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Jenny's poor neighbour was very ignorant; she had been very ungodly also; but she had witnessed the patience and faith and love of the declining woman; and she had listened to her kind Christian words, and seen her anxiety that she also might taste and see that the Lord was gracious.

And now that my poor dying owner had me, in the room of the big Bible which had been her mother's-and which, two or three weeks before, her unchristian father had borne away and sold that he might consume the small sum for which he sold it on his own lusts-did she read to Matty the invitations and promises of that gospel on which she rested her hopes of eternal life, while tears flowed from her eyes at the thought of the love which passeth knowledge.

Thus day after day passed away; and was it not plain now why my Master had transferred my services to another owner? even that I might lighten the passage of a dying saint, with more last words of consolation and joy, through the dark valley of the shadow of death, and aid in giving light to one who had long sat in the darkness of ignorance and vice?

There was none by but the kind neighbour when my owner died; and then, when all was over, might have been heard the loud plaints of the intemperate father resounding through the narrow dwelling: "I'll have none to care for me now!" and he cast himself on the floor in bitter anguish and despair.

And now my work seemed almost done. With long usage my leaves had become worn and defaced, and some of them torn; the rough trampling in the crowd to which I had been subjected had loosened them also within their covers. Yet had I done my Master's work; and well I knew that though my earthly substance was perishable and perishing, that the incorruptible seed I had sown in human hearts, even the ever-living word, remained. Let me briefly tell, then, of the last scene in my history.

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At the doorway of a small shop-not that of old Davie, for old Davie had departed to his rest-were boxes filled, or partly filled, with miscellaneous stores of little worth. In one of these had my been cast, with some few other volumes, in desolate and ragged condition, the casting off, it may be, of some overfull book-shelves, or the odd gleanings of an auction sale. A ticket with a single figure of small value was placed upon me, and here for many

weeks I remained unnoticed.

One day passed along an aged man, leaning on a staff; he walked slowly, and stopped, as it were, to rest at the doorway of the shop. He was in the garb of comfort, if not of wealth; and by his side was a female younger than he, yet much past the bloom of youthful vigour.

"I will rest here, dear Rachel," he said, "for I am over-tired with my walk through these busy streets" and to pass away time, his female companion turned over with faint interest the volumes

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exposed for sale. Presently she took me in her hand, and opening my cover at what had, in the freshness of my young days, been the blank page, she uttered a cry of surprise.

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Father, father, your name is here; and it must be your own handwriting also."

"Mine, Rachel ?"

"And there is a date, long, long ago; and writing underneath, but so worn that I can scarcely read it; look, father;" and she placed me in the old man's hands.

"Rachel, dear child, my eyes are dim," he said: "and if you cannot read, how can I? But what book is it, Rachel ?"

"A Bible, father; a pocket Bible. There, I can read it now: and the date-oh, father, it is the date of his birthday—my brother's; dear to me, though he was dead before-"

"Read, read, Rachel," said the father, with an agitated voice, and strange interest kindling in his countenance-"read, beloved one."

And the daughter read:

"This Bible is given to you, dear boy, at your own request, on your sixth birthday. Your parents rejoice at your choice, and earnestly hope that you may ever esteem the word of God above all riches, embrace the gospel of God's dear Son which it reveals, and live according to its dictates: that it may be your guide and support in times of darkness, perplexity, and sorrow; your joy in

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