that a girl or boy may be all the better occasionally for a little help or counsel from another woman. Nellie took away from me the only man I ever loved. She does not know it, I am thankful to say, and so my attitude towards matrimony is inexplicable to her. Mr. Pierson was never handsome, but he is betterlooking now than ever he was-time and experience have been kind to him. He was always clever and intellectual, but he has learnt very much to his advantage-that there are other things in the world besides literature, besides science, besides knowledge. He has known what lore is, and that is an education for any man or any woman, because I mean love in the real sense of the term-not fancy, not passion. He has not lived with such a good Christian as Nellie without being influenced by her faith and by her life he stands now on a much higher spiritual level than he did eighteen years ago. He is a good husband, a tender father, a staunch friend. He is not devoted to me personally, because I remind him of one very humiliating passage in his life. But he is magnanimous. I was the one injured, and by him; and yet he forgives me. I think that is considerably more difficult than pardoning one who has merely wronged one's self. I acknowledge all this cheerfully, and yet I wonder now what I could possibly have seen in Mr. Pierson to make me care for him as I did. I suppose I loved him, for I meditated spending my life with him; and when he forsook me, that life for a time lost all savour. I would willingly have died then, yet I have lived to be thankful I escaped what would have been bondage to me, and what is happiness to little Nellie, who took him from me.

Don't mistake me. I don't undervalue married life. I still think it the more complete-the happier-if it is truly happy. But I don't think it is necessarily bliss, any more than I think spinsterhood is necessarily a pining misery. I think it tends to make people more unselfish; but not always. A selfish heart sometimes opens to admit her own husband and her own children, but closes most obstinately to the claims of others. I see nothing very ennobling in that. There is one other thing that I wanted to say about this life of mine on which Mrs. Pierson wastes so much of her sweet compassion. I wonder whether it is purposeless. That, I acknowledge, cannot be right, and should be amended. It is a sacred trust committed to my keeping, and I ought to make the most of it. Truly the home is the woman's kingdom, and if she supports one man in his passage along the thorny path of life, helps to keep him in the narrow way, and brings up children to respect their obligations to the good God, their parents, and their country, she is doing a great work. But it is one that is clearly marked out for her. She cannot mistake her duty. Now, my duties are much more indefinite. A single woman is supposed to have some Mission, I believe. If she does not make herself a slave to her nephews and nieces-I have none to slave for-if she has no parrot or poodle-I detest them both-she works for a Society. I have no Mission and I advocate the claims of no Society. I am not obliged to work for my living, and, so far as I can tell, I have no call to sell my goods and give them to the poor. I might,

of course, go out to Africa, or to India, or to Japan. to teach the heathen. But I have not done so, and I cannot see my way to doing so. I have many friends, and somebody is always wanting me. I suppose I give some pleasure or some help. or I should be left to my own devices. And I fail so miserably in availing myself of what opportunities I have, that I hardly like ostentatiously to take up Work (with a capital W). There are already kindly words which I do not always speak, there are letters to lonely people far away that I do not always write, there are ways of brightening dull depressed lives which I pass by. Perhaps when at last I do all that lies close at hand, some other more lofty mission may present itself to me, and I may obey the call.

Long, long ago, I anticipated something very different. That was when I saw so much of Harold Pierson. We had known each other as children, and had had a profound contempt for one another. I despised the shy, awkward boy, who recognised the shallowness of my knowledge and the pertness of my speech though he was quite unable to retaliate in kind. But when we met again, all was changed. I see now that he was by no means remarkable-I have met a dozen men since then who were his superiors in every respect. At that time, however, he produced a great impression upon me. I was surprised to find him so much altered, to begin with. Of course, it was very stupid of me to expect the grown, experienced man to be like the raw, unformed boy, but I had lost count of time. Then he was thoroughly in earnest, and that appealed to me; for I was, too. My sister's friends did not suit me at all. Their brilliant talk palled upon me, though I enjoyed it at first. They had seen so much and done so much, and the end of it all was vanity. Life furnished material for a cynical jest or for an epigram, but it was not to be taken seriously. They played with everything—joy, sorrow, love, humanity--even God Himself. Harold had neither outgrown his faith nor lost his hope. He believed that it was possible to do some good in the world even yet, and that it was our duty to make strenuous efforts for the improvement of mankind. I agreed with him most enthusiastically, and we became close friends.

We were rather daring in our choice of subjects, for we both professed to despise conventionality. And so it came to pass that at last we talked about love and marriage, and found that there also we were in accord. Harold said that the ideal marriage was intellectual companionship, and when he made this profound remark, he gazed earnestly at me. I replied that I was sure of it; and I spoke in good faith, though my face flamed and my heart gave a great leap as I spoke. I have no doubt that when he went home, he slept the sleep of a quiet conscience and an untroubled breast, while I lay awake all night recalling his image, and murmuring anew the words he had spoken. For I loved him. I am quite sure that he thought he loved me, for he was absolutely sincere and truthful, and he told me so. Poor fellow! He soon found out his mistake.

I cannot remember now why I was so anxious that our engagement should not be made public at that

particular time. I know I had a reason which seemed sufficiently good then, whatever it might do now. And Nellie Stansfield was coming to stay with me. She was such a sensitive little creature, and loved me with such jealous affection, that I wanted her to know and to like Harold before she was told he was to be my husband. I was only six years older than Nellie, but I felt as if I were her mother, poor little dear, and I always tried to spare her. It did not occur to me that I was placing her in an unfair position by keeping her in ignorance of my engagement. I made a false move, but it was in good faith.

How pretty little Nellie looked that night! She had been listening to the talk of some of Julia's friends, and their airy trifling with great subjects had given her blue eyes a childish, questioning look, which was almost piteous in its bewilderment. Harold was talking to me with his usual eagerness, when he suddenly caught sight of the white-robed figure in the corner. He forgot what he was going to say, and seemed struck dumb.

"That argument is quite unanswerable," I said, going on with our talk.

"Yes, yes," he replied absently. "Who is that pretty little girl in the corner?"

"Is she not a darling?" I asked enthusiastically. "It is Nellie Stansfield-you know I told you all about her. You must be very fond of her for my sake, and you must be very careful. She is so tender, so sensitive."

Harold promised to be very fond of her and very careful, and I introduced him to her. I don't think they spoke two words to one another. Nellie seldom talked to strangers, and Harold's conversational powers seemed to have deserted him.

I have since thought that he fell in love after the manner of Shakespeare's heroes-headlong, at once. But at the time I suspected nothing: I was so singlehearted and so confident of his affection for me. Had he not told me that I was the one woman in the world for him, that my companionship was perfect and soul-satisfying, that he loved me? He had told me all that, and I am sure he thought he was speaking the truth. Yet the first time that he saw Nellie Stansfield and met the appealing gaze of her blue eyes, he knew with fatal certainty that he had made a mistake, and that he had deceived himself and deceived me.

Julia began to be ill the very next day, and claimed all my attention. It was scarcely possible for Harold to keep away from the house, even if he had wished to do so. I begged him to come as much as he could, and to take Nellie out. Poor little thing! It was so dull for her to be alone; and we could not send her home, with that stupid father of hers hunting insects in South America when he ought to have been looking after his daughter. Why did the man marry, I wonder? I am sure he troubled more about the loss of a case of rare beetles than ever he did about the death of his wife, and I know he would willingly

have exchanged Nellie for some coveted specimens of Lepidoptera. People like that have no business to entangle other lives with their own.

Julia's illness was a dreadful time. Poor creature! She had lived in such an atmosphere of airy trifling, that one could scarcely bear to see her confronted by so awful a reality as death. Whenever I am tempted now to think that life has no meaning, I remember Julia, lying back upon her pillows, with solemn eyes fixed upon her husband's face. If life is a vain show, then what is death?

When at last all was over, I gave way for the first time. I was utterly wearied out both in mind and body; I thought I could bear no more. I longed unutterably to see Harold once again; I hungered for the touch of his hand, for the sound of his voice. Perhaps in that warm human companionship I should forget the chill of death; and so, when they told me that Mr. Pierson wished to see me, I was ready to meet my lover.

The first glance told me something was wrong, but I was not kept in suspense very long. Harold had found out that not only had Nellie Stansfield stolen his heart away, but that he had won hers in return. It was characteristic of the man that when he had once realised those facts he felt impelled to acknowledge them to me. He was so honest, that he simply could not have pretended to continue our old relations for a single hour. He was very cruel, yet I know now he did me the greatest kindness in his power, and that in doing it he gauged my character truly. He told me that he had never loved me, and that he had only just found out what love was. He knew now, and could not, he said, insult a noble woman by marrying her without it. He dared not postpone his avowal, both on my account and Nellie's. Nellie! Yes, that was an added sting. She was mine own familiar friend: she had been to me as a daughter. Thank God, Harold Pierson had the courage to tell me the truth! I have seen a good deal of married

life since then, and I tremble to think what might have become of us, if he had imagined himself in honour bound to fulfil his engagement. And how glad I am that he did not allow me to remain in a fool's paradise any longer than he could help! The old Adam is still rampant within me, and I have had many an unpleasant quarter of an hour since, when I have recalled the fact of my engagement to a man who did not love me. But, at all events, he spared me unnecessary humiliation-he did not accept words and tokens of affection from me, when his heart belonged to another woman.

Everything has turned out entirely for the best. Not only are the Piersons thoroughly happy-as human creatures go-but I am afraid I should have been woefully disappointed in Harold if I had married him. It may be the old business of “sour grapes," but I really don't think it is. He is so very different from what I once imagined him to be, that I can't think how I contrived to get up so much feeling about him. It seems incredible now.

Perhaps I am not so much to be pitied as Nellie thinks. I get a great deal of love, after all. To my shame and grief, I don't do all the good I might doI am not even sure that I do any-but I care. I am not wrapped up in myself and my own concerns. There are many little vacant corners which I try to fill, though not always with success. I almost think I was able to help Nellie's own Madge on one occasion, though she has such a devoted mother. But Madge is a modern maiden, and life is not such a simple affair to her as it is to that mother. The doubts. the questionings of this fin de siècle look out of the girl's eyes.

Nellie has never known that old story of mine. Mr. Pierson and I agreed that she must not be told. The poor child would have fretted herself into a fever if she had found out that she had innocently supplanted me.

She loved Harold well, but she loved me too. I knew that, and I made him promise to be silent. He has kept his word.

A

for war...

BIRTHDAY speech from a hale octogenarian, who is not ashamed to own his age! And it is noticeable, by the way, how that Holy Scripture, while often telling us the age of a man, only once tells us the age of a woman. "Who?" No, no; you must search for this; and you will find many other good things en route.

The youthful orator has often declared that "the world's noblest work has been done by young men" -not, however, to the exclusion of octogenarians in days gone by, but more especially to-day, when longevity is on the increase, and when, indeed, under

to go out, and to come in."-JOSHUA xiv. 10, 11.

the régime of King JESUS, the oldest may keep a young heart, even should their years be as those of Methuselah.

At the outset, however, we do well to remember that life is not to be measured by years only:

"He liveth long who liveth well:

All other life is short and vain."

Still, one thinks of the words, "With long life will I satisfy him"; and we feel that usually a goodly life, full as to its years and ripe as a shock of corn, is eminently desirable. Was it not so at the beginning? Adam, fresh from the Creator's hand, lived

930 years; and many of the antediluvians attained as much, and even more. After the time of the Flood longevity decreased; and by the time of Abraham the duration of human life was again reduced; while, again, by the time of Moses man's lifetime was diminished by half, so that we find him lamenting, "The days of our life are threescore years and ten; and if by reason of strength they be fourscore years, yet is their strength labour and sorrow" (Psalm xc.).

Yet Moses himself lived to 120 years, his eye undimmed, his natural vigour unimpaired. Thus he who is credited with the well-known Psalm fixing the limit of man's age, is a conspicuous exception; so that some have thought he was lamenting the short lives of the Israelites in the wilderness ("our lives") rather than the brevity of human life in general.

The subject of our meditation is another conspicuous exception; Caleb is young at eighty-five : as young as he was at forty. He and one other, Joshua, were the only two out of all the throng that left Egypt who entered the Promised Land. Hardness of heart, disobedience, querulous unthankfulness-these things cut down the hosts that came out of Egypt, and occasioned the mournful Psalm of Moses, "the man of God"; and the "our derives sad emphasis as Moses looks round upon the camp of Israel, and knows that all are doomed.

Yet, even then, Caleb was an exception. And if he could be young at eighty-five, under Moses, what ought we to be to-day, under Christ? An American divine said not long ago that a man ought to be ashamed of himself nowadays to die under one hundred! And although he himself died soon after, at the age of seventy-five, there was much truth in his whimsical dictum; and never since the days of the patriarchs has there been such a chance of longevity-youthful, useful, happy longevity—as to-day, under the dispensation of the Lord Jesus, when the young man may be older than Methuselah, and the octogenarian younger than Abel.

1.

One cannot but be struck, on reading the paragraph (vv. 1-15) that the circumstance described really depends on another that happened long before. See Numb. xiii. 30, xiv. 6-10, 24, 30, 38, which we may epitomise thus: By God's command, Moses sent twelve spies to search the Land of Promise. These, after forty days' search, returned with grapes of Eshcol, pomegranates, and I know not what, together with the report that the land was flowing with milk and honey. So spake the two. Ten, however, interposed one of those "buts" that mar history: The people are to us like giants to grasshoppers; it is no use attempting their walled cities. Then they all cried, and wanted a captain to lead them back to Egypt and its bondage.

Caleb stilled the people for a time at least, and said, "We can do it, God helping us." But in vain, "for all the congregation bade them stone them with

No wonder Joshua blessed him, and gave him Hebron, "because he wholly followed the Lord God of Israel."

So God follows him. And the past comes up again. As he sowed at forty, he is reaping at eightyfive. Thus Caleb is confronted with what happened nearly half a century before; and his story, indeed, lives to this day. So, perhaps, your attitude to-day, your praises and prayers, your gifts upon the altar, your perusal of this magazine, may meet you again: it may be after many years, it may be in another world.

Caleb's great joy is that he followed God wholly, and especially that he was not a murmurer, murmuring having slain more than the giant Canaanites ever could-having, indeed, slain all but two of those who left Egypt. Terrible thing, that perennial grumbling! It makes us think about the child expressing its wish not to go to heaven lest grandpapa should be there, always grumbling about "those boys." He had not a young heart, poor

man!

66

What, don't you fret when you have a loss?" "Yes; but I always put off the fretting until I have repaired the mischief."

"Why, then you have no need to fret at all." "True," replied the industrious and cheerful gardener; "and that's the very reason why I put it off altogether."

He must have had something of the Caleb spirit: whence we learn that murmuring does no good; that it will "age" us, writing crooked wrinkles on the heart as well as the face. Caleb kept a young heart, a thoughtful heart, a willing heart; knowing

It is instructive to note that Caleb was probably a Gentile-- a foreigner. His name means "a dog,” the designation given by Jews to Gentiles. The striking faith of the adopted children many times puts to shame the cowardice and inconstancy of the peculiar people. In fact, the first Hebrew and the father of the faithful was a Gentile. And to-day, could we bring in many an alien and tell him the ways of God, his heart would melt while often we are Gospel-hardened, and he would show forth a sublime and childlike faith. Caleb's trust in God's arm, forty-five years before, when all the multitudes of Israel would have turned their backs on the Promised Land and marched ignominiously to Egypt again, bids us to-day believe with heart and soul.

III.

Here, then, is the secret of perpetual youth: God keeps His people young; "The Lord hath kept me alive"-"young," we might well say. "Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fail; but they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not faint."

This was the secret of Caleb's prolonged youth: more than a good constitution; more than happy circumstances these had not always been so (Numb. xiv. 10); more than a cheerful disposition, though that is a good thing; more than animal vitality. He followed God closely-" wholly "-with a heart undivided and undisturbed. Some people are blest with a wonderful development of the faculty of recuperativeness; their flesh heals quickly; they soon recover from illness; they attain to a "good old age." Yet we want something more than that -true godliness, full of faith and hope and love. The possession of vital force may give tenacity of life, conferring hardness in one case and pliability in another; but it cannot keep the heart young and childlike, and give that sweet sunshine that makes one young at eighty-five.

We ask again, If Caleb could attain this prolonged youth under the old dispensation, what ought we to attain? Christ is our Master. Whether Caleb derived any inspiration from his friend and leader Joshua, one can hardly say; but we have our Joshua-Jesus (the names are the same—and He

is a "Saviour" in every sense of the word. And He is a young Man. You cannot conceive of Him otherwise. True, He is represented in Revelation as the Ancient of Days, and His hair white as wool; still, even then, He is "venerable with eternal youth," and Christianity is to make us young; for the essence of Christianity is that Christ imparts Himself to us. We must therefore be like Him.

But how often it seems otherwise. What a wailing cry for rest and retirement we hear from the young and middle-aged men who seem prematurely old and battered. It is not work, but worry; poverty alike of blood and spirit ; a self-inflicted woe on him who hasteth to be rich (Prov. xxviii. 22). Would it be so if men followed Christ wholly? He is the Lord of life. He would give life "more abundantly," so that we should present the wondrous spectacle of men growing younger as they become older. Under Christ, indeed, we have no business to grow old; for the very entrance into His Kingdom means that we are " born again," and that we become "as little children," retaining the sparkle and exhilaration of children, in spite of advancing years and increasing cares.

It makes one think of octogenarian statesmen knocked down by passing cabs rising at once and running to take the number, but appearing in court in the spirit of Christian youthfulness and amiability to ask that offending cabbies may not be convicted.

It makes one think of John Wesley, consumptive when a young man, yet at eighty-six years of age rising at four in the morning, preaching two or three times a day, writing books, travelling on horseback thousands of miles over bad roads, and calling his fellow-labourers milksops.

It makes one think of "Paul the aged," yet in labours more abundant and in spirits more youthful than Timothy: buoyant, heroic, sunny, and genial to the last. "For me to live is Christ," said he; and this "life" means a great deal more than existence.

IV.

Thus the aged may claim the mountain, like Caleb. He wanted the highest last, the best last. In fact, he felt that he was only just beginning his career, that the past had been his apprenticeship, and that now he finds his place. So he seeks his true allotment in the Promised Land.

The mountain! It is high; it is difficult. Frowning Anakim keep guard, and will dispute your right. But it can be taken. You may conquer; you may claim your right. Did not Moltke begin a military career at sixty? Then, what should not the Christian soldier attempt? Think of his royal master retaining the full responsibilities of state till ninetyone; of Ranke, the German historian, labouring till the same age. Think of General Grant, laid aside at sixty-two, and beset with difficulties, but successfully climbing the literary mountain; of Mrs.