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"Your husband's name, I meant," said the gentleman, with a smile.

"Luke, my lord, is my husband's name; but if your lordship pleases, I've not come about his business." "No What brings you here then ?"

"It's concerning a poor neighbour of ours, one John Nokes, who has got a wife and ten children," said Dinah.

The gentleman looked at a paper, and then said, "I want your name-I mean your surname."

"Waterford, my lord."

Again the gentleman looked at the list, and then said, laying down his pen : "And what have you to say about John Nokes ?"

Dinah having found it possible to speak to "my lord," as she thought, soon showed she had plenty to say, and made out a most piteous case for poor John and his family.

"No doubt he is to be pitied," said the gentleman, "but you know others must be considered as well as he: inclosures are to be made, and the forest part is going to be differently managed, and the woodwards won't be wanted as they have been."

Dinah couldn't quite master all this specch, but she felt it was going against her, so she curtsied again, and was silent.

"What claim has John Nokes on me?" asked the gentleman.

"Eh, sir-my lord, and I humbly bog your pardon for calling you out of your name, if he'd got ever a claim on the place, you may be sure I'd never have come begging and praying for him this day," she replied quickly.

"Then if he is to be kept on, it must be out of pure goodwill and pity?"

"To be sure; and if your lordship does it that way, I can wish you joy of the pleasure it will give you from the bottom of my heart."

Dinah said this with the joyful eagerness of hope. "He shall be kept on," said the gentleman, writing something on a slip of paper. Tears prevented Dinah from answering at first, but as soon as she could speak, she gave vent to her thanks.

She was turning to leave the room, when the gentleman said, "But don't you know your own husband is to be dismissed ?"

They say so," she answered.

"But why don't you beg for him?"

"I might, my lord, if poor John hadn't wanted it more. We have no child, and I have plenty of work left in me yet; so if we do get turned out, we can manage to get on.'

"But you would be glad to remain ?"

"Yes; you might know that. However Luke can speak for himself; he's not so soft-hearted as poor John. And if, my lord, you mind to favour him too, why it'll be a good day for us both."

"What do you say, my lord?" said the gentleman in black to the young man behind, who now turned round and looked at Dinah with the same smiling face he had met her with at first.

Dinah did not leave the Hall without having had hospitable refreshment, but for all that she got home before Luke. The wonders of the day filled her heart; and when her husband sat silent as usual by the chimney corner, she began by telling him he'd best stack the wood, for they were sure to stop the winter.

He looked at her with curiosity. "But what makes you so sure of it then ?"

"Because-because-I'm sure," said Dinah, who couldn't find it in her heart to confess the whole truth, knowing that Luke would be as angry with her for going to plead for John Nokes as pleased at her pleading for him.

"If that's all," said Luke, "the wood may stay where it is."

It was hard for Dinah to keep her joy to herself, but she thought it her wisdom, so they sat in silence, he in his usual mood, and she with a heart filled with mingled emotions. Suddenly a knock at the door aroused them.

"Eh! John Nokes so late as this!" cried Luke, as he opened it, "what's astir ?"

Only that through a friend that's been asking for us," said John, "we're to be kept on with house and work, and if we're not wanted as woodmen, we shall have house and wage as before. I had the message straight down from the steward to-night, and I knew you'd be glad to hear it, so I thought I'd just come and speak before I went to bed."

"That was a good-natured turn of John," said Luke, when he was alone with Dinah, "to come and let us know."

"He'll sleep all the better for it," said Dinah.

Now, owing to the fear of her husband's displeasure, it was some time before Dinah could venture to tell him of the events of that wonderful day; but John Nokes, through report, had got some suspicion of it, and his gratitude showed itself in rendering many small services and attentions to Luke, so as to beget in him a more kindly disposition.

John was a pious man now, and Luke, by degrees, was led to associate his kindness and his wife's forbearance with the Bible, which they both read. No clouds are too thick for the truth to penetrate. At first he allowed Dinah to read to him, and then he read for himself, and his wife found, in the course of time, that her work of love for her neighbour had come back in tenfold blessings on herself.

"And

A year or two passed. Luke and his wife were sitting at their frugal dinner, when a stranger knocked at the door, and asked for a draught of milk. welcome, friend," said Dinah, from within, as her husband stood with the door in his hand; and coming forward, she brought a brimming vessel.

"Don't you know me, mother?" asked the stranger. Down went the cup. "It's my lord himself!" said Dinah, pushing Luke's head into the best bow she could, and curtseying herself. And now came out the whole story of Dinah's first interview with his lordship. I may tell you the truth, Waterford," he said, as he left the cottage, Luke walking by his side to show him the nearest way. "It was your wife's piety that made me determine to keep you on the estate, for I felt sur it must bring a blessing."

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As Dinah never presumed upon the good work she had thus done, Luke forgave her superiority, and growing wiser as he advanced in years, became her fellow-helper instead of a hinderer in a life of love.

And now indeed that little cottage nestling among the trees, high up above the noise and turmoil of the world, containing as it did two hearts united in the fear and love of God, was nearer heaven as it seemed to be, than too many of the dwellings beneath it.

THE PULPIT IN THE FAMILY.

THE IMITATION OF CHRIST.

"Christ also suffered for us, leaving us an example, that ye should follow his steps."-1 Peter ii. 21.

N this verse the two great truths of all religion are set before us; the first that Christ is our sacrifice, the second that Christ is our example. To lose sight of either of these great truths is to mar the whole counsel of God, and irretrievably to injure our faith and practice. There are those who, to their infinite cost, do so. There are some who will look upon Christ as an eminent example of purity and duty, but will not admit that by his cross and sufferings he has made atonement for sin. The other error is of those who, speculatively at least, resting on the atoning work of Christ, nevertheless entertain and exhibit a low standard of thought and duty, do not earnestly and heartily take Christ as an example that they should follow his steps. It is to the latter portion of the text that I would now specially direct the attention of my readers, while I speak to them some plain words concerning the imitation of Christ.

The mission of the Saviour in tne world was certainly not this alone, that he might die for us. If that were all, the years of his human life would scarcely be fully accounted for. It might be asked why it was necessary that the Son of God should for those many years have lived upon this fallen earth, if only to appear in the world and to suffer would have sufficed? But not only did he die to make atonement for our sins, he lived to work out a perfect righteousness of obedience to the Divine law, which is imputed to believers and becomes their title to life. He lived also that by his Spirit he might create anew in man the image of God, that he might raise us from that sin which is death to that holiness which is life, and so provide a meetness as well as a title to heaven. Of this renewal, while the Holy Spirit is the living power, the life of Christ is the perfect pattern. In the words of the apostle, he has left us an example that we should follow his steps."

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That holy life may be considered, even as may our own, both on its active and its passive side, the life visible to others and the life hidden. We all remember, and in some sense realize, the portraiture of the life of the blessed Jesus given to us in the narratives of the evangelists. Recall the nobleness, the purity, the beneficence of that spotless example. He showed us how inferior is merely passive virtue to that active principle which will seek out infamy and pollution if by any means it can heal and save. In the

weary hour of the sultry noon he rests by the wellside on the outskirts of Samaria. He speaks to the chance comer solemn words, showing her her sin and guiding her onwards to repentance. Again he feeds the multitude with the words of life, and when their spirits grow faint through fatigue and hunger he scats them on the much green grass, and lovingly supplies their temporal necessities. Well might this same apostle sum up that beautiful career thus," He went about doing good." We must seek to be followers of Jesus Christ, as dear children. When the apostle St. John speaks of the boldness we may have in the day of judgment, he gives this reason, "Because as he is, so are we in this world." Sometimes, we hear people speak almost as if they were uncertain how this is to be done. We need never be at a loss how to work the works of Christ, while there is ignorance that we can enlighten, want that we can relieve, suffering in which we can sympathize, and which we can alleviate.

Let, then, the imitation of Christ herein be the ruling and guiding principle of our life. Remember those solemn words of our Lord, "I must work the works of him that sent me while it is called day; tho night cometh when no man can work." Yes, truly, the night cometh-night to the keen eye and to the busy hand, night to the decaying memory and all the languishing powers, and soon the day is spent, and wo must give in our account of the day's work. Opportunities of doing good come often as angels' visits unawares; if we neglect them we may not again bo able to entertain such visitations.

Again, let us take the example of Christ, so to speak, on its passive side, in its quietness and its endurance. Amid all the countless activities of that beneficent career, we over behold in our Saviour solitude, prayerfulness, and communion with God. He would depart into a desert place to pray. He prayed all night long upon the mountain. He prayed for his disciples, and not only for them, but for us also who through them believe on him. He ever liveth to make intercession for us. In this prayerfulness he has left us an example that we should follow his steps. The spirit of prayer is perhaps that which most of us chiefly require. This busy age hardly spares sufficient space for prayer and self-communion. Prayer, as well as action, is a great means of good. Prayer can shut or unshut the heavens, and stand between the destroying angel and the people. Think you that those whose hands are powerless for exertion are therefore powerless for good. The apostle banished to the lonely island, the confessor of truth shut up in the dungeon, the wasted sufferer stretched on the bed of languishing; think you that these are unable to achieve good such as we of lower faith and hope can do in our day of strength? Nay; their prayers have ascended into heaven, and have moved the majesty of God, and returned in showers of blessings upon carth. We need those who by the carnestness of prayer have strength with God and prevail. Cornelius, who was constant in prayer, was also constant in charity.

In all other respects also we must follow in the steps of our great example. We must learn lowliness and meckness of him who was meek and lowly in heart. When he was reviled, he reviled not again. Mark too his patience, long-suffering, and forgiveness. Even when the nails were driven into the quivering flesh, his prayer was, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." Finally, whatsoever things are

The merchant turned, and the boy, with a profusion of thanks, moved off to the forecastle, where he was soon heard displaying his powers in the four tongues to all who would listen.

Now young Martin did not at all like that boy, though he had never seen him before, and got no harm at his hands. But his extraordinary abilities and language took everybody's attention. The boy was getting too much notice from his uncle, and might eclipse him in the summer house, his birthday though it was; for Martin, like most cunning people, was no adept in learning. He would try to get rid of him as soon as they got on shore; and with that determination Martin was not sorry to see, at the Leyden station, his uncle walking quickly away by the shortest path, while he took Hans Dykes round by the plantation and the orchard.

It was with a haughty wave of his hand that Martin motioned him forward, and not a syllable did he utter till they had got fairly into the heart of the plantation, when looking on his shabby companion, Martin calmly remarked

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I suppose you were never washed in your life, but you'll be washed in my uncle's summer house, put into a tub and scrubbed, I can tell you, and all your hair shaved off to the skull."

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No, they sha'n't shave him," screamed a shrill voice; and out of a thicket by his side broke the old woman.

"How do you know, Mother Tarbarrel? You are not long out of the house of correction, I am thinking, and you will soon be there again," said the unfeeling boy. The old woman made a stroke at him with her skinny hand, but in doing so she did not see young Martin's foot, which was mischievously thrust out before her, and stumbling over it, down she came among the roots of the trees, striking her head against one of them.

"How dare you do that to my poor old grandmother? I'll tell your uncle," said Hans Dykes, running to her help. "You had better tell him no tales of me, or you will get more kicks than coppers," said Martin, setting off at full speed for the summer house, in order to have his story told, and the merchant's mind prejudiced, before Hans and his grandmother could

come up.

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Where is the boy?" was Morris's first question, as he spied him coming, from a shady seat in the garden, where he had sat down to wait their arrival.

"Indeed I don't know," said Martin. "He got quite frightened in the wood, asking me if your people would think of washing him. Then his grandmother came looking for him, with a flask in her hand; I think there was rum in it and they went away together, talking in the gipsy tongue, and, I am sure, abusing us."

While Martin was repeating and enlarging on these falsehoods, Hans Dykes had helped his grandmother up, and found that her old gray head was bleeding from a severe cut on the brow. He ran to dip his ragged hankerchief in a small spring hard by, staunched the blood with cold water, washed the wound as well as he could, and bound it up with another ragged handkerchief which happened to be about her.

And that young serpent," continued the old woman, as if she didn't hear him, "trips me up, and makes sport of my old age. Like father like son. After not half paying me for my trouble and risk, old Martin had the face to wonder why I came back to the country. They think it is an old fool they have to deal with, but I will be revenged on them all. Come along with me, Hans; I will do right for once in my life, if they send me to prison or the plantations there, let them."

Then starting up from her seat on the ground, she strode through plantation and orchard like one that required no guidance, flung open the garden gate, which Martin had left unbolted, and presented herself and the amazed Hans before Morris van Storke.

"Listen to me, honoured merchant," she said, flinging herself on her knees, "and believe what I say, for it is as true as the sun that shines above you. There is your son," and she pointed to the astonished boy, "whom we have called Hans Dykes these

ten years past, and you have given up for dead and drowned. Your cousin, that serpent's father," and her eyes flashed fire.on young Martin, "bribed me to play the false nurse, and steal the child away to my gipsy tribe. I dabbled some of our clothes in the canal water, and left them on the bank; and he got the whole canal and half the sea dragged for the boy that was alive and well. Look at this," she continued, seizing the boy's right arm, and pulling up his ragged sleeve, till the figure of a flying stork, printed in deep blue on the fair skin, became visible. Morris knew the token at once; it flashed upon him the conviction that the old woman's words, however strange, were true, and starting to his feet, he clasped the gipsy boy in his arms, exclaiming, "Thank God! my long lost son "

The cry brought old Barbet out from her birth-day preparations. She also recognised the mark her relation had set upon the child in the distant isle of Java, and knew the old woman to be the nurse whom Martin had employed in her stead. It was a marvellous meeting for father and son. Barbet joined in their explanations and thanksgivings. The boy, henceforth to be called young Morris, had some faint recollections of his nurse, his parents, and the surroundings of his early life, which had all seemed like a dream till now. It appeared also that his father's prayers had been heard for him. Despite the strange and evil company amongst whom his lot had fallen, a just and gentle disposition, and inclinations to better ways and habits, had been always remarked in the boy. His religious training, however, as might be expected, had been wholly neglected. But the overjoyed father spared no pains to instruct him in the truths of the Bible and in the gospel of Jesus Christ. His prayers were seconded by those of worthy old Barbet, and they were rewarded with seeing fruits from their labours of faith and love.

At his request, and out of his own charity too, Morris van Storke determined on taking no legal steps against the old woman or her employer, his cousin. But considering that partnership with such a man would be henceforth unwise, and being willing to retire from business, he broke up the firm, sold out his part of it, believing that his new-found son was more inclined to learning than merchandise, and applied his capital to the purchase of a handsome estate on the Amsterdam and Leyden canal. There he superintended the education of young Morris, while his detected cousin fled from the anger and contempt of the neighbours, emigrating with his wife and son to what was then a Dutch colony at the Cape of Good Hope, where it was said they continued to be poor and despised. Young Morris passed, in process of time from his father's instruction to the university of Leyden, grew up to be a man of brilliant talents, and more sterling principles. He became famous in after years. when employed by the government of his country, and sent as the ambassador of the States-General to many a foreign court, where it was said that much of his diplomatic success was owing to the fluency in four different languages which he had acquired in his wanderings as a gipsy boy.

1. What prediction do we find respecting this tribe, and with what other tribe is it associated?

2. To what act of cruelty did Jacob refer in this prediction? 3. What was the number of the tribe when they left Egypt, and what place did they take in the journeys and encampments in the wilderness?

4. What was their number on entering Canaan?

5. What prince of this tribe, by committing a great sin, brought a judgment on the people, which may probably account for this decrease?

6. Where was their inheritance in the land of Canaan?
7. What tribe assisted them in expelling the Canaanites?
8. When did Judah purge their land from idolatry?