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I HAVE Sometimes said to myself, "There is no weariness like a mother's." But I suppose men would pooh! pooh! and think, "Ah! silly creature, if you had only the care of our business!" Still, they have never been mothers. The work of tending and training

children, although so important, yields but slow apparent results; and it does sometimes beget in one a restless desire for what we call a "great work," and a wish to satisfy our hearts with a little present success. This patient, silent endurance behind the great scenes, preparing the figures for appearance when those now acting on the world's stage shall have dropped quietly below the foot-lights, is so wearying, with so little present reward, that we cannot wonder that mothers' hearts do sometimes grow sad and faint.

My story is from the life of a pastor's wife, in a region where life was largely made up of inconveniences, a great deal of hard work, a great deal of advice from the deacons' wives, and upon all, the blessing of the "full quiver."

At that time the work of foreign missions was comparatively in its infancy; and a returned missionary was a person much sought after. Mrs. Vinton, the celebrated mission labourer, had just returned from Burmah, and was visiting some Churches in our [NOVEMBER, 1871.

VOL. VIII. No. 11.

neighbourhood; and my husband, with his usual zeal, was anxious to have her visit our Church, to revive the sympathies of our people in missionary work. One day, he came hurrying into the house and handed me a letter, saying, "She has promised to come."

Without stopping to read it, I said, "Is she coming to our house?" "Why, yes," he said; "didn't I tell you she was coming to give us one or two addresses to arouse the interest of our Church in missionary work? She is just home on a visit from her great mission field, and is thrilling large audiences with her pathos and eloquence." And here he waxed warm with the energy of his subject.

My good husband,-his sympathy was largely with his work; and he had forgotten my overtasked frame, and that one of our children just then was very sickly. But he had given her the invitation, and as best I could, I must endeavour to welcome her with Christian hospitality. How well I remember my brooding about her visit! What a great work she was doing, how successful she had been, and how much people were praising her on all sides! What a brilliant career, mixed with but few trials! . These thoughts, hurrying through my brain, contrasted sadly with the view I took of my own position. My humble means, scantilyspread table, my few efforts for Christ mostly interfering with my home duties; and then, last, I thought of that ailing boy. He had been ill with whooping-cough for three months. We had several times despaired of his life; and latterly I had been obliged to give up everything, and carry him in my arms almost continually. I had hoped to be of some service in the Church of God; but how different my work from hers! And again my mind ran suddenly from a poor, tired, over-worked pastor's wife, to a very successful missionary, home on a visit, and praised in all the Churches. I am afraid that I had some hard thoughts of God; but I prayed for submission and contentment, and arranged my household for her coming.

When she came, she more than answered my previous ideas of her. She was a tall, commanding woman, very tastefully attired. Her hair, which was freely sprinkled with grey, was so dressed as to give her an Eastern appearance, and, withal, a majesty I could not but admire. During the evening, she told us something of her work; of years of teaching; of hundreds converted; of Churches and schools formed. It did indeed seem as if the Spirit had descended in almost pentecostal blessing.

On the evening appointed for her address to our people, every one was eager to hear her; and as I sat at the parsonage window, and saw crowds press into the church, I wondered if any would be as impatient in staying at home as I was.

The next morning I was feeling very far from rested, as was often the case. I tried to be as cheerful as possible, because of my visitor but I need scarcely have made the effort; for her face

and whole bearing were so calm and placid that I felt rested as I sat in company with her. She drew her chair near to mine, and took out of a small bag a piece of plain knitting-work, which she said she "kept to fill up odd moments." As I think of her now, and hear the pleasant click of those needles, I seem to recover a portion of the soothing they gave me then. Presently, after looking very kindly at me, and then at my boy, she said, "I have been reminded of a part of my life in Burmah so many times since I have stayed with you."

"Indeed!" I said; and my heart stood still for a moment, and I wondered what in my weary life could remind her of such cheering success in God's work.

Seeing my surprise, she said, "During a part of my life in the jungle, one of my children fell sick with cough and a sort of jungle fever, and remained so for two years; and I had to tend and care for him so long, and the climate so increased the care, that at last I said, in rebellion, Why not take me to Himself?"

I looked at her with a feeling that no words could convey, and renewed the conversation in only very broken sentences. How rebuked I felt for all the thoughts which I had indulged! In the midst of peril and the company of entire strangers, she had endured a trial similar to my own, and of far greater duration. How foolish for me to suppose that the trials of other Christians were less than my own! How we murmur sometimes, and our hearts become restless, when we ought to be trusting in the goodness of our God! Then, immediately after, how strengthened I felt! Who knows, I thought, but God may be preparing me for a time of labour and abundant reward? I took up my burden, and it seemed to have lost half its weight at once.

Mrs. Vinton passed from my household, and went back to her great work. But the lesson she taught me has left its fragrance yet. I am much older now; the almond-tree has blossomed, and those that look out of the windows are dim. My children, instead of being a burden, are part of them, in their turn, bearing the burdens of life; and others are where they are learning why all burdens are sent. But even now I am glad to go back and study that early lesson afresh.

Tired mother, will it be of any service to you?

HERE A LITTLE, AND THERE A LITTLE.-Impressions are made on children, as on rocks, by a constant dropping of little influences. What can one drop do? You scarcely see it fall; and presently it rolls away, or is evaporated; you cannot, even with a microscope, measure the little indentation that it has made. Yet it is the constant repetition of this trifling agency which furrows, and, at length, hollows out, even granite itself.

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THE ORPHAN IN THE FAMILY: "A Father of the fatherless is God in His holy habitation. He setteth the solitary in families."-Psalm lxviii. 5, 6.

HOSE who have read M. de Liefde's interesting book on the Charities of Europe, will remember his description of a visit to Neukirchen, near Moers, where a simple, strongly-built, two-storeyed house, set in a garden, is the nucleus of the "Society for the Education of Poor

Abandoned Children in Christian Families." The house is no permanent asylum, but merely an experimental residence for the children, "where their character, temper, and talents are examined during the few months, in order to discover which kind of family would suit them best. It would also occur that a child was on a sudden standing at the door of one of the members, asking bread and shelter; and it often cost much trouble to get such a poor creature under roof, even for the ensuing night." Therefore this small house was fitted up, and thence the children are transferred to their proper homes in distinct Christian families.

Originally, the plan was the thought of one man, a certain pastor of the Reformed Church, named Bräm. For many a year he published the idea before it caught attention, though his arguments were such as these:-"As you are saved by love, so you should try to save others. As you have been kindly taken into the only protecting sheepfold, so you should take others under your hospitable roof. But perhaps with your best will, you cannot possibly open your door for the lost and neglected; perhaps your family circumstances put it out of the question. But there certainly are families which lack no requisite. Could you not assist in finding them out? and if found, could you not encourage them by your kind addresses and liberal help to unite one or two lost little lambs that are wandering outside in the wilderness to the happy fold inside?”

Another German, whose name is a synonym for benevolence, Pastor Zeller, who himself founded an Orphan Asylum at Beuggen, had long before strongly advocated the placing of bereaved children in Christian families as the very best method of training. Commenting on this, M. de Liefde observes-" An establishment which contains from fifty to seventy children (and this surely is only a small one), however well managed, cannot help being unnatural in many respects. Nature seldom puts more than twelve children together in one house; quite enough for a man and his wife to control, if due attention be given to the formation of the various characters, and the development of the various talents. The training of a band of children beyond that number cannot help assuming the character of wholesale education." The noble Immanuel Wichern felt this objection so forcibly, that his famous Rough House Institution is like a village of families; each homestead with its house-father and house-mother, and its twelve boys or girls, as the case may be. He considered that he could not otherwise do justice to those whom God had committed to his care, than by letting the principles of family life act upon each individual.

But further than this would the good Pastors Zeller and Bräm copy Nature:-"The Christian family parlour is the best reformatory," said the former. "The training of poor neglected children in families should be a Church concern," said the latter. "The

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