IN bodily sickness, Jesus is beckoning you home.
The more holiness, the more love to God and saints.
You cannot be happy, but as God makes you holy.

The Spirit's witness in the word calls for holiness; his witness in the heart produces it.

The Holy Spirit can find no home in the heart of a professor who loves and lives in sin.

No man will live in sin except he love it.

That man cannot be upright before God who is unjust in his dealings with men.

Grace makes a man honest to himself, his neighbour, and his God. Strictly speaking, there can be no secrets among men; for God will 'bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil."

Contention is contagious; it spreads almost insensibly.

Conceit is the high road to shame.

Freedom from the law, as a covenant, is liberty to enjoy God's love, and do his will.

If ever God call you to defend his truth, he will first make you humble, modest, and confident.

Those have generally most need to fear who think they have no need to fear.

Vain confidence is the forerunner of shame.

If men break their promises, remember that God never breaks his. When men unjustly accuse you, Jesus Christ the righteous pleads for

you.

Things are not as they appear to be to men, but as they appear to God.

M

RS. POTTER was a somewhat eccentric person, who had property, which had been accumulated in the course of a hard-working life by her husband and herself. Just before she died she made a will, dividing it equally between her husband's relatives and her

own.

"There's that money you have out in Lawson's mortgage," said the solicitor, when all the rest of her property had been disposed of. They have given me notice that they will pay it off in six months. What would you like to have done with it, Mrs. Potter ?"

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"I wish I knew where John Tredgold is," she replied.

I have not heard anything of him for ten years—never since he left us. I wonder if he's living. I think I'll leave it to him."

"But if we should not succeed in finding him, Mrs. Potter, what must be done with the money?"

She thought for a minute and then replied, "I'll tell you what to do; put Thompson Bradwell down. But John is sure to turn up."

So it was arranged that if all inquiries failed in finding out John Tredgold, or any of his children, at the end of fifteen years, Mr. Bradwell should have the money. It had been settled beforehand that he should be one of the executors.

John Tredgold was Mr. Potter's nephew. He had been taken into his shop when he was about fourteen years old. But when he had been about four years with them, he left them in a quarrel, and from the day he ran off they never heard of him.

Mr. Bradwell was a printer and stationer, who lived next door to the Potters. He was a hard-working young man, they said; and they took to him partly on that account. He showed John Potter much kind attention on his deathbed; and after his death he rendered Mrs. Potter consider

able help in the arrangement of her affairs. But nobody was more surprised than himself to hear of Mrs. Potter's contingent bequest of the 400/

Many inquiries were made after the missing nephew, but without success; and the money remained in the Bank six years in the name of the two executors. Towards the end

of that time the other executor died.

Every year Mr. Bradwell found his business extending. He was energetic and enterprising. If anything, indeed, he got on a little too fast-at all events faster than his worthy and judicious wife thought prudent. New departments were added to his original business; and though his profits were good, they were more than swallowed up in the additions he made. At length he found himself involved in serious difficulty. Some of his creditors had insisted on prompt payment; and the amount of their bills was large. He had almost resolved to ask them to accept a composition; but then he could not but feel that if he did this, he could scarcely ever hope to recover his standing. By all means, if possible, that must be avoided.

The thought had more than once crossed his mind, “If I could only borrow that money of Mrs. Potter's for a year or two!" After all, it might be really his own, for there might be no John Tredgold in existence, nor anybody belonging to him. Even if he should turn up, it would be easy enough, especially with the good use he could make of the money, to repay him. He knew that he had no right to touch it till the end of the fifteen years. Now, however, that his fellow executor was dead, the thing was solely in his own hands; and in his urgent need he closed his eyes to any wrong which might be involved in the appropriation of the money.

One morning he went to the Bank and drew out the whole sum, now, with interest, amounting to more than 500l. But he never said a word to Mrs. Bradwell about it. No one at the Bank had any right to ask a single question on the matter, and the money was paid without demur.

It was a wonderful relief. The traveller of one of his principal creditors who had gone down to press for immediate payment, was amazed at receiving the full amount of his bill; and others were not less surprised by the prompt settlement of their accounts. For a year or two that 500l. enabled him to breathe freely.

But at the end of two or three years more he found himself scarcely less straitened. He had extended his business still further; times were difficult; he had sustained some heavy losses; and his family had come to that time which parents commonly find especially costly. He could not but regard the possible reappearance of John Tredgold at any time as a calamity, since his money was all swallowed up in the business; but if he were to appear just now it would be nothing less than ruin. The fear of it kept him awake many a time for half the night. Still nothing was heard of John Tredgold.

He

Ten years had gone by since the death of Mrs. Potter, when it happened to Mr. Bradwell to have to pass through Manchester on his way home from a business journey. was walking through one of the principal streets on his way to the railway station, carrying in his hand a small portmanteau, when he was accosted by a fine, sharp boy, about twelve years of age, who said—

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May I carry your portmanteau, sir? I will take it for a trifle."

Mr. Bradwell, who was tired, handed it over to him. After a few moments, he entered into conversation with the boy. Well, my lad, what is your name ?"

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"John Tredgold, sir."

"John Tredgold!" Mr. Bradwell exclaimed, inwardly. Can it be?"

At last!

He turned deadly pale, and stopped for a minute or two, unable to proceed.

"Are you ill, sir ?" said the boy.

"Rather so,” he replied; but I shall be all right again in a minute or two. Do you belong to Manchester, my boy ?"

“Oh dear no, sir,” replied the boy. "We have only been here about a fortnight."

"And where do you belong to ?" asked Mr. Bradwell.

"Why, sir," he answered, "I can hardly say we belong to any where. My father was a soldier, and we have lived in different places abroad."

"And is your father living?"

"No, sir, he died about six months since in Canada." "How does it happen, then," asked Mr. Bradwell, "that you have found your way to Manchester ?"

"My father told us, sir, before he died, that he had some relatives in a place in this neighbourhood; but my mother has been inquiring, and she hears that they are dead.”

Mr. Bradwell was on the point of asking what was the name of their relatives; but he refrained. He was willing that there should rest just that little uncertainty on the matter. There might have been another Tredgold, who had other relatives than the Potters. At the same time he felt that he was shutting his eyes against what might prove too convincing evidence.

"What are you going to do then ?" inquired Mr. Bradwell. "Mother has some friends at Mansfield, and she has written to them. I think we shall go there as soon as we get some money."

By this time they had reached the railway station. Mr. Bradwell took his ticket, received his portmanteau from the boy just as he was getting into the carriage, and then, as the train was moving, he put his hand into his pocket, and gave him some money.

"A shilling!" said the lad to himself, delightedly, as his fingers pressed over the coin which had been slipped into his palm; but on opening his hand it was a sovereign.

"It's a mistake!" and he cried after the train as it was moving away, holding up the money as he did so. Mr. Bradwell saw him on the platform, after the train had fairly left the station, still holding up the sovereign.

Mr. Bradwell had made no mistake.

The sovereign was