coming to the Sunday school, and I must reward you for your conduct this afternoon; then taking some pence from his pocket he added, 'I have here seven pence. Here is a penny each for you, and I have two pence for myself. You are all very rich, and I am still richer, you see, and more than all I have a Father in heaven who will give me all I want.' These were the last words he uttered. He fell gently on the grass, the children called for help. When friends came to the spot Lewis Powell 'was not, for God took him'-he had gone to his reward; his Father there and then gave him all he wanted. What a glorious translation and an infinite surprise that must have been to Mr. Powell-one moment on the lonely road near the little village of Bonvilstone, the next in heaven."

"Yes, Caleb," exclaimed Shadrach, "and yet heaven wasn't altogether new to him; he had got a few glimpses. of it before from this old earth."

"Very true," replied Caleb. "When Mr. Phillips. repeated that hymn,

'O fryniau Caersalem ceir gweled,'

I was reminded very forcibly of what I heard Mr. Morgan Howell* once say in a sermon in a monthly meeting. He was in a glorious hwyl when he repeated that verse, and seeing two well-known poets in the gallery he addressed them and said-'I want one of you to compose another verse, which shall be a counterpart of that. That verse speaks of seeing the wanderings in the wilderness from the eternal hills; we want another verse which shall tell of seeing the everlasting hills while yet in the wilderness.'"

"Ah, the great thing," said John, as the friends parted, "is to be always, as David Rowland, of Bala, once said, like the swallow about to take wing for foreign landseverything ready."

The late Rev. Morgan Howell, a distinguished Methodist minister.

CHAPTER XIV.

Some of Caleb's Reminiscences.

OME weeks passed by after the funeral of Hugh Roberts' daughter during which nothing of interest occurred. Death had cast its chill shadow not only on Pentre-mawr farm but also over the little company who usually met at the smithy. Hugh was ab

sent, and so was his friendCaleb,

who had gone

on a journey to "the, hills" to close accounts with those who had for so many years bought flannel of him. Caleb was getting old, and as he had by a life of much industry saved just enough to maintain his wife and himself in their latest years, there was no need for him to toil any longer. Besides, he felt that the eventide of

T

life was the time in which to forget its bustle and tumult, and in which to pause and consider before the head was laid in sleep upon the lap of death; as he himself put it, Now that I am old I don't want to have anything more to do with flannel, nor do I want to pass away in a rush, but calmly and reverently into the presence of my God."

46

The circle of friends was for the time broken, and with the exception of a few conversations between Shadrach and his cousin John nothing transpired at the smithy worth recording, and even those we must now pass over.

The first evening after Caleb's return was the one in which the prayer-meeting was usually held in the Methodist chapel. There Hugh and Caleb met each other, and at the close walked arm-in-arm toward Pentremawr. The road passed by the smithy, and as a matter of course they called there. Shadrach and Jenkin were busy at work, but the moment Hugh and Caleb appeared at the door Shadrach dropped the tongs and greeted them right heartily.

A few minutes later John Vaughan entered the smithy. He had finished his work for the day, and had come to have a chat with Shadrach. To his surprise Caleb had returned, and, as he said, "of course Hugh was with him." "Tell us something, Caleb, about your visit to Glamorganshire," said Shadrach. "How is the good

cause getting on there."

"Exceedingly well," replied Caleb, "especially the cause of temperance. I spent a Sunday at Swansea, and every other person almost wore the blue ribbon. As I hadn't heard Dr. Rees for many years I went to hear him instead of going to one of our own chapels. He preached an excellent sermon, and there was one thing he said which struck me very much. He was speaking of the drunkard and the reprobate, and said that he was one of the saddest

sights in God's creation. Then he said, 'When I see a worm wallowing in the mire the sight does not affect me, because the worm is in its congenial element, but when I see a beautiful bird with clipped wings struggling helplessly in a muddy puddle my heart is moved to pity, for I know that it is not made for that but to soar aloft into the pure air and clear sunshine. So when man's aspirations are clogged with earthliness, and he wallows in the mire of sin, it is a sight which may well make angels weep and fill the heart of God with pity. Man is not made for that, but to soar heavenward and hold fellowship with his God.'

"But the most interesting meeting of all that I attended was one held in a coal-pit. There was an open place there set apart and roughly furnished for that purpose. On every Monday morning a short service is held there, over which one of their own number presides. On this special occasion the meeting held was in connection with the Gospel Temperance Movement, and was a very enthusiastic one. After reading and prayer there were two short addresses given. The first was based upon Deut. xxii. 8, 'When thou buildest a new house then thou shalt make a battlement for thy roof, that thou bring not blood upon thine house, if any man fall from thence.' The speaker, who was rather advanced in years, gave a very forcible address, shewing that if neglect on the part of a man to build battlements on the flat roof of his house brought upon his own head the blood of anyone who might fall over, a similar neglect on our part to protect by example as well as by precept the souls of our dear ones will bring their blood upon our heads if they are lost. The second was a very homely and powerful address. There was one thing in it which interested me very much. The friend who spoke repeated with great force Christmas Evans's dream, one that I heard the

grand old dreamer repeat himself when I was quite a lad on a journey with my father. The story as told in the coal-pit brought back to me that crowded meeting in which Christmas Evans told that dream for the first time, and when looking up to the gallery at the close his one eye flashed as I have never seen any other eye flash in my life.

"Ah, that was the eye, Caleb," said John Vaughan, "of which Robert Hall once said that it was bright enough to light an army through a desert."

"Yes," replied Caleb, "his eye was a wonderful one.— Well, he was announced to speak at that meeting; people came from far and near to hear him. Mr. W—————, of A—————, the minister alluded to, said at first that he should not be present for he anticipated a personal reference to himself, yet such was the fascination that he could not stay away. He came to the meeting late and crept into the gallery, where the preacher's eye, which had been long searching for him, at length discovered him. Christmas Evans at once proceeded to say, 'I had a strange dream last night. I dreamt that I was in Pandemonium, the council chamber of Hades. How I got there I know not, but there I was. I had not been there long before I heard a thundering rap at the gates. Beelzebub! Beelzebub! you must come to earth directly.' 'Why, what's the matter now?' 'Oh! they are sending out missionaries to the heathen.' 'Are they? Bad news that. I'll be there presently.' Beelzebub rose, and hastened to the place of embarkation, where he saw the missionaries and their wives, and a few boxes of Bibles and tracts, but, on turning round, he saw rows of casks piled up, and labelled gin, rum, brandy, &c. That will do,' said he, there's no fear yet. The casks will do more harm than the boxes can do good.' So saying, he stretched his wings and returned to his own place. After a time