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streets. Neither of them knew the direct way to their destination, and it was necessary now and again to inquire, which Lady Tudor did at different shops in passing, always leaving Mary outside, asking her to wait for her. She always found her quietly at her post. They were nearing now the narrow streets which led to their destination, and the way had often to be asked. Once Lady Tudor inquired of a policeman, who, after giving the required information, added,

"I beg your pardon, maʼam, but I suppose you're not aware that you've got one of the worst thieves in London by your side ?" "Thank you," she said, “I know her, I'm not afraid.”

The streets became narrower and more complicated.

"Lady," said Mary, as a bad-looking man passed them, evidently with a look of recognition, "have you got any money in your purse?" "Yes, I have, Mary."

"Please take care of it, then, there's odd uns about here.'

"Will you take care of it for me, Mary ?" said Lady Tudor; "there's a good deal of money in it, so you must not drop it."

"Yes, that I will," said Mary stoutly, taking the purse and secreting it somewhere about her in an artistic manner. And at the same time Lady Tudor was aware that a rough-looking man was in an unobtrusive manner walking before them or behind them, pushing a way through the squalid, ill-looking crowd of people, or following them when the pavement was more open.

"I knows these parts, now, lady," said Mary, "I thinks we're near the place. I will try to be good. I do wish I was never going away from you."

"I shall think of you and pray for you, Mary. You are one of us now, remember, baptized into CHRIST's Church; you must not go astray again."

"I hope not, lady," said Mary, with a sob in her voice. got here now, here's your purse all right."


Lady Tudor had the comfort of hearing, years after, that this girl was a respected and respectful servant of many years' standing in a thoroughly worthy family.

I must not follow the work of sympathy which was so great a balm to the wounded spirit, further; although facts and incidents crowd upon me. One more, and I have done.

It was the festival of All Saints, one especially dear to mourners and the bereaved. Lady Tudor did not spend it as heretofore in solitary

gloom, bemoaning her loved and lost. She had learned to realize in some degree their joy, and to cry, with the souls which are under the altar, "how long?" She could not spend the intervals between the Festival Services alone; and her loving, sympathetic soul, led her to the wards of a hospital.

A little convalescent child, with pale cheeks and large eyes, all the more prominent for the dark rings beneath them, was tottering with weak, newly-recovered steps through the ward. Lady Tudor took the little feeble girl on her knee, talking sweetly and lovingly to her.

"It is a great day to-day, darling," she said. "I came here for a great treat. What would you like for the very best treat you could have? You shall have it if you will tell me."

The little girl looked up with thinking, wondering eyes, waiting a minute to reflect.

"Please, lady, I should like to dress up," said the child, decidedly. What an embarrassing request! What means could there be of fulfilling the promise of gratifying it within the walls of a hospital! The lady lost no time in divesting herself of her rich fur jacket, which she dressed the child in. Her watch and chain were placed round her neck, and the little fingers were encircled with brilliant gems. Last of all the Cross which Lady Tudor always wore was clasped round the child's neck.

"This is the best of all, dear child," she said; "you will some day know all that it is an emblem of. Remember, you wore this cross on All Saints' Day."

Wonderingly the child gazed up at the grave, loving face. Then she strutted across the room to the surgeon, who was just passing through the ward on his daily visit to the patients.

"I am dressed up to-day, because it's a great, grand day, the lady says." The rich jacket trailing on the floor made the child's figure very grotesque, and the surgeon stopped to look at her. "I've got a watch, and two rings," extending the little brown hands, "and this," putting her hand up to the Cross," is best of all. Do you love it, sir ?"

He gave her a smile and passed on, and she came back to her friend to hear more kind words. May she grow up to know, in after years, the power of the great talisman, Sympathy-the sympathy which taught her in her early childhood the power of the Cross.


"Thy life is our way, and by holy patience we walk toward Thee."-De Imitatione Christi.

O SWEET low Voice, He speaketh unto thee,

O fisher by the wave-blue Galilee,

A wondrous lovelight dawns upon the brow,
So worn with toil, with worldliness enow,
And o'er thy spirit steals a strange deep calm,
Sweeter than angel's sweetest balm,

Only obedience fills thy longing heart
Up from the world with Him thy love to part.

He tells thee not the way thou hast to tread,
Whether o'er brink of many a wild sea's bed,
Be it the desert swart with summer's breath,
Or the lone valley, shadowy with death,
Only He whispers, "Wend where I have trod,
Follow, O trembling soul, thy suffering GOD!"

He tells thee not-for human hearts would shrink,
Knew they how near the chalice faith must drink,
He tells thee not-for love would lose her charm
Did she not cast herself upon His arm
And in a reverence of blind sweet love
Follow uncaring, so she mount above.

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Then in the city beautiful, one day

With the first-called' thine own glad lips shall say,
Thanks be to Him Who showed us once the way.2

1 I.e. S. Andrew.


2 "If Thou hadst not gone before us and taught us, who would have cared to follow?"-Thomas à Kempis.


THE recent awful railway accident at Wigan is still fresh in people's minds, and the following incident is a marvellous record of GOD'S answer to prayer—

Just before the ill-fated train left the London Station a lady might have been seen walking anxiously up and down the platform appealing to the different porters, asking if her two sons could not have places in some other part of the train-they were in the last carriage, always a dangerous and unpleasant part; but her wishes could not be acceded to, as the last carriage was the only unoccupied one. Seeing there was no help for it, and that her darlings must needs remain where they were, the lady returned to the carriage window and said to her children, "Promise me, that you will, as you travel on, repeat the 121st Psalm."

The boys promised, and soon the train started. Shortly after came the news of that most fearful accident, almost unrivalled in horrors of all descriptions. What a sight must that have been! Who can describe the feelings of that poor mother, knowing that her darlings also were in that unlucky train? But GOD never forsakes those who trust in Him. The last carriage ran into the one in front of it, was unhurt itself, and the two boys were the only occupants of that portion of the train who were uninjured. It was a direct answer, a wonderful proof of GOD's care for those who trust in Him. Let us learn from it to have faith in God, full confidence in His power to help in our time of need. E. T.


So much has been said and written lately on the subject of woman's dress, that a few words about it in the " Churchman's Companion" may not be out of place.

The question upon which the whole subject revolves is-In what measure and to what extent may mere ornament in dress be indulged among women" professing godliness ?" putting aside that fallacious notion that all ornate dressing ought to be entirely abjured. It is said by an old proverb, "extremes meet," and certainly in this case the

proverb is exemplified, for it is equally absurd so to eschew all ornament as to make the outward person dingy and mournful, as it is to follow each vain, silly fashion, when presented to the public.

In some cases a sober, unornamental dress is imperatively required. Those who are engaged in active work amongst CHRIST's poor-such as Sisters of Mercy, &c., —are obliged of course to wear a plain, distinctive dress, marking their mission and life at once. We have heard it said that in the wickedest and vilest parts of London, a Sister in her habit is often allowed to pass unmolested, where a woman in common attire, or a priest even, would not be suffered; showing at once what a charm there must be in her peculiar garb and badge, and how positively necessary it is to enable the wearer to go in and out of her vocation without insult. All, however, are not called to the life which requires this dress, and to the many who are not so called we address these few words.

With some, the love of the artistic is so strong, that their dress, in company with everything else, must harmonize and agree with certain established laws of colour. By the same taste which obliges them to arrange a bouquet so that each flower may blend well with its companion, reflect its beauty, and not form too great a contrast, so are they forced to consult the theory of colour in their own dress. The consideration of the effect of a flower, ribbon, or ornament, with other articles of their clothing, is to them an essential part of their toilette, a natural instinct, and a token of refinement of mind, that great charm and characteristic of true womanhood. And yet, because that person so studies the effect of colour and harmony in her dress, she need not necessarily be vain.

Others, again, are bound by the fifth commandment to dress with more regard to ornament than perhaps they themselves approve. We all know how particular relations often are—especially men-relations— on the score of dress and appearance. A dowdy, shabbily dressed woman, calls forth satirical insinuations, and often angry epithets, on the part of a father or brother, while a judicious, pleasing selection by the wearer, though appearing perhaps an infringement of her high standard of simplicity, would have been far more really right, more truly a mortification, than if she had gratified self in eschewing pointedly and openly a fashion which it pleased her parents she should follow.

It may appear from these two arguments that we rather favour than

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