standing where we are, labour with persevering fidelity and patience. Procrastination is an evil to whose treachery we are too little alive. He who uses not for His praise the now which God has given him, will have to mourn a glorious opportunity lost for ever.

"Farewell, O day mis-spent ;
Thy fleeting hours were lent
In vain to my endeavour.
In shade and sun

Thy race is run
For ever! O, for ever!
The leaf drops from the tree,
The sand falls in the glass,
And to the dread eternity
The dying minutes pass.
"Come in, to-day, come in!
I have confess'd my sin.
To thee, young promise-bearer!
New lord of earth!

I hail thy birth—
The crown awaits the wearer.
Child of the ages past!

Sire of a mightier line!
On the same deeps our lot is cast,
The world is thine-and mine!"

IN the depth of a peculiarly inclement winter, I was requested to visit a young woman, who was stated to be in dying circumstances, and intensely anxious for the salvation of her soul. I obeyed the summons, and found her suffering from cancer, which was eating away her side. She lay on a sort of settee, a narrow, uneasy-looking article, which had, perhaps, been fitted up especially for her use. The room in which she was, opened on a very noisy street, where the rattle of carts, and the voices of children at play, must have resounded constantly. In the same room with herself lived, by day, her mother, her sister, her sister's

husband, several small children, and a baby a fortnight old; while during the week three or four workmen pursued in its narrow limits their calling. Looking down upon her, I reflected how sorely her sufferings must be aggravated by the surrounding wretchedness, and said :—

"My poor friend, would you not be better in the hospital ? "

She turned upon me eyes of yearning wistfulness, as if impatient for the Name that she had sent for me to speak, and said,

"I prayed to Him night and day while I was in the hospital."

"Did you?" I replied. "Well, He hears prayer."

Her mother informed me that she had been removed from the hospital, because incurable.

"But cannot she be recommended to another, where she can have skilful treatment, and comfort and quiet ?"

The mother shook her head, while her daughter whispered,-

"I had all these things in the hospital, Miss; but my mother was not there."

"So you had rather be at home. would you?

"O, yes! but tell me of Him. I prayed to Him always; " and the earnest, piteous eyes reproved my tardiness.

It was difficult, in the presence of so many, to speak to her of the dying sinner's Friend; but, struggling with my diffidence, I told her that I would first read to her a beautiful little leaflet, entitled, "The Open Door."

The story was of a poor, wayward girl, who had left her mother's roof, (somewhere in the wilds of Scotland,) and who had gone into the gay city, only to be betrayed into a life of sin. Years after, by the

blessing of God on a sermon preached in the streets, she was converted, and, like the repentant prodigal, sought again the home of her deeply - offended parent. Late at night she arrived, and, timidly and, timidly putting her hand upon the latch, found, to her surprise, that the door was not bolted. When the first gush of feeling on meeting with her mother was over, she said,

"Mother, tell me how it happens that to-night the door was not bolted."

"O, my child!" sobbed the mother, "I prayed day and night that you might come back. I believed that you would, and so the door never has been barred. I was determined that whenever you might come, you should find it open."

This affecting little narrative, with the touching analogy that it presents to the welcome given by our Heavenly Father to His repentant children, excited the emotion of those to whom it was read; for the invalid's mother said warmly,—

"O! I had rather suffer anything, than be away from my mother."

It was sweet from such a text to tell her of Him whose love is tenderer, more unforgetful than a mother's; of the Open Door of the Gospel; of Christ's oft-repeated invitation to His wandering sheep, Himself both Door and Shepherd. She seemed to drink in every word. Full of hope that she would soon be enabled to rejoice in God her Saviour, I left her. Through the week I called again; but she was asleep and as

I looked upon the ghastly hue of her countenance, and the long purple hand, escaped from beneath the coverlet, I felt sure that she could not be here long. Her mother referred to the subject of our conversation, and asked me if, upon the next Sabbath afternoon, I would read the leaflet to a few neighbours, whom she would assemble to hear it. Refusal was out of the question; but I asked her if it would not be bad for her daughter so to crowd the room where she was.

To my great regret, I was unable to comply with this request; for that week I took a cold, which confined me to the house on the Sabbath, and was only the precursor of an illness which was to keep me a prisoner for months. And so I never again saw Eliza.

During the week some one asked me for her address, which circumstance made me think that she wanted to see me, though, for obvious reasons, I was not informed of it. The Minister, however, waited upon her, and talked to her, and prayed with her; but his stay was necessarily short, and she appeared timid and reserved.

Next day her mother came to tell me that she had passed away, very calmly, entering, let us hope, in at the Open Door.

Have we entered in at the Open Door? Have we come to Christ, poor and miserable, blind and naked, that He may comfort and enrich us ? Or do we think that it is hard striving, and we will delay till old age or disease loosens our hold on life?

Ah! what makes it hard striving? The wicket-gate is not a barred gate; or if it be, ourselves have driven the bolts, and made them firm and heavy. If it is thus with us, let this little narrative admonish us. Can we be so infatuated, so ignorant, as to believe that the disease which benumbs our limbs, and fevers our pulse, and impairs our whole bodily vigour, will have no effect upon our mind?

Fatal, presumptuous error! Do not fall into it! And let us not insult the kindness and long-suffering of God by vowing to self, the world, and the devil, the dew of our youth, the strength of maturer years; and to Him the snows, the decay, and the bleak, bare winter.

"O! come to the Open Door

Ere it is closed for aye;

Ere from the weeping souls without
The Bridegroom turns away.

"O! come to the Ark of Christ,

Weary of self and sin;
Though you have wander'd far and wide,
His love will take you in.

"O! come to the Wicket Gate;
Knock hard, and it shall be
Open'd to you; for Jesus loves

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Such importunity,

"O! a mother's love is deep,

But Christ's exceeds it far
As the heat of the noontide sun
The light of a distant star."

"The Minister has told me good news of you, Mrs. A. Such good news!" said the Minister's daughter, bending over the couch of one whom suffering had wasted terribly, and whose sufferings it was not in the power of medicine to assuage.

To this the only immediate reply from the sick one was a tighter clasp of the hand detained within her own; a faint smile played upon her lips, but the heavy eyelids

remained closed over the poor, unseeing eyes, from which the bandage had been lately withdrawn. Once the light distressed them, but it would distress them no more. Erysipelas had made them its prey, and the tabernacle which once they illumined was fast falling to dissolution beneath its ravages. Then, what was the good news of which the Minister's daughter spoke? It could not be that there was hope of recovery. Long ago had recovery been pronounced impossible.

Could it be that some rich friend had stepped in to dissipate privation, and solace hours of trial by the ministry of wealth. There were not many signs of it; and yet I think a Friend had been there, rich and pitiful, though not after an earthly sort.

There was a pause, when the visitor resumed, "I was so glad to hear it, Mrs. A-; but I felt sure it would be so last time I was here. Although you could not feel anything, and all was darkness, you seemed so determined to believe; and this gave me confidence that though for awhile God might hide Himself, He would, ere He took you, reveal Himself. You see, He has caused you to pass through one of 'His little moments,' that with great mercies He might crown you."

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Ay, Miss; and I do praise God for this, that I have not to struggle with death and my unforgiven sins together. That has been all my fear since I lay here; ay, and before that. Many a time when I was about, I thought I should be having another attack, which might carry me off, a poor, miserable backslider; and no one knew, but I used to get up early, and pray and agonize; though I never got any nearer. So being afraid to die, I fought hard for life;

and, perhaps, for my children's sake, had still, hadn't my sight been taken. I knew I could be no use when that went. Well, now how different it all is! My sins are forgiven, and I am content to go."

to do on this dying bed. You have to witness to the necessity of a Saviour; to the danger of delay; to the sustaining power of religion. Will you do it ?"

An anxious willingness was ex

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Yes; though it isn't much. I took hold of the text you gave me, "Whoso believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' I said it over and over again, trying to see the comfort in it, and at last I did see it. All the burden rolled off me. The Lord made me so happy; He almost gave me a look into heaven; and now I believe in Him. I can see by faith the great white throne, the saints and angels coming and going before it, and I know that I shall be with them. It's all joy, and peace, and hope!"

can

"And all through believing in Jesus. You grasped God's declaration, that Whoso believeth on the Son hath everlasting life.' God gave you to believe, and your joy in your pardon and in your blessed inheritance were such as became the child of the King's adoption. Was it not so ?"

"I think it was. And O, Miss, to know that there's rest! O, mine has been a sad, weary life!"

"My poor friend, I know it; and Jesus knows it better. How sweetly will He comfort you. Now you are in haste to be gone, but do not be impatient. The soul He has loved so well, and that had so long rejected Him, that He has saved at last from the very jaws of the wolf, He may see fit to try for a little. Very lovingly, in knowledge of its weakness, demanding from it in the eleventh hour some of the service it would not render in health. Forgive me if I tell you that you have a work

"When you have a little strength, speak to those around you. Not many words are needed. Ask your husband and your daughters what they will do when they come to lie where you are. Tell them how hard it is to do that in sickness which they have neglected in health. Most likely your words now have a weight with them which they never had before; and after you have passed away, they will be pondered over, and repeated, or brought back to remembrance by the Spirit."

"That is very true. Ever since I found peace, I have been praying to God for them. O that they would consider for they know these things. They know as well as I can tell them."

"The same love that has found you can find them. How frequently is that love compelled to use the harsher means, because the gentler have been resisted."

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It has been so in my case. I have had such a weary, weary life; and somehow my husband being what he is, my children have come all the nearer to me. They have been dear children to me, and they are good, loving children; if only they were saved!"

"What a consolation to you and to them now that they have been so. Well, preach to them from that. Ask them to be dear children to their Heavenly Father; and then, in the time of weakness and old age, He will not forsake them."

With a sudden energy,-
"If I could but open their eyes to

the danger of delay! If I could but make them know what I have passed through from fear of the last hour. O! Miss, I have had one poor woman I knew always before me. She was a young, married woman, careless about her soul, till she was taken ill, and informed by the doctor that she was going to die. Then she roused up. She declared she couldn't die, for she wasn't ready. She tried to pray, but scarcely could for fear; and no matter how she prayed, she had no faith that her prayers would be answered. So she came to the last night of her life, and her distress and fear were so great she dare not lie in bed; she would be taken up, and she sat on a cushion at her husband's feet, while he supported her, and held her hands. All night long the neighbours that were in kept saying to her, 'Pray; call on the Lord!' and she tried and tried, but it was dreadful to be with her. Well, towards five in the morning she grew quiet, and was so for about a quarter of an hour. They thought she was worn out, when all of a sudden she started nearly on her feet, and called out, 'O, I am born again!" She smiled beautifully; but they were the last words she spoke. She let them lift her into bed, and remained quite peaceful till eight o'clock, when she died without a sigh or struggle. What an awful thing, though, to have to contend with death and sin together! Thank God I am saved from that!"

Her visitor did thank God. But O! this story of a dying woman, as narrated by another dying woman, was thrilling. It conveyed to her the great importance of ever being sure of her own election; of ever keeping in mind the solemnities of death and eternity.

lips, "O, I am born again!" Let imagination follow that new-born spirit through the portals of immortality, and see it enter a ransomed child into the presence of the Father.

While friends here bewail a sister dead, in a double sense may the angels rejoice over a child new born, a child admitted into her Royal Father's courts, "to go out no more for ever." If upon that happy brow, warm with the kiss of peace, a shade of regret might be seen, how would we interpret it? Regret for the friends left behind? Regret for a life shortened? Assuredly not. We should say the regret was for the infantile lowness of the stature in Christ Jesus; regret that the vineyard had been neglected; that the loving Saviour had in vain stretched out His hands, till the shadows of the eleventh hour fell upon her, and the grave yawned upon her path.

There hang upon the present hour two eternities. Death and hell follow hard after us. Heaven and life eternal lay before us. 66 'The world, the flesh, and the devil" are against us. The Triune God, with the "cloud of witnesses," are on our side. "Greater is He that is for us, than all they which be against us." Our life may be a tried one; but, standing on the threshold of a happy eternity, its length will dwindle to a moment, its trials into comparative insignificance, except for their disciplinary and refining influence; and for the joys of heaven, for the glories of the city of the great King, no mighty poet's pen can describe them, no heart of man conceive them.

And thou, tried and weary one, with whom the world, and the things pertaining to it, have gone hardly, be