their beds; the innkeeper, his wife, and the old man, were alone when this was said. The old man dropped his knife and fork, and exclaimed, in a trembling voice, "What does that mean?" The innkeeper laughed outright. 'Why, man," said he, "it does not mean that we murder or rob (Heaven help us-there would be no robbing of you)-that we murder or rob travellers here! Eat your supper," he continued, more gently.

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"Why,

when my wife sees a chance of doing any good to anybody-giving a man a supper, for instance, or a bed, or sending some firewood to a neighbourwhy she does it, and she calls it following Master Elias's rule;' that's all it means.'

The old man had not resumed his supper. "Who is Master Elias ?" he asked.

The innkeeper and his wife were amazed at the agitation of their visitor.

Thirty years ago," he went on, "I kept a school in this village, and I was called Master Elias."

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The innkeeper's wife was holding his hands in hers, and looking through her tears into his face. The same! the very same!" cried she. "Master Elias, have you come back?"

The innkeeper stood astonished, I might say aghast, at this scene. Master Elias had been such a proverb, such a mysterious being, neither the innkeeper nor any one else had ever certainly known whether he was a mortal man of flesh and blood, or some creature of imagination, written about and read about in books; so that the apparition of Master Elias, standing in person in the parlour of his inn, affected him very much as might an apparition of some unearthly being from another world.

"Master Elias, don't you remember me? But no, you cannot; I was a poor beggar-girl once, and when my mother was sick I went to your house, and you gave me half of everything you had have you forgotten it? the barley-loaf? I never have. I have followed your rule always, and given half to the poor; and my good husband there can tell whether, in the twenty years I have been married to him, all things have not gone on well with us."

The innkeeper had by this time recovered from his amazement. He shook his guest by the hand, and told him to make his home in the inn for the rest of his life, if he liked it.

It might be thought that, however much the innkeeper's wife had prospered by following her rule of charity, Master Elias had not flourished by it, at least; for he was old and poor. He had been sick a great deal, out of employment, and had started for this vilfage, his home of thirty years ago, homeless and friendless. But did not his reward come at last? In the inn he found a home, in the innkeeper's wife a daughter, in her rosy children pupils, whom he loved to teach, for his intellect was bright, and his mind well stored. In the villagers one and all he found friends, for his name was already among them associated with goodness and virtue; and at last, beside his little sister's grave, he found a resting place, where on a little white stone is recorded how the people cherished the memory of "Master Elias's rule," and looked forward with a cheerful hope to meeting him where that rule of charity shall be even the rule whereby we are to be judged.

"DO WHAT YOU CAN."

A TALE OF CHRISTMAS EVE.
PART I.

"Ir's all very well for city missionaries and such like folks to talk," said Mrs. Roberts, lounging on her doorstep one bright December morning; "they've nothing else to do but to read their Bibles and be religious. What would be the good, I'd like to know, of my turning pious? I've got no time to run about giving away them tracts; and as to giving money, I'd like to see myself able to, that's all!"

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Quite true," answered her neighbour, Mrs. Gibson, a stout untidy looking woman, 'that's just how I feel myself. What's the good of them preaching to us SO much about doing' we can't do nothing worth speaking of, so it's best to let it alone;" and Mrs. Gibson looked down complacently at her torn, unmended dress, and then at her son Johnny, who was amusing himself with making mud pies in the road. "There come a lady into our place yesterday," she added, "and says she, Why don't you wash Johnny's face and hands? soap and water's cheap. I didn't contradict her; but, thinks I, if Johnny's face and hands would stay washed, I'd try it, but it's hard enough to get soap and water for washing clothes, let alone boys' faces; but she meant it kind, I suppose."

talking, but her clothing was clean and put on neatly, so that her outward appearance was much superior to theirs. Her face was pale, and had on it many lines which over-toil and suffering, rather than time, had left there. And yet in spite of the pallid look and thin cheeks, there was on her countenance an expression of great peace, like one who has gone through many a struggle, and met with many wounds, yet has gained the victory at last. Every one in Paradise Court knew Mrs. Fawcett's history-the inhabitants of the twelve small tenements generally did know every one else's business better than their ownthey knew that she had once been in far better circumstances; that her husband's accident (he was now a cripple) had brought her down in the world, and that she supported him and herself by hard labour with her needle; and that three little graves in a far-off country churchyard held the children whom she had so dearly loved. The neighbours knew, too, that Mrs. Fawcett was different to themselves, though it would have puzzled them to put the difference into words; she did not go about giving tracts, for she worked as hard and harder than they did; she did not give away money, for, like them, she had none, or very little, to give; and yet they would say among themselves, Though Mrs. Fawcett don't say nothing about it, I do believe she is a Christian, after all!"

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I see you were at the chapel last night," said Mrs. Roberts, addressing Mrs. Fawcett as she passed; “we went, as we promised you, but there was nothing to help us-we're just saying, we can do nothing, you know."

"We can all do what we can,' answered Mrs. Fawcett pleasantly. And somehow, if we once believe

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how much Christ has done for us, I fancy it's easy to find plenty of ways of serving him. We must open our hearts to him first-the 'doing' is sure to follow. He doesn't expect you and me to go out as missionaries to the heathen, like the gentleman who preached last night, but he does ask us to give him our love, and he only values the service that springs from that."

Mrs. Fawcett would perhaps have said more, but her attention was attracted by the appearance of an elderly woman, who with slow steps and averted face passed the little group who were standing together. They all remained silent till she had passed within her own door, and then Mrs. Roberts exclaimed,

"Poor Mrs. Grenfield, how bad she looks! and Phoebe not with her!"

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Did you expect Phoebe home today?" asked Mrs. Fawcett.

"Yes, of course; her time was up this morning. I guessed Mrs. Grenfield had gone after her when I saw her go out after breakfast. She missed the girl, maybe, and it's as well so, for Samuel Grenfield would have shut the door in her face, though she'd been starving-he's from home to-day."

Mrs. Fawcett stopped a minute or two longer, then passed her own door and knocked at that where the elderly woman had entered; for she knew that if ever any one needed comfort and help, Mrs. Grenfield did at this time.

The Grenfields had lived for many years in Paradise Court. They were hardworking, steady people, and became in time better off by far than any of their neighbours, yet they still lived in that most unattractive locality, from habit rather than from choice. All their pride was centred in their only child, Phoebe. Never was she allowed to mingle with the other children who played about the court, though she often looked wistfully at their merry games; and as soon as she was old enough, she was apprenticed to a fashionable dress

maker, and rarely came to her old home. Very proud were the Grenfields of her when she did come, looking so finely dressed and seeming so like a lady, but their pride suffered a terrible fall. Step by step Phoebe went astray; property was lost in the house where she was employed; the suspicions of her employer were aroused; Phoebe and another were arrested for theft, convicted, and sentenced to three months' imprison

ment.

Very differently did the father and the mother bear the blow. The latter thought only of her erring child; the father thought only of himself. Be had boasted of her so much, had held her up as an example of what his training could accomplish, had shrugged his shoulders and sneered when young Tom Gibson had run away to sea, and Susan Roberts had lost place after place. "If people brought up their children strictly, they'd do well," he had said many a time; and now his Phoebe had fallen lower than any of the neighbours' girls-he would never forgive her, never-not so much because of her fault, as because his own pride had been wounded by it.

This morning the three months' term of imprisonment was over; and Mrs. Grenfield, taking advantage of her husband's absence, had gone to wait for her release, and had missed her.

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She was let out before I got there," said she to Mrs. Fawcett by-and-bye, and a flaunty girl she was intimate with came for her, so one of the men told me. There's no hope for her now, I fear. If I could have got her home, and told her that I loved her! But I can do nothing, nothing."

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'Perhaps she will come home tonight."

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No. You don't know Phoebe or her father. He wrote her, bidding her never show her face home again; and she's as proud as he; she'd not come nigh us of her own will. If I could have seen her, I might have led her home; and, maybe, if the master had found her here when he came in, he might have softened at the sight of her

now; I can do

Where does the girl live who met her to-day ?"

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was

I don't know; she used to work where Phoebe did; her name Travis. I had no heart to make inquiries, and I feared the master might have come back, so I came home.'

"I must go out with some work by-and-bye; I will see if I can learn anything of her. Poor Phoebe, she has been led wrong so far, but you mustn't despair. At any rate, I'll do what I

That afternoon Mrs. Fawcett started on her errand. She soon learnt the address of the girl named Travis, and called at her lodging, but Phoebe was not there.

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I offered her to share my lodging," said the girl, but Phoebe wouldn't. She said she'd have nothing to do with her old companions, and would try for work; a likely thing to get, just out of prison. But it's her own affair."

Mrs. Fawcett went away with mingled feelings of relief and disappointment. She was thankful that Phoebe was struggling to do better; but yet, where was she? how could she find her? Then she remembered an old inhabitant of Paradise Court who lived down by the river among the wharves; Phoebe had been a little friendly with her once, had she. sought refuge there?

With some difficulty Mrs. Fawcett found the place, but the people had moved. She described Phoebe. "Had any one like that been there to-day ?" she asked of the woman at the door.

"Yes: a pale, tired-out girl, looking strangely perplexed like. She came an hour or so ago, and turned away alongside the river when she heard her friends had left."

The short December day was drawing to a close. Mrs. Fawcett thought of the long distance she was from home, of the work waiting to be done, of her husband wanting her, and she hesitated.

But if I can find this poor girl it

lost in this great city if she's left to herself. 'Tisn't much I can do for the Saviour's glory, but if I could bring back this one stray lamb to his fold, 'twould be something done to please him. I'll do what I can ;" so, with her favourite motto on her lips, Mrs. Fawcett went down towards the river-side.

A gloomy deserted place it looked just there on that December evening. Through the rising mist she gazed up and down, but could see no one. Presently her ear caught the sound of a light step not far distant, behind some projecting pieces of timber. She hastily went towards it, passed round the projecting woodwork, and with straining eyes discerned the outline of a girl's figure on before her. She did not stop to think how unlikely it was that Phoebe would be there; an uncontrollable impulse made her hasten forward, fearing she scarcely knew what, yet feeling that so much depended on her reaching the river first.

This she scarcely would have done, so swiftly hurried the girl along, but a projecting stone caught her foot, and before she had risen from her sudden fall, Mrs. Fawcett was by her side, and had grasped her dress.

"Let me go," said the girl, in a hard voice; but Mrs. Fawcett knew that it was Phoebe's: "let me go. Who are you that hold me like this?"

“A friend, Phœbe; come home, poor child, come home."

from him? Let me hide it in the river for ever!"

"You can't do it, Phœbe. There's One you can't hide from. Are you ready to meet him?-ready to stand in his presence?"

Phoebe shuddered. "What can I do?" she said despairingly. "Where can I go?" Then, with a sudden effort, she broke away from Mrs. Fawcett's hold, flung herself on the ground, and burst into tears.

For a time Mrs. Fawcett let her weep, thankful that her mood had thus changed; then she gently soothed and gradually induced her to rise and come with her. So the two passed up from the water side, and along the streets, till, after some time, they came near Paradise Court. Then Phoebe stopped. "Not home," she said; 66 don't take me there. I know my father. If he says such bitter words as he wrote, and if my mother turns away her face from me, I shall die. Don't take me home." "Come to mine to-night," and there Phoebe went. It was with difficulty the last few steps were taken, for the girl was faint for want of food, and worn out with misery.

Promise me not to tell them I am here," she said, as Mrs. Fawcett laid her on the bed; 66 promise me that.”

The promise was given. But when next day Phoebe was too ill to rise, Mrs. Fawcett repented having given it, and would have gone and told her parents of Phoebe's state, had she not feared the knowledge she had done so would make her worse.

somehow parties seem such trifling things when I think of all he said." Dear me! I don't think any one would make me think a party trifling. Who was he?"

"I couldn't hear his name. He came from Barisal, in India, you know; his text was, 'She hath done what she could.' And it made me feel how much there was to do-how little I had done. Yet, Lucy, when one thinks that Christ died for us, it seems so ungrateful, so mean, so bad, to live comfortably, and do nothing for him."

"What can we do, my dear? We can't turn missionaries, like your preacher; we can't go about giving tracts. I couldn't, on principle, for I never read them myself. And as to district visiting, that's all very well for people who are not afraid of fevers, but I am quite sure your aunt would never allow you to do it; so you'll have to content yourself with such trifles as parties, Ethel."

Ethel sighed. "I fear there is nothing I can do," she added. "And

yet

"Don't go back to the sermon, please," interrupted Lucy. I generally hear two every Sunday, and I consider I do quite enough in that way."

Å knock at the door stopped Lucy here. Mrs. Fawcett, our acquaintance, had brought home some work for Ethel Manning, and was now admitted. It had been promised to be finished the day before, but Phoebe's illness had hindered it, and this Mrs. Fawcett very briefly explained. The needlewoman was, however, a favourite of Ethel's, and had worked for her a long time, so, little by little, she drew out the whole story, Mrs. Fawcett not being so reluctant to tell it as she had been at first, because it occurred to her that Miss Manning might be helpful to the poor girl.

"It was a great thing that you followed and found her," observed Lucy, whose interest had been excited; "it was very good of you to take all that trouble."