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We are not told of the many kind things He said, and the many kind deeds He often performed. You may be sure there would be in or around the town beggars like blind Bartimeus, and rows of lepers stretching out their hands and crying for help. There would be little boys and girls who had lost their fathers, or who could point to the grave of a dead brother or sister. There would be mothers weeping bitterly over their children. Is it likely that Jesus, with the love that glowed in His bosom, would look on these broken hearts and not try to bind them up? John in his Gospel says, that there were so many gracious things Jesus did, and so many loving words Jesus spoke, that he supposed all the world could not contain the books that would be written about them." I think many of these books, had they been written, would have been taken up with the sayings and the doings of these holy years in that joyous, peaceful home, where the pure, bright, sinless Saviour lived. Never a hard word, never a cold look, never an evil thought, never a movement of wayward selfwill, or trace of sullen temper, or stormy passion: anticipating His mother's wishes, wiping away her tears, and telling her of "His Father, and her Father, of His God, and her God." I think, as Jesus, tired with the day's toil, flung Himself on His bed at night to sleep, the bright seraphs from heaven must have liked to come unseen to that couch and home of love! Nazareth would be like what Bethel and its dreamer were long, long before, with the ladder on which glorious angels went up and down. His own after prayer, never perfectly fulfilled in the case of any other human being, had its answer in His own holy life, "Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven."

I like to think, too, how happy Mary must have been to have had such a Son! How glad she would be to minister to Him! Any time He needed to go a little way from home, to some of the neighbouring towns or hamlets, to Cana or Nain, Endor or Capernaum, how pleased she would be, as she was seated in her porch at her distaff, to watch Him coming in the distance! How glad to lift the latch of her door and welcome Him in; to have the floor of her cottage swept for Him; the bath ready for His weary feet; and, perhaps, the cluster of wild flowers from the great garden of nature He loved so well! There was a feeling which must have been quite peculiar to her regarding her divine Son. All other mothers have not only the sad fear present with them, that their children

may be tempted in an evil hour to fall into sin; but another mournful thought also at times hangs over them that death may early take their loved ones away. Not only did Mary know that the pure and spotless Jesus. could never fall into temptation and never grieve her by wrong-doing, but she knew that His holy life was shielded from early death,— that He could not be removed from her, until the great work was done for which His Father had sent Him into the world. One dark cloud of a parent's heart was thus absent from her dwelling.

In His after life, as we shall come to find, He often liked to go to solitary places apart : especially to the mountains round the Lake of Tiberias, where, away from everybody, He prayed to His great and kind Father. He must often have done the same now. When the day's work was over, He would love to go by these little water-courses up to the breezy hills around Nazareth and speak face to face with God.

I have sometimes thought, too, that a number of striking images which He used in His teaching in after life, may have been gathered during those quiet years in His Galilean home.

You remember, for example, one story He tells about a Shepherd going away on the hills, after a wandering sheep; never resting till he had recovered it; and "when he had found it," he carried it upon his shoulders, and brought it back safe to the fold? Jesus, whether now or in earlier boyhood, may have seen some such shepherd as the daylight was fading on the hills of Galilee. The fold was low down in the valley, and the flock of sheep were lying peacefully on their green pastures. But that shepherd heard a lost sheep bleating far up among the rocks. He thought of the sharp flints that would cut its feet, and the night-winds that would howl around it, and the wild beasts that might devour it; so, with his crook in his hand, he was seen mounting from rock to rock, and from hill to hill; crossing a stream here, and some rough stones there. He never heeded the darkness of night, nor the howl of the wolf, nor the sword of the robber. Perhaps early the next morning, on some thyme-covered height to which the Divine Youth had gone for meditation and prayer, that shepherd was seen coming down the opposite hill slope, and calling out to those who were watching him from below-" Rejoice with me, for I have found my sheep which was lost" (Luke xv. 3-6).

Or do you remember another story, about

a man who "built his house upon the sand;" and about another who "built his house on the rock"? On an autumn evening, when He was on the slope of one of these hills above the village, Jesus may have seen some one with spade and axe, plane and saw and hammer, erecting a cottage for himself. But the man, thus busy had made choice of a wrong piece of ground. If he had been wise he would have cut down some vines that were trailing over a hard bit of rock, and built his house securely there; but he had never thought of a storm coming on, or rain washing his work away; so he foolishly built his house on the loose sand, and made the house itself of soft clay. All at once the clouds gathered over the hills-there was not a rift where blue could be seen in all the sky. The thunder rolled; heavy torrents of rain fell; and, rushing along the hill slope in great wild streams, they carried the sand and moist earth away: the clay house came down, and was all a ruin. Whereas his neighbour, who had begun to build at the very same time, either raised his new cottage on a foundation of big stones, or had dug deep till he came to the solid limestone. When the same storm broke in the sky, and the little rills swollen into rivulets came foaming down, they did no harm to his house, "for it was founded upon a rock" (Mat. vii. 24-27). Or to take another of these nature-pictures. For many days or weeks in autumn, there had only been a red flush in the morning sky just about sunrise, all the rest of the day or days were wet and misty and gloomy. But one evening Jesus may have been on the top of the cliff above Nazareth watching a beautiful sunset towards the shores of Tyre, over the Mediterranean Sea. The sky all at once broke, and became aglow; the fleecy clouds were tinged with ruby: the very fringe of yellow sand on the seaside seemed of a fiery colour, as it caught the tint of the sky. The sun seemed as if he went asleep on a pillow of crimson with crimson curtains around him; then, when that sun had set and the glow had faded, out came clusters of bright stars; and the next morning when Jesus awoke, not a dark mist or drizzling rain but a golden light was streaming through the lattice,—this continuing day after day for many weeks together. Might it not be when he called to mind afterwards some such picture as this that He said, "When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather; for the sky is red and in the morning, It will be foul weather to-day; for the sky is red and lowering" (Mat. xvi. 2, 3).

These and similar other scenes; the flash of the lightning-the roll of the thunderthe bursting of the green buds in springthe woman losing her piece of money, and with lighted candle sweeping the house till she found it-the games of the children in the open market-place, or by the village fountain, may possibly now have come at different times before the eyes of the Saviour; He stored them in His mind and made use of them afterwards in teaching the people.

This, young reader, has been the description of a bright and happy youth. Yet I cannot close without telling you that, happy as that home was, Jesus had His trials to bear. His own kinsmen, His brethren and cousins, seemed to be jealous of Him, and some of the people of the village were rough and rude to Him. He is spoken of in the Song of Solomon as "a lily among thorns." How true! This beautiful snow-white lily, from the garden of heaven, grew up in the earthly valley of Nazareth. But wicked people, like those hard and prickly thorns so often to be seen in Palestine, harsh and cruel friends hated Him for His goodness, and spoke unkindly to Him. He would perhaps have felt it His duty, when He saw them acting unjustly or dishonestly, or when He heard them uttering harsh, or impure, or malicious words, to raise His protest;-bravely yet graciously to tell them of their faults;-and just because of the faithfulness of His reproofs they would treat Him with unfeeling severity.

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Yet I am quite sure of this, that He would not pay them back with the same. thorn might pierce or the clouds might darken, but the lily lost none of its whiteness or purity. I think I hear Him saying only one thing in return for all their harshness. It was the same beautiful utterance which came from His lips long after,-" Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

With others, however, in Nazareth it was doubtless different. Goodness and gentleness and meekness in the eyes of those whose good opinion is worth having are always attractive. Love begets love in generous natures. "Why does everybody love you?" was the question put to Philip Doddridge's daughter. The reply was, "Because I love everybody." It must have been so in a higher sense with Jesus. Among the best of His companions and fellow-villagers He could not fail to be a favourite. He "increased in favour," we read, not only with God, but with man. Those who were disposed at first to be unkind to Him, had their envy and jealousy disarmed as they became more

and more familiar with His beautiful character gentleness and meekness, unselfishness and -as they marked His growing intelligenceHis unselfish way-His stainless purity in thought, word, and deed. They saw in His very countenance, in His eye, and in His smile, the index of the lofty loving soul within. So that we may believe that the coldness and reserve shown for a time by many towards Him were gradually exchanged for esteem and admiration.

submission,-might not that true "Lily of the Valley " (Sol. Song ii. 1) be said to "increase in favour with God"? God "saw the light that it was good" at early dawn; but He regarded it with a deeper complacency as it shone "more and more unto the perfect day." The dayspring of Childhood deepened into Youth-the tender morning light of Youth deepened into the full noontide glory of Manhood, till His holy soul, like His countenance, described in after years, was

This, at all events, we do know, that whatever was the case with man, "He increased in favour with God" (Luke ii. 52). How," as the sun shineth in his strength." you may ask, if Jesus were the quite Perfect, Holy, Loving One we have represented Him to be, could He be said to "grow" or "increase" in favour? Is it possible for that which is perfect to increase in perfection? You may find an answer that will explain this in the emblem which we have just employed. Some of you may have seen, not the common Lily of the Valley, but one of those magnificent plants which the gardener regards as the pride of his hothouse, called the Lily of Japan, or the Lily of the Nile. When the virgin-white leaves are beginning to open, the natural exclamation is "How perfectly beautiful!" There is no spot or blemish upon them to mar their early loveliness. But day by day, as the petals grow and expand, the singular beauty of the flower becomes more and more manifest. It is viewed with increasing interest. That beauty was in one sense "perfect," when the pure new-born bud was resting in its earliest cradle of long green leaves. But what was the perfection of this bud, compared to that of the large massive cup to which it grew (more delicate than the finest porcelain), poised on its tall and graceful stem. Jesus was spoken of as "growing up before God as a tender plant." This "Plant of Renown" was really and truly perfect at His birth as "the Holy Child Jesus." But as the lovely graces of His human nature became more manifest day by day,-the white leaves of

Thus, then, had the Meek and Lowly Jesus lived for thirty years a life of seclusion and silence, without any signs, by miracle or otherwise, of the Divinity which was within Him, or of the greatness which was yet to be revealed. His human body was the sacred sanctuary in which Deity dwelt. The silence of these years reminds us of what is said of the Temple of Jerusalem, which was a type of Him-"There was neither hammer nor axe nor any tool of iron heard in the house while it was in building " (1 Kings vi. 7).

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"No sound was heard, no pond'rous axes rang, Like some tall palm the Heavenly fabric sprang." And yet all the greatness and glory and pomp of the world were nothing in real interest to what these thirty years had witnessed in that quiet Village of Galilee. Rome had risen to the height of her splendour. She bore the proud eagle on her standards. That eagle may be said to have winged its flight to every region of the globe, and planted its iron claws on the prostrate nations. But what was that bird of Roman conquest and victory compared to the Divine Dove of Peace that was nestling, unknown and unheeded, amid the rock-cliffs of Nazareth? The eagle carried nothing on its rushing wings but terror and death. The Dove from the ark of Heaven was to carry the olive branch to the remotest bounds of the earth and to the latest ages of time.

"A BIG SURPRISE."

A Story of Seven Dials.

By L. T. MEADE, AUTHOR OF "A PEEP INTO PARADISE."

CHAPTER I.

OW cross little Maggie felt! how cross she looked! Her thin, colourless lips were drawn down at the corners; her dark eyes had that dim, wistful look which shows

that tears are very near the surface; her voice, when she spoke, was set in a fretful, quavering key.

So decidedly uncome-at-able was Maggie, that the baby, seated on the floor opposite, instead of stretching out his arms to approach

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her, sucked his thumb, while he gazed at her | discontented face in gloomy silence. There was no one else to watch Maggie, but to judge from the baby's expression, which betokened a kind of stolid surprise and discomfort, it was evident that this state of affairs was unusual, and that generally the little girl kept a firm control over her temper. But I must first describe her home, and then tell her story.

There is a part of London very little known to respectable people, only seen by such people when they pass through it in cabs and omnibuses. No person at all comfortable or well to do would think of residing in this part of London, or indeed remaining there an instant longer than was absolutely necessary.

The place in question is called Seven Dials, and it is quite one of the lowest parts of the great city. From Seven Dials itself, branch off seven miserable, low streets, each of which again communicates with wretched

alleys and courts. Not bright places these for a home! for not one of the attributes of a home-cleanliness, peace, order-do they possess. Crumbling and foul are the walls of these houses, dark and broken the staircases, sadly dilapidated and bare of furniture the rooms and cellars, but alas! human beings swarm here, and in such a place little Maggie lived.

Her address was Tiger Alley, her home an attic in one of the worst of its houses.

It was a burning July day, and the atmosphere in Maggie's home was certainly neither wholesome nor pleasant. The tiny window in the roof only admitted air through one of its broken panes, and very hot was the little air that came through this opening.

Neither was the furniture conducive to cheerful thoughts. It consisted of a threelegged stool, a dirty mattress, a saucepan and pot, and a little hard wooden chair, originally meant for a baby, with a round

rung in front. In this chair, placed under the window, so as to derive what benefit she could from the fresher outside air, sat Maggie. In this chair she had sat almost from her birth. She was eight years old now, but, except for the wonderfully intelligent expression of her face, she did not look more than four. Little Maggie had never been outside this room, and had never walked in her life. No wonder she looked unhappy, ill, weak, lame, she had never been outside Tiger Alley for eight long years! Who could imagine a more wretched fate? But Maggie was not usually unhappy; except when suffering pain, she was generally patient, and even cheerful, and her mother often declared she was worth two of the great hulking strong ones, to give you back a pleasant word.

Yes, desolate as Maggie looked, she filled her own little niche in the world; she fulfilled her own duties, and she had her own happiness. She had a very loving heart-a heart too big, and warm, and sensitive for that poor little frame; and her heart was not empty-it had its treasures.

Three very great treasures had Maggie, and one lesser one. First came the baby, who was left in her care day after day while mother was out charing. Every morning Mrs. Thomas took a long string and, tying one end round Maggie's chair, she fastened the other to the baby's waist. As far as his tether permitted might the baby go, but no farther, and to take care of him was Maggie's duty and pleasure.

one cared for him as Maggie did, and perhaps he cared for no one like Maggie. He returned her love in kind, if not in intensity. He returned it, too, in self-sacrifice, for when Maggie's head ached, or when Maggie suffered more pain than usual, he could soften his rough voice, he could subdue his noisy tones. At such times he was so nice that Maggie thought the pain almost worth bearing for the sake of his tender looks, and even mother never carried her half as comfortably as Joe.

Yes, certainly, of all Maggie's treasures, Joe was her greatest, dearest, best. When she thought of him she never envied the children who ran about and played, who could peep into the parks and see the trees, the green grass, and the flowers; happy and healthy as these children were, they none of them possessed her brother, and to give up Joe she would not have changed with any of them.

I have mentioned Maggie's great treasures, but I must not forget her little one-a treasure quite apart and distinct from the others, not for an instant to be placed in the same category, but still holding a decided place of its own in her heart; at the present moment, never noticing the baby's discontented face, she is drawing it out of a tin box by her side, has tenderly removed from it a piece of soiled tissue paper, and now two or three heavy tears drop from her eyes, and one of them blots this lesser treasure. What is it? A dirty card which has once been Then came mother-poor, tired, and over- trodden under some one's foot. On the card worked mother, who was always so patient is painted, in faded colours, a large white lily; and good to her little lame child, who, how-round the lily the words are printed, "Conever cross and put out she might be with the strong and healthy children, was always gentle and loving to this weak and ailing one. Yes, her mother and the baby were great treasures of Maggie's, but I think, well as she loved them, she loved some one else better. I think in her heart of hearts some one else reigned as king. This third and greatest of all Maggie's treasures was her brother Joe. Joe was eleven years old, tall, stout, healthy, rough, with a loud voice, a rattling, noisy step, a ringing whistle, a gay laugh.

Joe was the sort of boy who everywhere, no matter what his surroundings, carries all before him. He was not a very good boy, by no means; but he was so healthy, so joyous, so never-me-care, so entirely regardless of danger, that he was a favourite with his street companions, he was a favourite at school, he was a favourite at home; but no

sider the lilies of the field."

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Maggie does not know how to read, but she can repeat every one of these words. She can point with her finger to where consider" stands, to where "field" stands, to where "lilies" stands. She knows nothing about them, except that lily means a flower, and this faded thing on the card is a picture of a flower.

As her tears drop on the card, the exasperated baby, tired out of sucking his thumb, makes a dart at it, and in trying to rescue it from his vicious little grasp, the card gets torn. Poor Maggie! this is the crowning drop in her cup of sorrows; she sobs bitterly and passionately, and though the baby, quite penitent now, clambers to her knee, puts his arms about her neck, and pulls all her dark hair about her face, he cannot, successful as these endearments usually are, stay her tears.

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