Tracts for the Christian Seasons.

CONVERSION OF ST. PAUL.

It was a very still and beautiful evening in July that I was walking over a churchyard which lay among some quiet fields in a midland county. The tall grey tower rose over the tombs and graves like their silent guardian by night and day till the resurrection shall come, and pointing upwards, as if expressing the hope of their rising to a glorious immortality. The glow of sunset gave a warm tint to the rough-cast wall, and the crows were cawing around its weathercock; a few sheep browsed the 'grass among the graves, and one or two village children were making out the letters on a gravestone. I lingered on the stile to look at the scene; when being induced to stroll on to the grass, I came on a man who was standing by a fresh-made grave; he was gazing intently on it, so much so, he scarcely seemed conscious of my approach.

He started on hearing me, and by way of apology said, "I was looking, sir, at this grave, and thinking of one who lies beneath; her history is not common. There was again a silence.

I was interested by his manner, and begged him to tell me what it was he referred to.

"If you will sit down on the grass," said he, "I will tell you the tale; it is no common one, yet a sad one, and as my heart is very full of it, it will be a relief and pleasure to me to tell it."

I readily assented, and sat down by his side.
He began his story thus.

"She who lies there, Sir, was one whose lot was retired, but her character was peculiar, and her history, though perhaps common, yet one not often known. When I first knew Ellen,—that was her name, and I like to call her by it, for it recalls many a sweet recollection to me,-she had been lately married. Her husband was a youth, whose gay and merry heart was hardly able to appreciate her deep love. He inherited a small property in this neighbourhood, and his chief delight was in sports and pleasures; he was kind to Ellen, quite kind, and I used to like to watch their coming to church together up yonder

yew path; he always seemed very attentive to her; but somehow there was always a pain on my mind when I saw them: she always looked a little sad, and he never seemed to understand her; yet still, as I say, he was always kind, nothing could be kinder. But when she spoke to him as if her heart was full, he would look in her face and laugh, as if he could not dive to the well of her deep affection; and then she would sigh as if some secret grief were on her heart. They were both very young, and of no usual appearance; she was passing fair, and on his face. the bloom of youth had not passed away. They were married very young; he was wild, though I know of no overt sin he had been guilty of, and I believe he was as kind and generous as a youth could be; but he was not all she would have him; hers was a mind that worked ever after deeper things, though ill instructed, and he never seemed to sympathize with her anxiety: her soul was anxious about the future state, Sir, to which she has just gone, but he seemed careless about it all, and spoke of death with a trifling air. She never could bear that. There was a holy awe about her on such occasions, and I fancy I can see now the anguish and yet the love of her look upon him, as he would lightly

laugh away her deeper cares, or try to drive the sadness from her brow by treating her kindly. She did so love him, and never could withstand a kind word from him. I can hear her gentle voice now, worked up to a high pitch with her feelings, as she would say, 'Oh Arthur! what would I give we were one in every thing!'

"But I am growing wearisome. When I first came her little child was born. I remember her shewing it to me when just a month old, as it lay wrapped up in her arm, and as she drew aside the covering from its small soft cheek, she looked at me with such a look, and said, 'Don't you think it like him?' Poor thing; her heart was wrapped up in one thought and one love; she could not understand the feelings of those wives who can forget a husband when they have a child; her child was chiefly dear to her, because it was a new link to him and her affection, and because she could fancy it was like her Arthur.'

"It was on the eve of St. Paul's day that I saw her child, for I remember well the conversation which followed; we were sitting by the fire, and her husband had been out all day with the hounds; her little one lay sleeping on her

arm.

"My baby's Baptism,' said she, 'will be in a few days; I have been thinking so of it; you know why?' she said, looking up earnestly at me. I said before that her knowledge of truth was small; I asked her what she meant. Oh!' said she, looking down as if half ashamed at her earnest manner, and sighing, 'I was wishing that it were not true that our new heart could only be given once, and that another could receive the Blessed Spirit with my little one.'

“A tear had trickled on her cheek, and there was a moment's silence.

"We know," said I, "that though the Blessed Spirit only once gives the new heart, still He frequently arouses the almost dead state of those who having been regenerate have sunk into indifference, and this rousing and conversion many call the new birth, from ignorance of the truth of baptismal regeneration.

"And do you really think so?' said she, eagerly.

I do indeed," said I, "and his day we keep to-morrow has its lessons, and those solemn ones too, on this subject.

"Oh,' said she, do tell me of them, for I am sadly ignorant in all these things,' she added with a sigh; and often long to know more of