went about his home duties cheerfully and quietly. But when night came, bringing home Fred wet and spiritless, and Alfred did not return, he became alarmed. He sat up till very late, but no appearance of Alfred's return! When every one in the room was asleep he went out, hoping that his brother might be lurking near. At last, towards morning, he returned home alone, weary and sad. Ever since his father had been getting worse, Mary had been ill and cross, and Dick had been watching with longing eyes for his brother's return.

"He'll come, I know he'll come," he would say to himself each night, as each day brought fresh disappointment. "I know he'll come soon."

Mary was of no use to him, his only help lay in Fred, who was always gay and loving. Before long Dick had to stay at home entirely to watch his father, and Mary, who had never recovered the cold she got at The King's Arms. Then little Fred had to go out alone to work for the family. He felt himself of great importance as he trudged along with his broom, and his pretty looks attracted so much attention that he often made more money than ever poor Dick could. But they were very, very poor for all that. Often Dick and Fred had to go with scarcely any food, so that there might be enough for "father and Moll." The little fellow never murmured; but Dick saw him from day to day lose his baby looks and ways. Dick's heart was very sore for his little brother; but he could do nothing to help him. All day before Harry's visit their father had lain in a kind of stupor. Dick had nothing to give him to eat, and he seemed sinking fast. Harry's visit put life and spirits into the little brothers, and the money was in very deed a Godsend.

After Harry left them, the father lay in the same stupor till far into the night. Dick tried to get him to swallow some food, but he would not. He was so quiet that once or twice Dick thought he must be dead.

The grey of the dawn was beginning to appear through the broken window when Dick heard his father breathe his name.

"Yes, father," he softly answered, creeping to his bedside. "Are you any better?" "No, my poor Dick, I shall never be better," whispered the father gently.

"Oh, father!" moaned the poor little boy; "oh, father!" That was all; but it was a cry of utter loneliness and despair. "Don't cry, my Dick! You know who will be a Father to you. Light the candle;

I want to see your face once again. Your eyes are like hers," he sighed, as Dick stood again by him. "Do you remember your mother, Dick?"

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Very little," answered Dick through his white lips; there was not a tear in his terribly sad, burning eyes.

"Dick," continued his father presently, "I think I should tell you your mother's history. You are old for your years, and I think it right to tell my little Comfort my wife's sad story. If I wander a little you must have patience with me. Though you will hardly believe it, my darling, I am the son of a gentleman. Long, long ago I knew your mother down in the country. I was a curate, she the schoolmaster's daughter. While we were all very happy, a young officer came to stay at the Hall. She was very beautiful; he made love to her; she thought she loved him. So they were married against his parents' wishes; though she did not know that. He brought her to poverty and died, leaving her and their little son absolutely penniless. His parents found her out, but refused to help her unless she would give up the boy. This she refused to do, and struggled on for two years; but at last she had to give him up, as she could not earn money enough to keep him. Her parents were dead; she had not now a friend in the world. When she was first taken from me I gave up my charge, and took to literature. I met her again by chance in a London shop. I was at that time comparatively prosperous. She was poor and friendless. She remembered the old times, and knew she had loved me all these years. We were married. For a little time all went well. When you were about a year old I had a long illness: I could not work. For some years we managed to keep from absolute starvation; but before Fred's birth I had a stroke of paralysis: my brain was injured. When Fred was born your mother died. The rest you know"-he turned away exhausted.

Presently he spoke again, but his voice was very weak. "Be good to them all. And Dick, promise never till your dying day to tell the story of your parents' life."

"No, no, you are my brother," cried Dick, still holding out his arms. "Alfy, I'm dying; won't you come to me before I go?" Then with one wild cry Alfred was in his brother's arms.

"Oh, Dickie, Dickie, forgive me. I did not mean to come back till I was rich; but I heard you was ill, an' I wanted to see you, oh, so awful bad. I didn't mean you to see me; I meant to go away and you never to know I were here."

"But you will never go away again?" said Dick wistfully.

"If you will keep me, I'll stay here always, always."

"You must stay with me till I die, and then you must take care of the children. But now I'm so tired with happiness. Let's lie down and go to sleep together, like we used to long, long ago." And the weary eyelids drooped, and the two little brothers' heads nestled once more on the same pillow, as they had done when they were babies.

At last even the loving brothers and sister gave up hope. Fred went sadly to his work. On him fell the heaviest part of the trouble. While Alfred and Mary were always with Dick, he had to be away. Every moment he was absent was a moment less of Dick. Yet though the strong little heart was almost breaking with its weight of sorrow he bore up like a true soldier, fighting till the last. "I wonder what has become of my gentleman," thought he one morning, as he trudged along to his crossing. "Surely he can't have forgotten us; and I don't think he's dead. Maybe he's looking for us at the old house. I'll go to the old place and watch for him, and perhaps he'll come.'

On the second day after Fred had formed this resolution, and while he was hanging about near his old home, a kind voice startled him by exclaiming

"Hallo! Fred!"

Looking up he recognised Harry, dressed in deep mourning. "It's a long time since I saw you. How are you all?" said the merry voice.

"Oh, sir!" cried the child, "father's dead, Alfy's come back, and Dick's dying."

"Dick dying!" exclaimed Harry, thunderstruck. Oh, why was I so long!" The

cheerful voice was now almost choked. "Take me there," he groaned.

They found Dick much worse; the feeble life had all but run out.

He did not at first know Harry—not, in fact, till he sat down by him and smoothed the hair off the burning brow.

"Dick, dear boy, do you know me?" "Is it the gentleman ?" asked Dick in a feeble voice.

"Yes; but don't call me that; call me Harry. Be quick and get better, and I'll see to you," cried Harry in his old impulsive way.

"That will never be," said Dick with a sad smile. "It won't be long now."

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Oh, Dick, don't talk so. You do not know what I owe to you," cried poor Harry.

"Ówe to me!" said Dick, opening his eyes in wonder. "Oh, sir, you're laughing at me!" No, Dick, indeed I'm not," said Harry earnestly. "It was you who first showed me the right way."

"I don't understand; tell me," said Dick, puzzled.

"I was a useless fool before I saw you, I was leading a life of selfishness and idleness. The sight of you first opened my eyes to the fact that there were others in the world to be thought of besides myself. Of course I always liked to give a poor boy a sixpence, and that sort of thing, you know; but I always thought of poor people as something quite different from me--as a sort of beasts, in fact. But your brave words taught me to look on you, a little beggar boy, as something to be respected. I could never think of you as an inferior, but as a brother, ay, as a superior. And when I remembered that there might be many more noble spirits struggling on alone-living, working, and dying with no one to help them; when I thought that there were many with noble souls, having the nobleness crushed out of them by neglect, I felt what a brute I was to waste my life, when there was so much work for me to do. So, Dick, I determined to go to college, not at first quite sure whether to go into the Church or to become a doctor. I made up my mind to the latter, and for the last two years I have been working very hard. I have neglected you shamefully, Dick. I thought I was doing right, but I see now I was doing it the wrong way. But I have tried to do better; often and often I have fallen back. I am yet very far from good; but, with God's help, I hope

"I'm so glad," whispered Dick. "Sir,"

"Take me, too. Oh, Dick, you mustn't leave me! I'm so tired; take me, too," sobbed the poor child.

"I can't, Fred; I must go alone. You must try to be happy without me."

"No, no, I can't live without you, indeed I can't. Oh, Dickie, Dickie! don't go, don't go. Stay, and I'll work for you always and always," he moaned, holding Dick with his two little arms.

"You have worked for me too long already, darling," sighed Dick. "Now God wants me; so it's all right."

"But I want you too; I want you more than God does."

"No, no, darling," whispered Dick, kissing him fervently. "Now, Freddy, go to

"Harry."

Then it all flashed across him. He remembered where he had seen the eyes so like Dick's. His heart gave a great leap.

"Dick!" cried he, "I am that HarryI am your brother!"

"What?" said Dick wonderingly. "I am your brother, Dick."

The little arms were thrown round the young man's neck.

"My own, big, beautiful brother?" gasped Dick. "Oh, God is very good."

"Live, Dick, live! You shall come to my home, and never leave me more," cried the young man, holding him tightly in his strong

'Never," answered Alfred through his clenched teeth.

"I trust you. Good-bye. Mary"-he only kissed her. Then his eyes wandered round in search of Fred. "Fred," he whispered, holding out his arms, "my baby, come." And as the little head nestled beside him he looked up in an agony. "Oh, how can I tell him-he's such a little thing!"

No one answered; only Harry gave a great sob.

"Baby, I'm going away," said Dick gently.

"Ain't he pretty?" said Dick, as he gazed proudly on the little face, now flushed with slumber. "He's so pretty! I suppose it's all right; but oh, baby, it's hard, hard to leave you!"

He lay quiet for a short time, and Harry, thinking that Freddy's weight might fatigue him, was about to take the child away.

"No, please, sir, let him stay. It's the last time he'll sleep with me. Good night, little Freddy. Oh, my baby, good night." And with his lips upon his sleeping brother's cheek, he fell asleep for ever.

It had been quite dark; but just as the soul passed away the moon shone forth in her quiet beauty, shone on the curly heads of the little brothers as they nestled together for the last time.

They unclasped the stony arms from around the warm living body, and laid little Freddy down on his own mattress.

Thus the pure soul passed from earth, leaving every one who had come within its influence nobler and better.

The impetuous Harry buried Dick by the side of old Mr. Lindsay and his wife, who had died within a year of each other.

Then Harry took his brothers and sister home, and soothed and comforted them as best he might.

When last we heard of them, Harry was going about as a doctor among the poor of London, healing and helping all he could. Fred had just taken his degree as M.D. Alfred was second mate on board a large ship. But through all their happiness and prosperity one thought binds them together, one name is dearer to them than all other earthly names. It is the loved and honoured name of Little Dick.

I.-HOME NOTES.

MAY MEETINGS AND THE MISSIONARY SPIRIT.

So far as we can judge, the attendance at the London May Meetings this year has scarcely been so large as usual. This probably is chiefly to be accounted for by the long-continued depression of trade, which already very sensibly affects the "spending power" of many people. It has been gratifying, however, to learn that the contributions to nearly all the principal societies, for the purpose of spreading the knowledge of the Gospel throughout the world, have proved unexpectedly satisfactory. We may mention two or three examples. The Church Missionary Society announces a total general income (exclusive of gifts for special objects, amounting to about £16,000) of £207,000, no less than £31,000 in advance of the preceding year. The Bible Society reports an income, from contributions and sales together, of £212,300, which is an increase of about £5,300. The Wesleyan Missionary Society's income was £146,000, which large amount shows a small decrease (of about 200) as compared with the preceding year. The contributions to the London Missionary Society for general purposes were the largest ever received by the Society, and the total income amounted to £138,000. Large as these sums are, they do not appear to be fully equal to the requirements of the organizations on behalf of which they have been subscribed. The expenditure of the Church Missionary Society, which includes the payment of a deficiency on the account of the previous year, exceeds the income by about £4,300. The Bible Society has expended, chiefly upon efforts for the circulation of the Scriptures in connection with the Russo-Turkish War, nearly £16,000 more than it has received. The expenditure of the Wesleyan Missionary Society has also exceeded the income by about £13,000, and the official statement has been made that unless the ordinary resources of the Society are increased to the extent of £20,000 a year, it will be impossible to continue the present scale of operations. On every hand it is clear that the tendency is for those who direct the work of these and similar great religious organizations, to find their labours extending in new directions, and to feel themselves confronted by new opportunities and consequent responsibilities. There is no sign, however, that religious people generally are appalled or dismayed by this yearly development of the great duties to the discharge of which they have set themselves, or that their confidence in the societies organized for the carrying out of mission work is on the decline. With strenuous devotion, and often at the cost of some considerable selfdenial, they annually cast their gifts into the treasury. It is not for any merely human observer to judge how far such gifts are the expression of a true zeal for the VII. N.S.

evangelization of the world; although each of us may well strive faithfully to "judge himself" in the matter. We should be unthankful, however, did we fail to rejoice in the many signs which exist in the Church of to-day of the presence of missionary zeal. It is not, indeed, perhaps in any of us, a zeal of such fervour and intensity as to be adequate to the greatness and significance of the Master's parting commission to His disciples; but it exists in a degree which at least bears witness that His Church still knows something of His spirit, and is constrained— if, alas! too often with faltering step and at a far distance-to follow Him in that path of service for mankind which His infinite love and compassion constrained Him to pursue even to the end. The sincere Christian will often utter a yearning cry for the gift of more of this spirit, and one great purpose of May Meetings, when their true idea is realised, is to quicken in all true hearts this sublime longing.

us.

COMPLETION OF KEBLE COLLEGE, OXFORD. The foundation of Keble College, Oxford, however the omen may be interpreted, is certainly an event of which it is necessary to take account in any attempt to divine the tendency of the ecclesiastical, theological, and religious movements in this country at the present time. For many centuries Oxford has held a conspicuous place in the annals of the religious as well as of the social life of England; and in modern times it has been the starting-point of two remarkable revivals which have profoundly and permanently affected the course of Christianity, and the typical forms of Christian thought and character, amongst Methodism was born in those academic shades, and there the High Church movement took its rise. Widely different as these two developments of religious thought and activity are in conception and principle, there are some striking parallels in their history; and the group of leaders of the later movement-Newman, Pusey, Keble, and others, will probably be regarded by future generations as, at least, as remarkable as the Wesleys, Whitefield, and their companions. Setting aside for a moment the thought of the mischievous sacerdotalism and the concomitant ritualism which have done so much to alienate and alarm Protestant observers of the progress of High Churchism, an alarm most painfully justified by the numerous secessions from the ranks of High Churchmen to those of the Papacy, we can all recognise the presence among the followers of Dr. Newman and of Dr. Pusey of a real spiritual energy, producing an earnestness of evangelistic effort, a fervent style of preaching, and a zeal in various forms of service, which, besides their direct effect, have done much to arouse emulation in Christians of very different doctrinal and ecclesiastical convictions.

Keble College is in the first instance intended as a tribute to the genius, character, and influence of the author of the Christian Year, but it must also be

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