian, the eldest son; "we shan't be able to get up half our share of the leagh without the cart." "Ask Micky Quigley to lend us his traces," said one of the younger boys; "he can't have use for them now that he's sold his horse." But Patrick shook his head, and Brian said scornfully: "He wouldn't lend us an inch of leather to save the lives of the whole of us, so he wouldn't? The nasty, mean ,, He thought Patrick a "canting sneak." He never forgot that he had caught the boys-Brian at their head-prowling round his turf-stacks one evening. 'Twas all very fine to talk about searching for pewits' eggs—he was sure they had come to steal his turf. Then his sheep had broken into Elliot's cabbage-garden, and Katrine Elliot had set her little dog to drive them out; and it did drive them, and hurried them, and worried them, too; which was an offence that Quigley was not any the more likely to forget because the first beginning of the evil rested on the side of his sheep. No; to him the whole race of Elliots were a "bad-born set." They came of an ill race, he said. Generations ago an Elliot had been hanged; and more of the name would come to the same end, he was sure. So he talked; and young Brian thought it very likely indeed that one fine day he should forget that Micky Quigley was an elderly man, and give him a thorough good thrashing. But Patrick only said, "Have patience, boys." 46 Although but a poor Irish fisherman, Patrick Elliot had learned the lesson which is so often missed; a lesson which was first taught to poor men, fishers, by the Galilean lake long years ago: Do good to them that hate you . . . . that ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven. For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? . . . . But if forgive you.” ye forgive men their trespasses, your Heavenly Father will also II. The morning dawned, and the storm was dying away in fitful gusts, when Patrick and his sons went down to the shore; huge rolls of the dark brown weed were tossing at the edge of the waves, and they knew that when the tide turned it would be piled two feet thick upon the strand. Groups of men were loitering about, waiting until the sea had fully reached high-water mark, and the moment had come to "make the divide." Each tenant had his apportioned share, suited to the size of his farm, the landlord had his "royalty," but no man might touch it until the tide had turned, and the allotment had been made. The Elliots had not long to wait. The "divide" was soon over, and presently everybody was busy stuffing the long wet glossy sea-ribbon into panniers-" creels," as they call them there or carrying it in their arms high and dry, out of reach of the tide, or forking it into carts; and all the while shouting, and laughing, and working in the frantic fashion that Irish peasantry can work under the influence of excitement. Women were there, as busy as the men, their bare feet shining amongst the red-brown weed. Plenty of children, too, and adding their shrill little voices to the noise which mixed, twitching at the halters of the ponies, skurrying here and there, not unmusically, with the splash of the waves and the scream of the sea-birds on Ranafarset Head. And it was glorious fun for them-the harvest of the sca. Brian Elliot and his sister were struggling up the beach, carrying a basket between them which was full of the trailing weed; as their cart-harness had not "come from 'Derry," they were obliged to use to the full their own bodily powers. They could not manage to walk very straightly, for their load was unsteady, and masses of the precious "leagh" would keep slipping over the sides of the basket. Suddenly somebody lurched against little Kitty, and the child, to save herself from falling, let go her hold of the basket; but she could not keep her balance, and after staggering on for a pace or two, Kitty, basket, and sea-weed, rolled together on the sand. Brian turned fiercely, and siw Michael Quigley. "You should look cut where you're going, then!" the man said gruffly, without giving Brian time to speak. Young Elliot felt the passion rising in his throat as if it would choke him; he tossed the hair from his forehead with his sandy fingers, and then he clenched his fist, and sprang forward. A strong hand grasped his arm. 66 'My lad, my lad!" said his father's voice close to his side. "Come on!" cried Quigley derisively. "Two to one, with the child thrown in 'tis fair play, isn't it?" The people began to gather round, caught by the sight of Brian's angry face, and by Quigley's contemptuous sneer. 66 Hooray! There'll be a fight!" yelled one small urchin, jumping his little red toes up and down on the wet sand in his delight and excitement. "There won't, neither; so there!" said Patrick goodhumouredly, managing to get right in front of Brian as he spoke. "Misther Quigley has more to do than to fight to amuse youngsters," he went on," but when the leagh is all boarded up, some of the lads might try a fall or two. Come any who like, to my house the night, and let us see which of you young ones is the best man." The calm cool words made one or two of the most curious amongst the on-lookers feel a little foolish. Quigley walked off in sulky dignity; and then the work and the fun began again as fast and furious as before. But Brian stood with the veins on his brow still swelled like knots, and the wrathful light still in his clear grey eyes. "Father, father, what for did ye stop me?" he muttered. "I'll give that fellow a beating yet, if they send me to gaol for it, I will!" "Here, lend Patrick was too wise to argue with him then. & hand with the basket," he said. "And you, Kitty lass, run home to your mother, and bid her be hanging on the praties. We'll all be in soon, and as hungry as hawks." "My lad," Patrick Elliot said to Brian that evening, "you can master and ride the roughest brute of a horse in the country, for sure; but there's one creature that defies ye, and that's yourself." SCRIPTURE ENIGMAS. NO. II. Double Acrostic. Gen. xxii. 21, 23. Lev. iv. 2, etc. Num. xiii. 14, 16. 1 Sam. xxii. 20; xxvi. 5, 14. 2 Sam. ii. 12-27; vii. 4, etc.; xii. 1, etc. 1 Kings vii. 15, 21. Job xxxii. 2. Isa. xi. S. Dan. i. 3, etc. Luke viii. 2, 3; xix. 2-4. Acts iii. 17. Rev. xxii. 12, 13. The texts preceding read with care, 1. Zeruiah's son, of warlike boast, Chief leader of King David's host. 2. Saul's captain, Israel's man of note, Whom David spared, but Joab smote. 3. The husband of Joanna find; To her the Saviour had been kind. 4. The first-born son of Milcah's race, Rebekah's eldest uncle, trace. 5. What sins the law of old forgave, At last brought Jesus to the grave? 6. What prophet twice to David came, And warned him in Jehovah's name. 7. What poisonous serpent, found in holes, A playful sucking-child controls? 8. The son of Vophsi, of the band Which Moses sent to spy the land. 9. A captive youth of David's line, In Babel's learning taught to shine 10. Elihu's father, sprung from Buz, And Nahor, in the land of Uz. 11. The last grand title of our Lord, When He shall bring his full reward. 12. A priest who after David fled, When all the priests at Nob were dead. 13. A little man who climbed a tree, That Jesus passing he might see. cease to be a child, and was stepping into the perils and duties of boyhood, that dangerous crisis in which she had seemed to lose all her other children. He was about to escape from under her wing and flutter away; like these little half-fledged hedgesparrows, which were twittering and hovering all along the thorn-bushes. Her other boys and girls seemed to care no more for their poor home than the nestlings of this year will care for the old nest next spring. But Ishmael was not like the others, who had all taken after their father, and only thought of their mother as a drudge to slave for them. She had not been as good a mother to them, she said to herself, but then she had not believed in God as she did now. How marvellously good He had been to her to give her such a son as Ishmael, when she was a weary, worn-down, grey-haired woman! Mrs. Chipchase nearly filled Ruth's large brown pitcher with buttermilk; and gave her two or three spoonfuls of tea in a screw of paper. Ruth was a favourite with her, as being a quiet, harmless old woman, and she lingered a moment at the door to speak a word or two to her.' "Mind Ishmael's here in time of a morning," she said, "for the master's very particular." "I'm sure," answered Ruth falteringly, "as I don't know how to thank you and the master for taking him. It'll be the makin' of him, I know; and he's a good lad, ma'am, God bless him! It was seldom Ruth uttered so many words together, except to Ishmael; but her heart was full. The farmhouse was a homely place, but there was a rude abundance about it, which she seemed to feel for the first time, as if she also had a share in it. She stood at the kitchen door, and could see the big table at which Ishmael would eat, and where a plough-boy was now sitting, deeply absorbed in the contents of a huge basin, which had been filled up from a big iron pot hanging a little way above the fire. The smell of the good broth reached her, and seemed to promise that Ishmael would grow a strong, hale man, when he could always satisfy his hunger. He hath satisfied the hungry with good things," she murmured to herself, as she took up her brown pitcher, and with a curtsey to the mistress turned to go away. 66 "Ruth Medway," shouted a loud, rough voice from the far end of the farmyard, "Nutkin the keeper's been and hauled Ishmael to gaol for stealing pheasants' eggs in the wood." "There's the master come home!" cried Mrs. Chipchase. "Whatever is he shouting, Ruth?" Ruth was still standing with a smile on her wrinkled face; but it died away as the meaning of the words reached her brain. The sky grew black, and the sunshine fled away; a dizziness seized her which made the solid ground she stood on reel beneath her. The loud crashing of her brown pitcher, as it slipped from her hand, and broke into a hundred fragments on the stone causeway, brought her back to her senses. "What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Chipchase, running to the door, which her husband had now reached. chance of him getting off; for the squire's mad after game; and Nutkin swears he'll lock him up out of harm's way. I'm sorry for you, Ruth, to have such a husband and family. I did think Ishmael was going to be a comfort to you in your old age. But the lad knew better; and he's no excuse." "It was naught but a lad's trick," said Mrs. Chipchase, "such as anyone 'ud do. Ishmael never stole an egg of mine, when I set him to gather them. Our own boys never brought in more than he did. He's as honest as the day, I'm sure." "Thank you kindly, ma'am," murmured Ruth, turning away and walking slowly down the causeway towards home, with a bowed head, and feeble feet, How heavily her sixty years seemed to weigh upon her all at once! How rough the road was, which she had trodden so many hundreds of times in all kinds of weather, to earn her own bread and Ishmael's! Was she half-blind that everything looked so dim? And where had all the merry sounds of the summer evening gone to? There was a sort of numbness and stupor over her mind, until she found herself trying to fit the old key into the lock of her poor hut, the home Ishmael had never yet left for a single night. He was not coming home to night! She sank down on the door-sill, and swayed herself to and fro in mute despair. No tears came to her eyes; for she was old and her tears were exhausted; but she sobbed heavily again and again, and yet again. There was no hope in her heart. She thought of Nutkin's enmity, and her husband's bad character. The Rector's family had gone away to foreign parts for six months, and a stranger, who knew nothing of Ishmael, was taking the duty of the parish. The squire could not be reached, for Nutkin's influence was all-powerful with him. No, there was no chance for Ishmael. To be in prison! Home was poor enough; she felt all at once what a dark, miserable, empty hovel it was. But if Ishmael could only be within, it would be a true home to both of them. She sat down on the desolate hearth, and tried to think of God; but she could think of no one but Ishmael yet. Her soul was in the deepest depths. All night long she lay awake. The little bed on the floor beside her was empty for the first time; and her ear listened in vain for Ishmael's quiet breathing. Her husband had come home so drunk that she had not dared to get him up the ladder, and he was lying in a dead sleep on the floor below. Over and over again she counted her nine children on her fingers, some dead and some living, and a heavy sob broke from her lips as she whispered " Ishmael." She had mourned over her dead, and grieved over her living children who had forsaken her; but no sorrow had been like this sorrow. None of them had ever been in prison, and now it was her youngest and dearest, yes, and her best, who was fallen into deep disgrace. When the morning came her heart turned sick at the thought of going to church, though Humphrey told her surlily she might go. Ishmael would not be in the singing-gallery; and how could she sing Glory be to the Father" while he was in prison? All the morning Humphrey, sitting by the woodfire, was cursing Ishmael as a disgrace; but Ruth did not answer a word. She had kept silence so long that she hardly knew how to talk, except to Ishmael. 66 NO PLACE LIKE HOME. It was a relief to her when her husband took himself off in the afternoon, and left her in solitude as well as silence. She was sitting alone, with her wrinkled face hidden in her hands, deaf, blind, and mute to everything but her trouble, when she felt the warm pressure of loving arms round her neck. For a moment she thought it was Ishmael, but looking up she saw the face of Elsie. Her mother was standing near, and when Ruth rose to drop a curtsey to the school-mistress, she took her hard cramped hand between both of her own, and bending forwards, kissed the old woman's brown cheek. Ruth's face flushed a little, and a strange feeling of surprise and pleasure flashed across the darkness of her grief. "I want you to get a cup of tea for me," said Mrs. Clift. It was something for Ruth to do, and as she busied herself in kindling her swift-burning fire, and filling her small tin kettle from the well, for a few fleeting moments she forgot Ishmael. But she could eat nothing when the tea was ready, though Elsie had brought some dainty tea-cakes in order to tempt her appetite. "I have been up to the Hall, and seen Mr. Lansdowne," said Mrs. Clift, as they sat together at the rough little table. "Elsie has to go before the magistrates to-morrow at Uptown; and I went to speak for poor Ishmael. But there's not much hope, Ruth. Mr. Lansdowne tells me Nutkin says Ishmael has infested the woods since his very babyhood, and all the village thinks him to be in league with poachers. That's not the truth, I know." Ruth shook her head in sorrowful denial. "I told the squire so," said the school-mistress, softly; "and he answered, women never could be made to believe that poaching was a crime. I did say I couldn't call taking a few eggs from a wild bird's nest any great sin-not bad enough for a young lad to be sent to gaol for. He said it was not only that, but all the Medways were a plague and a pest in the parish; and it would be a kindness to check Ishmael at the outset. Ruth, I'm more grieved than I can tell you." Again Ruth shook her grey head in silence. "I've been thinking how lonely you are, and how you have to bear the sins of your husband and sons," said Mrs. Clift; "and it seems to me that to think of our Lord's life here is the only thing to comfort you. Do you remember the words, 'He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were, our faces from Him; He was despised, and we esteemed Him not'?" was The quiet voice speaking so gently to her ceased for a few minutes; and Ruth covered her troubled face again with her hands. It was the Lord Jesus who had been despised and rejected of men, as she by her neighbours. He had been "a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief," more deeply than she was. Did her old companions in the village hide, as it were, their faces from her? Nay, all the world had hid their faces from Him who died to save them. Even on the cross those that passed by reviled Him, wagging their heads; and the chief priests and elders, and the thieves crucified with Him, had mocked and jeered at Him. "Surely He hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows," resumed the quiet, gentle voice. "He 67 was wounded for our transgressions: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed."" 666 "went on She was not bearing her griefs alone then, as she had fancied during the long dark night. The Lord Himself had carried her sorrows. He had been wounded for her transgressions, and for Ishmael's. A healing sense of His love and compassion and fellow-feeling was stealing over her aching heart. All we like sheep have gone astray,' the soothing voice; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on Him the iniquity of us all. He was oppressed, and He was afflicted, yet He opened not His mouth: He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter, and as a sheep before her shearers is dumb, so He openeth not His mouth.' 666 Dumb, and opening not His mouth! Was not that again like herself? She could not cry aloud, and speak many words, and make her grief known to every ear. It was true. Jesus Christ had lived her life of sorrows, and grief, and scorn, and silence. Her head was bowed down still, but her heart was lifted up. The suffering Son of God made it easier for her to bear her own suffering. It was growing dusk now, and the school-mistress bade her good-night; but Ruth would go a little way on the road with her. When she returned to her lonely home, she lingered for a minute, trembling and reluctant to re-enter its dark solitude. It had always been her custom, since Ishmael was a baby in her arms to sing, "Glory to Thee, my God, this night," as the last thing before he went to bed, except when Humphrey happened to be at home, which was very seldom. She had not thought of it last night, the first time that Ishmael had been away from her. But the thought crossed her mind and could not be driven away from it, that, maybe, this Sunday evening he was singing it alone in his cell at Uptown. The tears, which had not come last night, stood in her dim eyes, as, sitting down in her old chair by the dark hearth, she sang the hymn right through, in a low and faltering voice, which could hardly have been heard beyond the threshold. CHAPTER IV. THE MAGISTRATES' MEETING. Uptown was not worthy of the name of town; it could hardly be called a large village. But it was the centre of a wide agricultural district, and a small market was held in it once a week, chiefly for the sale of butter and eggs, as the farmers carried their corn to a more important market farther away, in the county-town. A magistrates' meeting was held at Uptown at stated intervals; and there was a police-station just outside the village, provided with two cells but seldom occupied, in one of which Ishmael had been safely kept since noon-day on Saturday. Heavy-hearted still, though with a fund of secret courage bearing her up, Ruth entered Uptown on the Monday morning. There was more stir than usual about the single street, as there always was on the days when the magistrates came to hear the trivial cases which awaited their judgment. Round the inn where the justices' room was, there were several groups of somewhat discreditable folks hanging about in readiness. Nutkin was within the inn |