and made a mock at sin. But what he said gave me a stab of self-reproach. "Here is one," thought I," who is a willing servant of Satan; and he is not ashamed to invite others to go with him, while I am dumb in the service of my great, good Lord and Master. It shall not be so any longer; I will say a word for him now." And I did.

"I cannot go with you, James," I said; "but I wish you would go with me. Come with us, and we will do you good," " I added.

James burst into a loud, insulting laugh. "When I do that,"

said he, "you may call me anything you like. Come along, Tom.” They turned away, and I passed on, more sorrowful than before. "I knew how it would be," I thought.

But I did not know. I did not guess that, two minutes afterwards, I should have a hand laid upon my arm, and that, on turning round, I should see Tom May.

"I'll go with you for once, Stephen," said Tom. "Jem was too hard upon you, and I have told him So. He has no right to abuse you for being religious, as we all ought to be. I'll go with you. I have had a dozen minds to go with you before now; but you never asked me till to-night, and I reckoned that you did not want my company. And, Stephen," he continued, "I have been in this place three years; and this is the first time anybody has ever asked me to go to any place of worship, church or chapel."

So we walked on together; and though it was the first time with Tom May it was not the last. The Gospel was made the power of God unto salvation to him, even as it had been to me. The Lord's name be praised for his great mercy to us both.

205

THE EIGHT BELLS AND THEIR VOICES.

Nor joyful voices, nor merry voices, but melancholy and sad are the voices of the "Eight Bells." They have been heard for many years, but never have they discoursed sweet music; but rather the wails of wretchedness and woe. Let us recall some of

these voices.

It was on a winter's evening, in Henry Ekworth's early childhood, that the first voice of the "Eight Bells" fell upon his ear. He was seated by a comfortable fireside at home, close to his mother's knee, when one entered the room with a tale of horror which thrilled through his young heart, though its full import was imperfectly comprehended then. It was a tale of death. An unhappy lady had that day been found lifeless in a neighbouring river, and report spoke of self-destruction.

Henry had seen that lady, had heard her speak. Terrible it was to him to think of that hand as cold in death—and such a death!

"The Eight Bells' caused it!" said Henry's gentle mother, as she broke out into sorrowful

lamentations. "If it had not been for the 'Eight Bells,' this would never have happened!"

Henry did not understand the connection between the "Eight Bells" and the lady's violent and sad death.

The next day the child walked by his mother's side, and with her entered a house of mourning. He clung closer to her hand when the threshold was passed, for a painful scene was before them.

He saw a group of children, gathered round a small smouldering fire-a fire, it seemed, without heat. The little ones looked scared and awed; traces of tears were on their faces, but the first outburst of grief had ceased. One only, the eldest, sobbed as though her heart would break when Henry's mother spoke kindly and compassionately to her in subdued whispering. She was a fair and lovely girl, but thin and sorrow-worn. Henry's mother had a basket in her hand, and from it she took food, and offered it to the children; and, oh, how eagerly they clutched it! "How hungry they must be!" thought the wondering child.

The unhappy children were thinly clad, and the room bore the look of abject poverty. The uncarpeted floor, the worn-out rushes of the chairs, the small and cracked looking-glass hung against the wall-if it had not been cracked it would not have been there-everything spoke of destitution.

As Henry's mother spoke comforting words to

the poor children, an inner door slowly opened, and a woman mysteriously beckoned to the visitor, who, rising to the summons, would have left her boy behind, but that he clung still closer to herterrified, he knew not why.

After a moment's thought, the mother moved slowly on, gently leading her boy. They ascended to an upper room, and there, on a bed, lay the lifeless body of the drowned lady, clothed in its coffin dress. Oh, how sharp and pinched the features! how deep and hollow the eyes! how thin and sharp the lips! Henry looked into his mother's face; she was weeping bitterly; and the boy, wondering what it all could mean, wept too.

They retired from the chamber silently; and when they re-entered the room below, a man was there in a soiled and rusty coat. He was dirty and unshaven, and his watery eyes glared restlessly on all around him. He was seated by the fire with his hands on his knees; and his childrenfor he was the father of the children there-had dispersed themselves hither and thither. Henry looked at the unhappy man, and dimly recognised in him a gentleman whom he had sometimes met when he was walking with his mother; but surely it could not be the same!

Yes, the same gentleman, for his mother spoke to him by name; and Henry remembered the name; and it was the name of the lady, too, who now lay pale and dead in the room above. The man groaned deeply when Henry's mother spoke,