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"Dear grandpapa," exclaimed Mary; "I have never heard you speak so very, very severely before."

"Only earnestly, my dear child; at any rate, not too severely, I hope. I feel strongly on this subject, and 'out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.'

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I asked you just now, Mary," continued Mr. Leverson, "if you could recollect everything that passed last evening in conversation with your young friends; you said, 'No:' shall I tell you what I recollect of it?"

"I am almost ashamed to say 'Yes;' but I will say "Yes,"" replied the young lady.

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Well, then, I recollect that your young friends and you talked very fast about others of your young friends who were absent; and, mixed with a little faint praise, was so much ridicule-good-natured, I admit, but still it was ridicule that if those friends had heard what was said, I am mistaken if they would have been friends any longer. But you did not stop there; there was a little piece of scandal too good to be wasted, or too bad, which sometimes amounts to the same thing; and so, among you, the character of a poor girl whose best and almost only estate is her fair character, was-no, I do not say torn to rags and tatters, my dear; so you need not lift your eyes so deprecatingly-but though not torn, it was roughly handled; confess, Mary, if it was not."

"It was very wrong, grandpapa; but, indeed, we did not mean any harm," said Mary.

"I firmly believe it, my dear child; for though you and your young friends have rattling tongues (as you say you have), I am convinced that, at present, they are not illnatured tongues. But,

• Evil is wrought

By want of thought

As well as by want of heart :'

do you not see this ?"

Mary did see it. At least, she acknowledged that it might possibly be as her grandfather said.

"It really is so, my dear; many and many a word thoughtlessly spoken, has laid the foundation for miseries unspeakable. I could give you many instances of this: I will give you one if you will listen to a little piece of my own history, and then you will better understand why 1 feel so strongly on this subject."

It required no persuasion to induce Mary to give her

attention to her affectionate relative, who, after a short silence, commenced his narrative.

"When I was a young man at college, which is now more than forty years ago, I had, as my most familiar friend, an old schoolfellow. At school we had been chums and cronies (these are schoolboy terms, my dear, and no doubt you understand what they mean), and when we went to college, our intimacy was continued. Young Cleaver that was the name of my friend-was goodnatured, generous, kind, and affectionate. I loved him very dearly, Mary, as he deserved to be loved. And yet my happiness in life was nearly wrecked by him; and though the trouble which befel me was afterwards removed, its effects on my mind were very, very lasting.

"Archie Cleaver had one failing-he had a rattling tongue, my dear. He was one of the most amusing men I have ever met with; his conversation was exceedingly lively and what is generally called piquant; that is to say, there was a dash of exaggeration, and humour, and ridicule in it. Moreover, it was full of anecdote. Archie never heard a telling story but he stored it up in his memory for future use; and the most ordinary adventures in which he bore a part (or what would have seemed ordinary to others), when polished up and narrated in his peculiar manner, were made to appear something marvellous. You may suppose, therefore, that his society was courted by his friends, and that he almost invariably captivated strangers into whose company he was for the first time cast. Let me repeat, that he had no malice in his disposition, and that he would not intentionally have injured any fellow-creature, much less an attached friend.

"I will not make my story a long one, so I must pass over the history of my long friendship with Archie, merely saying that we passed much of our time in each other's rooms, read together, walked together, rode together during the three years we were at college. At the end of that time we parted, he to the east and I to the west; but before we shook hands for the last time we engaged to keep up a constant correspondence.

"It is astonishing, however, how soon such promises are forgotten. A few letters passed between us at uncertain intervals, and then the intercourse came to a long pause. The truth is, the real business of life and new friendships engaged our attention.

"A new friendship, at any rate, engrossed mine. In the course of my travels after leaving college, I spent some months in Scotland. There I was introduced to a family with whom I soon became intimate, and one of the ladies in that family was your own dear grandmother-not a spectacled old lady such as you know her, Mary, and as you will be forty or fifty years hence, my dear, should your life be spared; but such as you are now-young, sprightly, and very lovely. At least, I thought her lovely then, and I have never altered my opinion, Mary."

“You never will, dear grandpapa," interposed the granddaughter.

"Never, I am fully persuaded, never. Your grandmother has been my faithful, loving companion so many years; and every year we have been on life's pilgrimage together has drawn us closer and closer in mutual affection-has made her more dear to me.

"But this has nothing to do with my story," continued Mr. Leverson; "and I must go back again more than forty years, to say that I had some difficulty in prevailing on that young lady's father to admit me into his family on the footing of his Mary's-(your grandmother's name is Mary, you know, and you were named after her)-of his Mary's future husband. There was, in fact, so much hesitation on his part, that I almost gave up in despair. The gentleman was not obdurate, however; and when he found that his daughter's affections were really engaged in my favour, he softened towards me, and after making very proper and, as I then thought very searching inquiries respecting my family, and prospects, and personal character, he gave his consent to our marriage. But as we were both young (Mary and myself, I mean), and as I had not yet entered on my work, it was made a condition in his consent that the marriage should be deferred for two years.

"I thought this a rather hard condition, my dear, because I not only had a sufficient income at that time to justify my taking a wife, but my prospects for the future were as fair and certain as any prospects in this changeable uncertain world can be. But the father being very determined on this point, I was obliged to submit. So, after spending as long time as I could in Scotland, I tore myself away from my Mary, and returned homeward, consoling myself with the thought that, after all, two years was not

so long a time to wait for a wife as Jacob had to serve for his Rachel.

"I returned home, then; and set myself, very earnestly and prayerfully I hope, to prepare for the important engagements which lay before me in the ministry of the gospel. The more I contemplated this arduous and responsible work, the more did I feel the force of the apostle's words- Who is sufficient for these things?' 'Our sufficiency is of God.' Ah, my dear,—

''Tis not a cause of small import

A pastor's care demands;

But what might fill an angel's heart,

And filled a Saviour's hands.'

"There were times, my dear child, when I so shrunk from fulfilling the vows which were upon me, that I was like those of whom the Saviour speaks, who, putting their hand to the plough, look back again, and prove themselves unworthy of the kingdom of God. But I was not left to myself; my gracious Saviour watched over me, as I truly believe, and strengthened me; and even permitted a very great trial to befal me, that I might be more and better fitted for his service by being more weaned from the world. and more convinced, by painful experience, that perfect happiness is not to be found on earth. What that great trial was I will now tell you as shortly as I am able.”

SPECIAL PROVIDENCE.

SOME time ago I was with a party of Christian friends in the west of London, when this subject, so consoling to the believer, formed the topic of conversation. One of our number quoted the words of Isaiah, "I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known." Each in turn had given some illustration, drawn from his own experience, of the fulfilment of this gracious promise. We could all remember how our heavenly Father had led us in "the right way," though at the time we knew it not. Only in the review of the past had the presence and influence of the Divine Guide been discovered. At length a widow lady gave us the following striking narrative of a circumstance in her won life.

"You remember the time when I was called to submit to my severe stroke from the Lord's hand in the removal of the beloved husband. Three young friends were good

enough to come and spend a little time with me to comfort me in my solitude. Two of them had arranged to take their departure in the morning succeeding the evening when my tale begins. An appointment had been made with the father of one of them to meet her at a certain point of the journey and conduct her a few miles by omnibus to his house. They retired to their chamber, designing to leave at an early hour. I had spent a short time alone, when my mind became deeply impressed with the thought that they must not leave my house on the morrow. I resisted the feeling, but it gained strength and would be entertained. I returned to the dining room to the lady who intended to remain with me, and said,-'1 cannot allow those girls to leave in the morning.'-' Not leave!' she replied, astonished; what do you mean? they must go. They cannot go,' I said, more determinedly. -But,' said my friend, Mary's father will be there to meet them; think of his disappointment. No matter,' I said, 'it is laid on my conscience; I cannot help it. I know not why; it is so, and in spite of all reasoning they must stay. Impossible,' said she; Mary will not be prevented; you know her anxiety for her father, and no persuasion will avail.'-'I know it,' I said, calmly, and mean to take effectual steps to secure them.' My friend still remonstrated, but nothing could move me.

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"I went to their chamber, locked their door, and brought away the key. We retired for the night. At an early hour the young ladies were astir, and found themselves locked in. The ringing of the bell and rattling of the door, as I anticipated, made it necessary for me to go to them. They implored to be let out, were astonished at my conduct, declared their determination to leave, reminded me of the disappointment and intense anxiety of Mary's father, and used every possible argument to weaken my resolve. To all their pleadings I could only say 'to-morrow you shall go, but not to-day.'

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Eventually they were quieted, and agreed to remain, not doubting but that some solution would be reached another day. The day passed with no particular incident, and on the morrow they took leave of me and departed. father had come, was disappointed, returned, and the next day retraced his steps and met them at the hour he had proposed for the day before. They told him of my strange conduct; he pondered it, but was silent. They took their

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