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The night mission work of Mr. H. B. Gibbud among the very lowest outcasts in tenement-house districts is typical of the work now carried on by the Florence Night Mission. The following incident in his experience illustrates one phase of the work performed by these all-night missionaries. He says:

My congregation was a motley crowd assembled in a small second-story room on Baxter Street, in one of the lowest sections of New York. The audience was gathered from neighbouring alleys, narrow streets, saloons, dance-halls, and dives. Jews, Gentiles, olive-skinned Italians, and almond-eyed Chinamen, sat side by side. Sailors were in the majority. Drunken women,

both white and black, and a few loafers who had found the corner chilly on that bitterly cold night, gathered round the stove. A scattering of beggars and tramps sought refuge from the wintry blast. Several boys and girls, attracted by the singing, helped to fill the room.

Among the notables present was "Lame William," a shiftless, drunken fellow, who had helped us to rescue a girl from the slums. He was afterwards led to Christ and became a sober, earnest Christian worker. Then there was the "Midget," with innocent, doll-like face, and others of less notoriety. I read the story of the Prodigal Son. All listened quietly, and I was only interrupted by the stertorous snores of the sleepers, and by the yells and cat-calls of street-boys who persistently hooted at the door. The story was familiar to many, some of whom had literally left good homes, gone into a far country, spent their substance in riotous living, and had arrived at the pig pen point of the journey; and my prayer was that some might arise and come back to their Father.

Her

I was urging them to do this when a woman entered and crouched near the door. My attention was drawn to her at once, -she was such a wreck. Though not over twenty she looked forty. Ragged, dirty, bruised and bloated, she had hardly the semblance of a woman. I told for her benefit the story of the Scotch lassie who had wandered away from home, and of her return and welcome by a loving mother. I ended by saying, "There are those here to-night who have a loving mother still praying for them." This shot at a venture struck home. lips quivered; tears ran down her cheeks. She was the first to come forward for prayers. She told me between her sobs that she was the only daughter of a praying mother, then living in another part of the city. She had erred in her choice of her company, and an elder brother in anger had put her out of the house, threatening to kill her if she returned to disgrace the family. Driven from home she gradually sank from one level to another until she became an outcast on the street. For five years she had neither seen a relative nor heard from home. I urged her to return, but she hesitated, doubting her welcome. I promised to visit her mother and plead for her, and the girl finally promised to be at the meeting the next night.

The next day I visited her mother. She was a Welsh woman, sixty years of age, living on the top floor of a cheap tenementhouse. She had been a Christian for many years. After conversing with her on other matters I cautiously inquired if she had a daughter named Jennie, aud was surprised when she calmly answered "No." I told her I had been informed that she

had.

"Well, I once had a daughter by that name," she slowly said; "but she is dead."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Yes. At least I think she is.

Yes, I am sure she is. We have not heard from her in five years. Then we heard she was dead."

I told her she was still alive and anxious to return home. The mother's love returned. In great agitation and with tears streaming down her face she exclaimed:

"Tell her she is welcome. Oh, find her and bring her to me, and all shall be forgiven. For God's sake do not disappoint me.

It will kill me if you do."

I promised to bring Jenny home without fail. But that night she was not at the meeting. In vain I searched all the neighbourhood, but found no trace of her.

In one of the saloons I met an acquaintance, a young prizefighter. He had drifted into the mission room one night and had disturbed the meeting so much that in sheer desperation I suddenly seized him by the collar and bounced him through the door with such quick despatch that it had won his profound admiration and warm friendship. I told him the object of my search. He said that Jennie was probably in some stale-beer "dive," adding that stale-beer dives were underground cellars or small rooms kept by Italians, where liquor was sold at one cent per pint, and where the most degraded wretches often gathered for a night's lodging, for which they paid two or three cents each. He volunteered to pilot me and help to search for her. It was near midnight, and the thought of venturing into such dens was not pleasant. But the promise to Jennie's mother decided me, and I said, “ Lead on, I'll follow."

"Well, mishener (missionary)," he said, as he went along, "I ain't much stuck on religion. Yer see I didn't have no mother to religious me an' I guess that's the reason. But I'd help anyone out of them dives. I ain't religious like, yer understand? Yer can't be religious an' fight, can yer? Well, that's how I makes my eat. No fight, no eat, see? So it's either eat or religion, an' as I takes naterally to eat an' don't to religion, I eats an' fights an' fights an' cats. See? I may reform some day an' git religion. I hain't got nothin' agin it nohow."

We walked rapidly through a narrow, dark street; then turned into a long alleyway leading into an area or back yard, in which stood a typical rear tenement-house. We entered a place kept by an Italian hag named Rosa. On a rude bed were lying two little Italian children. Their innocent faces were in strong

contrast to those of the bloated, blear-eyed crowd. On the foul wall hung a picture of St. Roco, who, Rosa the dive-keeper said, was "a gooda saint in Eetally."

I entered into conversation with the keeper. Her face was wrinkled, and her piercing, black, snaky eyes shone like beads. Rosa's knowledge of English was limited; but she enabled me to understand that her husband "picka de rag, my sonna he playa de harpa, makea muse," while her daughter "keppa peanutta stand an' sella banan." The one aim of the family was "to getta rich and go backa to Eetally."

In the meantime the fighter had been pulling out sleepers from under the seats and scanning their faces. At last, crouching in a corner, was found the child of many prayers. Aroused from her stupor I found the spirit of the previous evening had fled. In vain I pleaded with her to return home, and earnestly spoke of her gray-haired mother so anxiously waiting her return, willing to forgive all. But she would not go, making the excuse that "she had no shoes," hers having been stolen while she slept. The fighter went out and soon returned with an old worn-out pair he had begged, borrowed, or stolen. Still she refused to go. A policeman, who had meantime stepped in to see what was going on and had listened to my appeal, now joined us in urging her to go home. He said, "You had better go; you know if you stay around here likely as not I'll be ordering the dead-waggon for you, and you'll be carted off and dumped in the Morgue and buried in Potter's Field." This had no effect. Finally, losing patience, he gave her a poke with his club, saying. "Get out o' here. You've got a good chance. If you don't take it I'll club the life out o' you if I ever catch you on my beat again."

• Once on the street she became more tractable but more despondent, saying, "It's no use; it's no use."

The fighter, who had become intensely interested, exclaimed: "What yer want to do is to brace up an' go home, an' do de straight thing. Don't give in. You'll get along. Don't it say, mishener, that the Lord will percure? I ain't religious much meself, but I think it does. For when I was a doin' ten days on de island a lady gave me a track that said something like that on it."

us.

At length, though very reluctantly, she consented to go with We started for her home, reaching there about three o'clock. All was dark, but we groped our way to the top of the house, to her mother's door. The poor woman, worn out with watching, had fallen asleep, but woke at our rap. She told us to go into the front room. We did so. Jennie had been weeping silently, but now, as the old familiar pictures on the wall became visible by the dim light of the candle, she began to sob aloud. The mother entered with a lamp in her hand. She gave one glance at the girl, then quickly stepped back, nearly dropping the lamp. "That is not my daughter," she wildly cried. "You have made a mistake. No. no, that is not my Jennie. It can't be." She covered her face with her hands and sank to the floor beneath

the burden of her grief. "Yes, mother, it is your Jennie, your poor, lost Jennie. Don't you know me? There's Willie's picture, and that's Charlie's," she said, pointing to some photographs on the wall. "I am your Jennie. Oh, forgive me, mother, forgive me." With this cry for pardon she fell sobbing at her mother's feet.

When mother and daughter sat side by side on the sofa, the black tresses of the daughter resting on the silver-white locks of the mother, and tears were rolling down both faces. After a prayer we left. The fighter said, as we reached the street, "Two doses of this kind of biz would fix me sure. I'd have to git religion if I starved. I think if I did I'd be one of them what do yer call 'em,-Eve angelists? I'd hold meetins in de te-a-ters an' git in all de boys and toughs like me. See? I might jine yer yit. Anyhow I hain't got nothin' agin yer Good night."

The call next day at Jennie's home was one of many pleasant visits that finally led her to Jesus, and both mother and daughter joined a little church just started, and became followers and workers for the "Mighty to save."

ABIDE WITH US.

BY ANNIE CLARKE.

ABIDE with us, the sombre shadows gather,
The light fades to the past;

The chilling gloom of doubt is all around us,
And night has come, at last!

We need Thee in life's day-time, when the sunlight

Gilds everything we see ;

For joy is only joy as Thou art with us,

All gladness comes from Thee.

But oh! we need Thee sorely when the darkness
Droops downward like a pall ;

When joy has spread her wings, her nest forsaken,
And tears like raindrops fall.

When by the grave of our dead hopes we linger,

And silence meets our cry

We look to heaven, but only see the storm-clouds ;
No stars are in the sky.

Abide with us! then darkness has no terror,
And doubt and fear shall cease;

Our deepest griefs shall all be soothed to silence,
Lulled to Thy perfect peace.

VICTORIA, B. C.

SPINDLES AND OARS.

BY ANNIE E. HOLDSWORTH.

CHAPTER IV.-A CHILD OF THE SEA.

"I'M FOR THE BIG WATTER, DAD."

I MIND of Mr. Grahame telling in the first sermon he ever preached in the totum kirkie how man grows from less to greater, putting out fresh powers and gaining new faculties till he is fully what God means him to be.

And I can remember how Kirsty took ill with the sermon. She dandered into kirk that day in a braw new gown, and couldna sit for seeing Elspeth Mackay, in the pew before her, wearing the fellow to it. But, however, she was awful bitter on the sermon afterwards; for, being servant at the manse, she aye made the most of her right to criticise the minister in the pulpit.

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"Na, na," said she; "he had no call to give oot that a man can be built up frae the puir life that floats in the jelly-fish we see whiles doon at the shore."

And, indeed, it takes a deal of faith for a woman with a tongue like Kirsty's to believe that she has grown from the dumb things that keep a silence more sorrowful-like than any other creature's cries. But David McNaughten stood by her. He wouldna be so bold as to disagree with the minister; but he had a man's wish to believe that Eve was taken out of Adam's ribs. It was the one argument he dare venture when he wrestled with Kirsty, who was for thinking woman the better man; and he was fain to hope man had had the start of the woman in life, and that they were no developed together, from lower forms.

But how should it be difficult to take humanity that way, seeing life rises everywhere, from the small to the great, from the seed to the flower and tree?

And it is the same with places.

We have in the town's library histories of Skyrle-braw

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