he caught sight of the man's face in the firelight, as he stepped over the threshold.

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Well, master, not much the matter that I know of; but something has come about like, up street, and I thought you might as well know of it."

"What is it, Davey? Out with it, man."

David had by this time advanced to the middle of the kitchen; and there he stood, coated with snow from head to foot.

"I shall make a pond on your floor, mistress, with the melted snow, if I stand here long," said David; “ SO I'll make a short story of it. There's a man been found a'most smothered in snow and quite storm-beat, master. The bell-ringers found him as they were coming down from Upper Beech; and a mercy too, for he had lost his way, and would have been freezed to death before morning. Pretty nigh gone, he was, when they did come across him.' "And what have they done with the poor man ?" asked Mrs. Brown.

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They done the best they could with him, mistress: they took him up and carried him down to the Red Lion, and brought him to; and there he is now, on the sofa, in Mrs. Chowles's little parlour."

"Well, David?"

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Yes, sir, that's pretty near all.”

"Is the poor fellow very bad?"

Well, no master; not to say bad. They sent for the doctor, though; I should have told you that, and he says that the man will be all right soon. told me to come down to you; know."

It was the doctor that you are overseer, you

"You had better have gone to Mr. Briggs, the guardian; he has more power than I have. But, never mind; I'll see to it if there's anything to be done. What man is it, do you know?"

"The man they found in the snow, master?" "Yes, Davey, of course I mean him."

"Well, master; he is a poor, misfortunate looking man, badly dressed, considering what weather it is, and his hair is greyish, and he looks uncommon bad: I just got a look at him the last thing before I came away from the Lion."

"David; there's something else you have to tell," said the farmer's wife, who, from her fireside corner had been

watching the man's countenance, as well as listening to his words; "What is it, David? and who is the man?"

David shifted on his legs,-looked up-looked down, rubbed his chin with his rough hand: "Well, mistress, it must come out, though I don't like to tell it; 'tis master's brother."

Farmer Brown started as the words fell upon his ear; and he stepped forward one step, and laid his hand on David's shoulder.

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My brother! not-not my brother Thomas? my poor brother Tom? You don't say that, David ?"

“I must say it, master; for he it is, and nobody else," replied David, evidently much relieved.

"On the way to Upper Beech, too?" said the agitated farmer.

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Yes, master; he was going up there to your house, he said, not knowing that you had moved away from that farm, of course, he having been abroad, you see."

"I see, I see it all!-my poor brother Tom! I will go back with you, David. And Tom must not be left at the public-house. He must be brought down here. Mary, my dear, you will have him in, I am sure. You will get the bed ready for him while I am gone to fetch Tom, my own only brother, you know, David."

""Tis an uncommon bad night for you to be out in, master," interposed David Carter.

"A bad night! But only think what a bad night for poor Tom to be out in, wandering in the snow, and losing his way too you said he had lost his way, David."

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Well, master, if you must and will, let me help you on with your coat; and your hat, you are not going without that, surely; for Mr. Brown had hastened to the door, and was beckoning David on.

"Never mind my great coat," said he; "and yet I may as well put it on too; for it will do to wrap my poor brother in. Badly clad, you say he was, David?"

"Uncommon, master." David, by this time, was holding up the coat; "that's the wrong arm, master; you'll have it hind side afore that way. There, that's right now."

And presently they were wading through the snow drifts-the master and the man-and buffeting with the sharp north wind, almost a mile, till the lights of the village street, and especially the deep glare from the windows of the Red Lion, loomed through the mist. "And it

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was nothing, all the while we were going along," was David's report to his mistress afterwards; nothing but 'My poor brother! my poor Tom! May God bless him and have mercy on him! Poor fellow; poor Tom, to be so near coming to such an end too!""

There was some curiosity felt by the company at the Red Lion, on that Christmas eve, to see what sort of a meeting it would be between the two brothers; for all people in the neighbourhood knew how John Brown had been ruined by his brother Thomas. But the curiosity was disappointed; for on entering the public-house the farmer. strode through the tap-room without speaking a word, and made his way into Mrs. Chowles's little parlour, closing the door behind him when he had entered. There were voices to be heard, certainly, but not an angry tone; and when John Brown came out again, his eyes were seen to be red, as though he had been weeping.

There was no such thing to be thought of as removing the exhausted wanderer to the farm that night; so a bed was hastily made up for him in the little parlour, and farmer Brown sat up with his brother till morning. Then poor Tom was taken to his brother's house; and if the fatted calf was not killed for the poor prodigal, there was good Christmas fare, and a hearty, loving, forgiving welcome for him.

It was a sad history the wrong-doing brother had to tell, very much like that of the prodigal son in the gospel. Having enriched himself at his brother's cost, he had taken his journey into a far country, and wasted all his ill-got money in riotous living till he began to be in want. He had then passed through a variety of humiliations and miseries, until he bethought himself of his brother's house. So he worked his way home to England, and then travelled on and on, walking the whole way, with scarcely enough money left to purchase bread, until he arrived almost within sight of the home which he had made so desolate by his sins; and then his strength and courage both failed him, and he laid down, as he believed, to die.

But I felt as if I could not die without your forgiveness, John," he said, when his story was ended; "and you do forgive me; you told me so last night. They were the best words I have heard for many a long day. Say it again, John, if you don't mind."

"I do forgive you, Tom, with all my heart and soul; 1

do, Tom. And I pray God to bless you and spare you many a day and year yet," sobbed farmer Brown.

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I brought poverty upon you, John.”

"I forgive you, Tom; I tell you I do, with all my heart."

"I cannot make restitution, John. Everything is gone," said the wanderer.

"There's nothing more to be said about it, Tom," rejoined the farmer; "it is all done, and done with. There need not be another word; only I forgive you, Tom, everything, and heartily, even as God, for Christ's sake, has forgiven my sins, I hope."

"I did so many things against you, John. I not only robbed you of your money, but tried to take away your good name; oh, so many things I said and did!"

"It did not go beyond the seventy times seven, did it, Tom? And if it did, 'tis all wiped out now, all forgiven.”

A few months passed away, and then farmer Brown had to follow his poor returned penitent prodigal brother to the grave. The seeds of disease had been sown long before, in profligacy, and no skill could prevent the inevitable result.

A few years passed away, and farmer Brown had meanwhile prospered so much that he could return to his old farm, a richer man than he ever had been. It was a pleasant, happy, joyous, and grateful Christmas day-that first on which he and his family spent in their old home at Upper Beech farm. But, "the happiest Christmas day I ever spent anywhere," said he, "was that day when my poor brother Tom came along so unexpectedly.'

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"And when you found out that you knew how to forgive," added his wife.

A GOOD SERVANT'S INFLUENCE.

"THEY'RE not a pious family, Grace; but it's the best place that seems to offer. You'll just have to take what you can get since you can't get what you would like. But make it a bargain that you are allowed to get out once at least every Sunday."

Grace Johnson had gone to consult her mother, a widow, and a good Christian, about the choice of a place, and the above was what her mother said.

Grace had been a servant ever since she was sixteen

years old, and she was now six and twenty. For the last six she had been in the same place; and very sorry years she was to leave it, and very sorry her master and mistress were to part with her; but the separation was inevitable. Mr. and Mrs. Bolton were going to emigrate to New Zealand. They proposed to take Grace with them, and she would have gladly gone but for the sake of her mother, whom she was unwilling to leave; for though there were several sons, she was the only daughter. Grace was a true believer in Jesus. She had been well trained at home, both by her mother and her dear departed father, and she had attended the Sunday school up to the time of her going to service. Mr. and Mrs. Bolton were good people, and she had enjoyed whilst in their family many religious advantages. Indeed, before her marriage, Mrs. Bolton had been her Sunday-school teacher. It was whilst she lived with them that she had been brought to the knowledge of the truth, and had avowed herself a servant of Christ.

There was no difficulty at all about the conditions Grace's mother had advised her to make. Mr. and Mrs. Gilmore allowed their servants to go out half of every Sunday, and occasionally the whole day, and provided they returned in proper time they cared for nothing further. They were at liberty to go where they pleased.

Grace went as cook, and a new housemaid, Jane Evans, went at the same time. A nurse, Mary Grey, who had been two years with the family, remained. They were giddy trying girls, with no care for religion whatever. Grace very soon saw that it would be no easy thing to continue her stedfastness without giving offence, but she resolved that by God's help she would do so. Her heart offered its silent prayer, too, that she might be the means of good to her fellow-servants.

She had been accustomed to read her Bible every evening; and scarcely thinking that her doing so would be at all remarked upon, as soon as her work was done she opened it and began to read.

Glances were exchanged between the nurse and the housemaid, who in the short time they had been together had become very confidential. They saw at once that it was the Bible Grace was reading, and at last the former said, "So you're a Methodist, Grace, are you?"

"No," replied Grace, simply and naturally, "I go to Mr. Crozier's."