"There's nobody to pay anything," said the husband; "unless she falls upon the parish, and we know what that is."

"I am not thinking about the parish; but-I don't know what made me say a word about payment; but-there are our own children, John; and it is not easy to make both ends meet always, in feeding and clothing them; and they are growing bigger, and take more to provide for them every week almost.'

"I know that, Fanny; and I have been thinking that, any how, this year will be more expensive than the last was.'

"And nothing laid by, to speak of, John; and if you should be laid aside, or lose your place, which is not very likely, perhaps, but it may be-only think of that, John.'

John Barlow had thought of it all, he said, as in duty bound; but he had thought too of that command, and of the opportunity that God had put in their way of doing good to the household of faith. "And you remember what David says in one of his psalms, Fanny: My goodness extendeth not to thee; but to the saints, the excellent of the earth. It is something like that, if they are not just the words; and it seems to mean that the only way we have of paying back (though I don't like that word, either), the only way we have of showing our gratitude to God for his goodness to us, is by showing love and kindness, as far as we can, to all them that he loves. But," continued John, with a sigh of submission, "if it goes against you, Fanny-"

"Bless your dear heart, John; I never said or thought such a thing," exclaimed the wife, half crying and half smiling; "I only thought it right to put it all before you like. And I am sure, if you are willing, I am; for I have been thinking of the very same thing, though I did not like to say it. And I'll take Lucy to my heart, like one of our very own, for Christ's sake, who has done so much for us, John."

After this there was not a word breathed about Lucy Meredith's going away, or "falling upon the parish."

Their neighbours wondered what John Barlow and his wife meant by taking the little orphan into their family; and the Squire, John's master, roughly told him (for squires can be rough sometimes, some squires at least) that he was 66 a fool to be burdening himself with other people's brats." This had no effect, however, on John's

mind, except to make him cling to the child all the more kindly and after a little while Lucy became reconciled to her new home, and almost forgot that she had ever had any other parents than those who had thus adopted her.

Besides the Barlows there were none that cared much, or bestowed more than a passing thought upon little Lucy. The fact is, Meredith was a stranger when he came into the neighbourhood five or six years before, and the people of that parish were not partial to strangers. And though they became reconciled to Meredith after a time, when they discovered that he was an inoffensive and kind-hearted young man, they had never quite got over the prejudice. He hired a small farm, and just when Providence seemed to be smiling on his efforts, and he had brought home the mother of little Lucy as his wife, he was served with a writ of ejectment by his landlord, who took offence at his religion. The act was unjust, no doubt; but the landlord was rich, and the tenant was too poor to contest the matter with him, so he submitted to the injustice and was ruined. Worse than this, he was spirit-broken. He never held up his head after being thrust out of his farm; his health, never good, suddenly gave way, and when his little Lucy was only a year old, he died.

Then came the poor young widow's illness and death; after which it was found that nothing was left behind for the little orphan, for even the scanty furniture of the cottage barely sufficed to pay the rent then due.

If the Merediths had any relatives in the world they were unknown; it was not even known whence they came; it was only understood that their native place was a long way off. They had met with kindred souls and kindly hearts, however, in John Barlow and his wife, who loved the strangers because they loved the Lord Jesus Christ. And now they were gone, that love was transferred to the orphan child.

Many years had passed away, and Lucy Meredith had long been looked upon as part and parcel of John Barlow's family, when a stranger called on him at his cottage.

"You don't know me," he said, abruptly, "but my name is Meredith."

The gardener looked keenly and anxiously at the speaker. He was a man of middle age, sunburnt in countenance, and rough in manner.

"I have been abroad more than twenty years. I am going abroad again; I came here to look after a brother; I find he is dead, and his wife is dead, I am told. You know what I want now."

"Not to take away our Lucy!" exclaimed Mrs. Barlow, in alarm. "Oh, sir, pray don't say so."

"I must see her first, and then I'll tell you. Is this the girl?"

He laid his hand on the shoulder of a child who entered the cottage door as he spoke. She was about ten years old. "This is Lucy Meredith," said Mrs. Barlow, drawing herself close to the child, who looked up wonderingly at the stranger.

"Well then," continued the stranger, after a close scrutiny; I am her uncle, and mean to behave as such." "But

"You want to know how I am come here to look up my niece after so many years. I will tell you. I have already told you I have been abroad twenty years. Well-I went because I quarrelled with my family; and I never concerned myself about them afterwards. That is why I did not write; and they could not write to me, because they did not know where I was to be heard of. I am come back now to make up the quarrel; and I find there is no one to make it up with but this child. I have no children of my own; so, as I like her looks, I shall adopt her." "But not to take her away from us, sir?"

"I do not see how that is to be prevented, my good friends," said the stranger.

And, as was presently seen, there was no help for it. The stranger uncle had means of proving his relationship, and that he was Lucy's legal guardian. He showed also that he had sufficient means of providing for her, and he expressed his determination of doing this, but in his own way. And his own way was that Lucy was to go and live with him and his wife.

"But you are taking Lucy right away from us, sir,” said the Barlows, sorrow-stricken.

Yes, there was no help for that either; right away; ten thousand miles away and more to the other side of the world, where his home was. What then? There was the less danger of their ever being troubled with Lucy again. "Troubled! She has never troubled us. Dear, dear Lucy!" Mrs. Barlow broke out.

"the

She has been

"I am glad of it," said the unceremonious uncle; more hope that she will be no trouble to us. an expense to you, however."

66

"The Lord has helped us to bear it," said John Barlow. Any way we are no poorer than we were eight years ago when Lucy came to live with us first."

"I am glad to hear you say so," returned Mr. Meredith, "because though I relieve you of the charge for the future, I don't feel bound to re-imburse you for the past. It was your own doing, you know.”

And so they parted: and Lucy went too. Report was very busy: it was said that the stranger uncle had made the Barlows a handsome present. Twenty pounds-fifty pounds-a hundred pounds-were among the sums named; and these vague guesses were never contradicted; the Barlows were too heart-stricken and afflicted at the loss of

their " poor Lucy," to care for what their neighbours said. Perhaps they thought that the well-to-do uncle might have. shown a little more approbation of their care of little Lucy; but if they thought this, they did not harbour the thought. They had given the cup of cold water, freely, to the child of a fellow-disciple of their Lord, for his sake; and they were happy if they could only think that they had his approbation.

*

Twelve years more passed away; and John Barlow and his wife were growing old. More than this, they had learned by experience what they had once known only in theory, that "whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." They had passed through many sorrows; and those sorrows were not only not ended, but were approaching a climax. They were very poor. John had lost his situation in the Squire's gardens, because there was a new master; and John was sorely afflicted with rheumatism. All the work he could get was stone-breaking on the roads; and he could not always work at that. Their children were dispersed in the world, and were themselves too poor to do much for the assistance of their parents in old age, though they did what they could.

Little Lucy Meredith was not forgotten by them: she never had been forgotten, and many earnest prayers had been offered by them that the good seed of Christ's kingdom which they had endeavoured to plant in her soul might, by God's grace, spring up to everlasting life. But

it seemed as though the orphan girl had forgotten them; for they had never heard of her since the sorrowful parting. This was the state of things when, one new year's eve, the lonely couple were seated by their fireside.

"It was twenty years ago, this very night, Fanny," said John Barlow, 66 that poor Mrs. Meredith died."

"And twenty years ago to-morrow, John, that little Lucy came to live with us," returned Mrs. Barlow, with a sigh. "Dear Lucy! but I suppose she has forgotten all about us by now."

There was a gentle knock at the door; and then the door opened. A stranger entered-a young woman.

"Do you know me?-mother, father!"

They knew her now: it was Lucy's voice-Lucy's own self.

She had a long story to tell, though it was not all told then. She was her own mistress now:-her uncle and aunt were dead. They had been capricious and exacting; but they had made her their heiress; and she had gathered all together in that far distant land, and returned to her childhood's home and her early protectors.

"I will never leave you again," she said. "I may have seemed ungrateful; but I have never ceased to love you," she added.

And, Lucy,-do you love the Lord Jesus Christ?" said John Barlow, anxiously.

"I hope I do: I am sure I do," said Lucy.

*

*

*

"It is twenty-five years ago this very new year's day, that we took this dear treasure to our home," said John Barlow, sitting in a comfortable easy chair, before a bright: fire, in a snugly furnished room, five years afterwards; "and see what the Lord has done for us all through her!"

BETHESDA; OR, THE HOUSE OF MERCY.
JOHN V. 1-9.

THE Pool of Bethesda, with its five porcnes built round about it for the accommodation of the sick, was well entitled to its name, the House of Mercy, for "an angel went down at a certain season into the pool, and troubled the water: whosoever then first after the troubling of the water stepped in was made whole of whatsoever disease he had." The pool has long since been dried up, and of the porches