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"The Chapter of the Kings."

A MINISTER'S STORY.

T is the Fifth Chapter of St. Paul's Epistle to the
Romans, and to me it is always the "Chapter of

the Kings," and for these many years past I have
never read it without thinking of poor Henderson.

I will tell you, briefly, how I came to know Henderson, and, still more briefly, how he came to know the power of Paul's grand, blessed, and beautiful words.

One autumn afternoon I had been reading the Burial Service at the funeral of a child, and I talked a little to the sorrowful group which lingered round the grave. I spoke of King Death, who reigns by Adam's offence, and of King Sin, who reigns in our mortal bodies, and then of the King of Kings, the Lord Jesus Christ, who has called us to reign in life with Him for ever and ever.

I cannot further recall the words I spoke, and perhaps each one of the mourners who stood around me there have long ago forgotten every syllable. But there was a hearer

besides those who did not forget!

Without the churchyard, and leaning against the iron railings which divided it from the road, was an elderly woman. She stood there motionless, listening intently to the words which I uttered-words which were none of my own, indeed, but which were gleamings of the "Sword of the Spirit, which is the Word of God."

I did not notice her, for my attention was given to the little funeral band; and when the service was over she shouldered her basket and went her way.

That same week a message was brought to me, "Would I go to see John Henderson, who was very ill, at No. 32, Spring Close?"

I had a great deal on my hands just then, so I asked the excellent Scripture Reader who helped me in my labours if he would take this new name upon his list, and go as soon as possible.

saying he had been to would not do at all.

The next day he came to me, No. 32, but that he found that he "They want you, sir," he added; "they say you know something which will give the poor fellow comfort; and surely he needs it badly. He is dying, and in sore distress."

Of course I went immediately. An old woman, with white hair tucked away beneath her white cap, opened the door.

"Oh, sir," she cried, directly she caught sight of me, “it

is you! He is waiting for you; we want you to tell him about the three kings."

"The three kings?" I repeated, wonderingly, as I followed her into the tiny sitting-room.

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Yes, sir; don't you remember what you said at the child's funeral on Tuesday? I heard you, and I thought to myself, that will just do for my poor lad. So I hurried home and told Lizzie-Lizzie's his wife, sir-all about it, and I told him. But I'm not learned, and my words, maybe, weren't just right; for they only made him kind of hungry to hear more. So we got a lodging here, sir, close by you, and we hope you'll come and speak to poor John." “When did you get this lodging?" I asked, in much surprise.

"Yesterday we moved, sir; we have been living in the far side of Leicester, fully four miles from here, and we could not expect you to come all that way, so we just moved ourselves. For John's sake, ye see, sir. He's not long for this world, and he's terrible afraid to die."

Her voice sank and shook as she spoke the concluding words, but the keen grey eyes still peered anxiously and tearlessly into my face.

"Take me to him," I said. "My Master is the God of mercy and of comfort; perhaps He has a message for your son."

She led me into the bedroom above, where a gentle-looking girlish creature was watching her husband. He was sleeping just then, the gasping, uneasy sleep of consumption. His dark hair was tossed upwards from his pale forehead, and on his cheek I could see the scarlet stain which spoke so surely of wasting disease. The room was clean, and the window was open to admit the air, and I noticed that a screen was drawn round the bed to shield him from the draught.

"Lizzie, here is the gentleman himself," my guide said; and at her voice the invalid opened his eyes.

For a moment his glance rested on me vacantly, then

such an intensity of suffering eagerness came over his face that I drew near and grasped his hand, as if he had already put into words the longing and despair which evidently filled his soul.

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Sir," he gasped, "I'm a dying man! It's all over with me. I've been a black sinner. If you can't tell me what

to do, I'm lost! I'm lost!"

The mournful words died away in a shrill cry, and the drops of moisture started to his brow. The wife, kneeling, buried her face in the bedclothes, and the poor old mother glanced at me anxiously.

"Tell him, sir, tell him the words I heard you say," she urged.

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So I drew my Bible from my pocket and began to read. My Master, the living God, who cannot lie, has sent this message to you," I said: "When we were yet without strength, in due time Christ died for the ungodly. . . . God commendeth His love toward us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us. Much more then, being now justified by His blood, we shall be saved from wrath through Him. . . . As by one man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so death passed upon all men, for that all have sinned. As by one man's disobedience many were made sinners, so by the obedience of one shall many be made righteous.'"

"Ah," he said; "I heard them long ago. They're splendid words; but I'm past being made righteous."

"You would, if Sin and Death were stronger than God. Powerful they are indeed, ruling over the millions of souls on God's earth-two kings, claiming service from us all. They think they have got you now, Henderson. But the Lord of Life stands by, a stronger King, and says, 'By My holiness you shall be holy; by My obedience you shall be made righteous."

He listened, but the wild haggard expression did not alter upon his face. Sin and Death were still holding their victim. I read the message once more, and once more I tried to

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