The Last of the Family.

Edgerton said he must go and see Amy, and addressing himself to Mary said, Mary, this house and farm are thine. Daniel has got the papers, and will give them to thee. Thee can stay here as long as thee likes; thee will live happily once more, for that (pointing to the frame over the mantlepiece)" Not a drop more, Daniel!"-is his motto now, and will be as long as he lives.'

Daniel and his wife fell on their knees before the Lord. Their prayers were mingled with many tears, but in their future lives those prayers were found to be answered.

Several years have passed away since the above events occurred, and Daniel Akin, now an earnest Christian man, still sticks to his motto,

'NOT A DROP More, Daniel !'

The Last of the Family.

ISIT alone in the twilight

Nay, alone I scarce can be,
When the room is full of bright spirits,
That none but myself can see.

They do not speak, but they listen;
And I talk to them instead:
The feelings I hide from the living
I tell to the silent dead.

And the living sometimes wonder,
And I hear them whisper low,
What is the old woman muttering?
And why is she smiling so?'

And they wonder to see my treasures,
That I guard with such jealous care→→
Dead flowers (and they scoff who have
live ones),

Locks of grey and of golden hair.
Ah, not a thread binds me earthward,
But cords from the Silent Land
Have drawn my heart into longing,
To join its waiting band.

There the young keep their youth for

ever,

And the old lay their old age by ; E'en the mother who left us in childhood,

She is younger now than I.

For my hair is white with Time's snowflakes,

My brow with his furrows lined; Life's winter-storms have swept o'er me, And have left their trace behind.

I have seen a belt of fir-trees,
As the menacing blast drew near;
Little they heeded its raging,

Though it broke a twig here and there.

I have seen too a lone, lone fir-tree,
Which the pitiless winds surround;
And short was their work, and a wild
one,

Ere they laid it on the ground.

Oh, little I cared for life's storm-winds,
That swept round our early home;
But now, like the desolate fir-tree,
I stand all alone-alone!

Alone! O, my tongue, thou art wandering,
And my mind must be wandering too,
If I come to forget that Presence,
Which has led me my whole life
through.

That Form and that Face, now I see
them,

There is beauty in every line,
Tho' blood-stained the Brow, and pierced

Is the Hand that is clasping mine.

That Voice is sweet even in chiding,

That Heart all our trouble knows,
Those Eyes they are dim with weeping,
With weeping for others' woes.

Oh, I pray that that Form of Beauty
May be with me when I die;
And those hands admit to the Home
above
The last of the family.

F. S.

Church Proverbs.

BY SAMUEL B. JAMES, M.A., VICAR OF NORTHMARSTON, BUCKS.
"A House-going Parson makes a Church-going People."'

ND therefore every parson-that is to say, every parish priest; for some parsons are schoolmasters, and some are naval and military chaplains, and some are, in other ways, un-parochial; but every parish parson should be a housegoing parson. And the parsons are mostly diligent in parochial visitation, especially when trouble comes into the parish, and anything is to be done for the people. Such, at least, is the general opinion.

What about the people? They are apt to think that the parson's duty is just the same, whether they bid him kindly welcome or whether they are always busy and sometimes disagreeable during his visitations. There was John Filmer, for instance, in the parish of St. James, Midgeborough, who always managed to be rude to his vicar when that worthy visitor made his appearance at the door. 'There's Parson Smith, Lizzie; and you'd better let him in, I s'pose: but I really wish he'd choose some better time, or else keep away altogether. I don't know that we want any parsons here.'

Now Dr. Smith overheard this through sundry broken panes of glass, and resolved to stay away for a time. I do not say that Dr. Smith was right, and I certainly do not say that he was wrong. All I know of the particulars of the case is, that Dr. Smith's visits never did make a church-going household of the Filmer household, which was a sadly disreputable household in almost every way that could be mentioned. Filmer never went to church; Mrs. Filmer only went when she had a new bonnet or'gownd,' and that was about once in ten months; the daughters went no oftener for Dr. Smith's visiting; and the sons were rough specimens, who strolled about the fields on Sundays and earned what Midgeborough called 'casualty wages' on week-days.

That phrase 'casualty' is almost worth explanation. The people in Midgeborough call everything that is uncertain and capricious by the name of casualty,' which they pronounce, as they have every right except the right grammatical to do, as if it were cashalty,' and as if the 's' were a 'z.' Potatoes is a cazhalty crop on this land,' they say, if they mean to tell you that there is no calculating for certain on a good crop off this land.' 'It's very cazhalty-like,' they say of any haphazard work such as the young Filmers were engaged in. And it seemed necessary, as Midgeborough is an interesting town, to explain in this casualty way' what Midgeborough meant when it said that the Filmers only earned 'cazhalty wages.'

They were, indeed, a casualty household-a thriftless, hapless lot; and so Dr. Smith, who was a patient vicar, found them always to be. There are not many readers who would not have done as he did, on overhearing Filmer's ungracious remark. Between ourselves (my readers and me) I think it was intended that that remark should be overheard, and so I know thinks my friend Dr. Smith too. It is easy to talk of a parson's duty, and I am far from saying that a parson should give up visiting the unthankful and the evil. In fact, he ought to follow his Master's footsteps, Who, although He sent away Scribes,

Church Proverbs.

Pharisees, and hypocrites, as the Baptist sent away whole generations of vipers, was long-suffering and gracious to His bitterest foes. Still, let all readers put themselves in Dr. Smith's place for a moment. Human nature and old Adam fight for the mastery in clerical breasts as in other breasts, and human nature, when it takes the English form, is of a lofty, proud, self-respecting kind. If it is human nature for Filmer's friend Hobson to say 'I will never go to church again, because the parson preached against idleness and drunkenness,' is it not human nature for Dr. Smith to say 'I will not go where I am not wanted?' Parochial visiting is harder work than people sometimes think. The mere round of visits is not so hard as the having to go as a duty, in populous towns especially, where the parson would never go from choice, and where he may be met with an oath or a rude repulse.

Dr. Smith stayed away from Filmer's house for a year or so. Was Filmer satisfied? Listen to the following conversation at The Three White Rabbits,' in the neighbouring village of Slapdash, and we shall

see:

'There goes your parson, Joe Filmer. Some o' them gentlemen is good sort o' folks. My missus was down with fever last autumn, and our parson was a right good 'un to her. I don't know as I've much to say agin' our parson; leastways not just yet. Is yours a good one, Joe?'

'Ours a good one? Well, judge for yourself about that, Nixon, and you good company all round-which I drink your health, and hope your parson's a better. Ours a good one? Well, if not goin' nigh my house for more nor a whole year is good, then he's good. If neglectin' the flock is good, our parson's a rare good one. But what's the good of parsons if they never visit their flock?'

A hum of admiration succeeded this deceitful speech, and though nobody, even in that horrid taproom, really believed what Filmer said, for Dr. Smith was well known and respected, it got to Dr. Smith's ears, as a good many other things did, and it brought a visit from the vicar to Filmer's cottage.

This time Filmer himself opened the door to the vicar, and found himself touching his weather-beaten hat, which he often wore indoors, before he knew what he was doing.

Good morning, Filmer. I hear that you have complained of my not visiting you lately. I am sorry if I have neglected you, and I have called to say so. Call your wife, and let me wish her a happy New Year, will you?'

Filmer looked almost as foolish as he felt, and what men call his 'better nature' was stirred within him. He became respectful, he listened to some gentle admonitions upon the evil of his ways, he promised to attend church.

'Why, Filmer,' said an ill-conditioned farmer from Slapdash, about a month afterwards, 'so the parson has been sliming round you, folks say, and you go to church, too! Ha, ha, that is a good joke!'

Yes, Mr. Grinder; if givin' good for evil, and being kind to poor folks, and not tryin' to set people by the ears, and keepin' a civil tongue in one's head, is slimin' round, a little o' that game would be a good thing from you, sir, I'm a-thinkin'.'

Church Proverbs.

Mr. Grinder hastily rode off. He was one who went where I get most good, and hear best preaching;' meaning, where there were fewest collections, fewest conscience-rousings, aud no appeals about them Sacraments.'

But Mr. Grinder has little to do with this proverb, except as an involuntary witness to the truth that a house-going parson may

And let us all remember, that for the people to be church-going is at least as much of a duty as for the parson to be house-going. I am appealed to often and again-gladly do I record the fact-by Dissenting parishioners, as having charge of all the people in the parish; and I never made, in any house that I can remember, the remark that I make now. But it is everyway true, that if the Church of England minister is everybody's parson, as he certainly is, then everybody is bound by church attendance to recognise the equally certain fact, that the church is the right place for every parishioner.

Ladies and Gentlemen.

CHAPTER VII.

HERE was quite a rush now in an evening at the 'Crown and Sceptre' to hear the new vocalist, Miss Maude Gibbons. Some of the frequenters of the house had known the girl in former days, and were interested in her for that reason; others simply went because she was a pretty girl,

who could sing popular airs in a clear, thrilling voice.

Anyway, she brought customers to Mr. Stephens; and that good man rejoiced that he had consented to take a young person to whom he had at first demurred as having no experience.'

Miss Gibbons herself, too, was pleased; the work was light, and exactly what suited her, and she had never earned so much money in her life as she did now, receiving cach week a comfortable sum, of which she handed over the greater part to her mother. For it was no part of her plan to save or hoard money; the novels she read never raised a heroine to greatness by such means. She did, however, attempt to put aside, from time to time, somewhat of her earnings towards paying those troublesome debts to Mr. Wright; but the total was so great, and her savings so small, that she soon gave the idea up as impossible. Besides, was she not daily receiving fresh presents from him, and becoming more deeply indebted to him? What was the use, then, of clearing off old scores?

He was a constant visitor at the 'Crown and Sceptre;' and Tilly sang his favourite songs for him most nights, though she avoided anything like receiving open or particular attentions from him, by declaring that she had promised Mr. Stephens not to favour one of his customers more than another on penalty of losing her situation. This seemed likely enough; so Mr. Wright contented himself with taking another glass when he could not get Tilly to talk to him, or found another man sitting in his seat by the piano. He was one of Mr. Stephens's best customers at this time.

Mr. Griffiths of the Moor did not take much notice of the new singing-girl at the Crown and Sceptre;' though an idle young fellow, he was a gentleman by birth, and had no desire to set up as rival to the lower class of Dearminster tradesmen. A Mr. French, however, a young engineer at work for the time near Dearminster, was soon added to Tilly's list of admirers; and for him she was ready to desert her old friend Mr. Wright, had he permitted it. She had already taken one or two Sunday expeditions with him when Mr. Wright was known to be well out of the way, and it had required a grievous tissue of falsehoods to explain to the engineer why she could not always accept. his invitations. Was she engaged to that fellow Wright? and if not, what made her afraid of him and his displeasure?' were the awkward questions she had to answer.

Tilly had to be sadly deceitful now; probably there was not a soul in all Dearminster to whom she habitually spoke the truth. From her mother she certainly concealed much; Jane Turner, once her favourite cousin, she now shunned, and if they did happen to meet they simply conversed on commonplaces, any attempt at inquiry about Tilly's present life leading to prevarication; while Mr. Wright and Mr. French