been shown (and with truth) that we whose lot has been cast in later days do in fact enjoy more privileges, and are favoured with more aids to piety, than were His own immediate followers. Three causes conducive to this opinion lie here. Ist. That having the benefit of the experience of the intervening ages, we are not subject to the turmoil of contending factions, crying out, "What new doctrine is this?" 2nd. That we have leisure calmly to ponder the life, death, and resurrection of the Word made flesh; and 3rd, and above all, that we have still opportunity for the sameperhaps we should rather say—more exalted communion with Jesus, than if we had literally walked with Him by the way. We are, no doubt, prone to ascribe blame to these disciples for yielding to carnal indulgence in the season of their Master's sorest need. While He was doing their work in bitter agony of soul, they were reclining in idleness, and finally sank into slumber. "Oh, that I had been there!" cries some enthusiast believer, with tears of regret ; " I should not have slept. Love, awe, and sorrow for my suffering Saviour would have held me waking day and night for His sake." How different the sublime condescension of the Martyr, who not only forbore reproof, but offered excuse for the offending ones: "The spirit truly is willing, but the flesh is weak."

To watch with Christ is at once the highest privilege and chief joy of the faithful soul. And though it is not possible for us to watch with Him in the sense that Peter and the others were called to do of old, to have His presence vouchsafed to us amid the worries of the daily round is better than thousands of gold and silver. Specially when the closing year gives pause to toil, and we survey from the vantage-ground of memory all the way that the Lord has led us, what attitude so appropriate as that of prayer—that Christ would watch with us one hour? To pour out our gratitude for the past, our reverence in the present, our trust for the future. As the Christmas bells fall on our ears, let us echo the angelic salutation, "Glory to God in the highest."

As we assemble round the cheerful household board, let us remember that the circle on earth is designed to form part of the whole family in heaven, and that the tenderest ties here are but a faint shadow of His ineffable love with whom a thousand years are as one day."

T

Now and Then.

HERE will be gladness, brighter for the weeping,
And endless resting, calmer for the strife,
And heartfelt rapture, fuller for the keeping,
In that abode of everlasting life.

There will be meetings, dearer for the parting,
And long embraces, speechless in their joy;
Freedom from anguish, fuller for the smarting
Of pain and sin, that all things here destroy.

There will be worship, purer for the longing,
Struggles and failures in this world of sin;
And endless quiet, calmer for the thronging

Of noise and discord in life's battle's din.

There will be glory, richer for the showers;

The Lamb's light softer for earth's scorching sun;

Our treasures fairer for earth's fading flowers;

And then the Master's "Faithful one, well done."

Tired thoughts shall fret no longer,
Tired limbs shall then be stronger,
Shadows vanish over yonder-
All is Light.

Eye hath seen not, ear hath heard not,
Thought has never once exprest,
What the Father hath prepared

For the souls He loves the best;
But we know that

There is Light, and Peace, and Rest.

S. M.

D

The Butterfly's Message.

ARK and dreary was the December day, with its gloomy clouds and fast-falling rain; dark and dreary the house, with its closely-shut blinds and oppressive stillness; and still more dark and dreary the heart of Miriam Grey, as, in her deep mourning dress, her face hidden in her hands, she sat in that shaded room, following in thought to the distant cemetery the sad procession which had set forth an hour before to bear to the last resting-place of the peaceful dead the remains of her loved and venerated mother.

Kind friends were around her, and loving words of sympathy were from time to time addressed to the weeping daughter, but they fell almost unheeded on her ear. Her sorrowing heart could grasp no other thought than the anguished one, that the falling rain dropped only on the coffin containing the beloved but lifeless form; that even now perhaps around the open grave were gathered the group of mourners, listening to the words which have ofttimes fallen on bleeding, stricken hearts, "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

And yet Miriam Grey was a Christian. Had you asked her of her faith she would unhesitatingly have avowed her

belief in a loving Father's care: One, "too wise to err, too good to be unkind," "who does not afflict willingly, or grieve the children of men." She had often stood in imagination with Jesus at the grave of Lazarus, and marked with loving admiration the deep sympathy with human sorrow that sparkled in His tearful eye. She had loved to ponder on the endless rest prepared for God's children in the heavenly home, and often had it been her privilege to whisper words of comfort and hope to other sorrowing hearts, sorely tried by affliction and bereavement. But the consolation she

could have imparted to others fell powerless now. The close ties between mother and child, in her case more than usually precious and tender, had been suddenly rent asunder by the stern hand of death. A peaceful, earthly Sabbath morning almost instantaneously exchanged for the endless Sabbath of the redeemed in glory. And the darkened room in which she sat was but a picture of the darkened heart of Miriam Grey; no bright thought could find entrance there; her own loss, the blank never to be filled up, was most vividly present before her; in imagination she saw only the open grave, with the clods of earth falling on the coffin-lid, slowly hiding it from view. Death, darkness, desolation, all were present to her mind; all the brightness seemed to have faded out of her life, buried with her mother in that lonely grave.

A sudden exclamation of surprise from one of her friends aroused Miriam from her painful musings, and as she raised her head a beautiful little butterfly fluttering near alighted on her lap; settling there but a second or two, it again spread its spotted wings, and was lost in the gloom in a distant part of the room. Looks of astonishment and wondering words followed the little insect as it disappeared from view. "How strange! a butterfly in mid-winter," exclaimed those around her; but Miriam's thoughts had instantaneously taken a higher flight. Strange it was, certainly ; but cannot the Lord of all choose the most feeble and unlikely instruments to speak to these poor wayward,

doubting hearts of ours? No friendly words of sympathy, no attempted consolation, no quoted passages from the Word of God itself, could have had the power to speak to the heart of Miriam Grey as did that little unconscious butterfly, as it hovered over the mourner, and then spread its wings for an upward flight. The chrysalis-emblem of the lifeless body, the butterfly-type of the emancipated soul; the one left behind in earth's darkness, the other going upward into the fulness of God's sunlight. The desolated home here, but the brightness, the endless life, the glory there! A blank in the home circle on earth, but an added member to the ever-increasing home circle in heaven! Sadness here, but joy, everlasting, perfect joy yonder!

Thoughts like these passed in rapid succession through the mind of Miriam, and her tears fell thicker and faster than before; but not tears of unmixed gloom and sadness now the cloud of sorrow was still there, but behind it shone the bright light of a Father's love; the wounded heart still quivered with the sense of a painful loss, but above all rose the joyful thought of a beloved parent's everlasting gain.

And what of the little unconscious messenger which had so well fulfilled its mission ? Careful search failed to discover it that day; but the next morning it was found in an obscure corner, its strength spent, its short life soon ended.

And among her choicest treasures does Miriam Grey reckon the dead butterfly, let loose by the hand of God on that dreary winter's day to carry a message of rebuke and love to her sorrowing, doubting heart. And often as she gazes on the little box where it lies entombed is she enabled to realise afresh the consoling thought, "He careth for you," and looking up with renewed love and confidence to her Heavenly Friend, can echo the heart-felt cry, handed down through long ages, from the quiet shores of Galilee's lake, "He hath done all things well."