And it wasna so very long after that the kirk was crowded, full as it could hold, to hear the minister that had come back from the gates of death.

And Miss Isobel sat listening, with a bonnie light on her face that was surely no from the stained window; for the same light caught William Rafe, whether at the instrument, or in the singers' seat, where he sat with his hand over his face, and his eyes glinting through his fingers at the lassie in the manse pew.

And Kirsty always remembered that Sabbath as the one when David lost count of the pence thrown into the plate for the siller that covered it.

WAKE UP.

Respectfully dedicated to the Canadian Methodist Church.

BY W. H. ROSEVEAR.

Canadian! yes, we rejoice in our name!
Although there are ills we would fain abate ;
Need there is still for the patriot flame-
And heroic men, both in Church and State :
Dare then to vote that right may be royal!
Influence give to the purest and best!
A nation for Christ! sober and loyal,
Nail this to the mast! trust God for the rest.

Methodist! yes, in this name we delight!
Even though it was given at first in scorn,
To men whose devotion to truth and right,
Heaven will reward at eternity's morn!
Oh! for the fire that enkindled their zeal
Daily to care for the souls of the lost,-
Inspiring each prayer and fervent appeal,
So that each day was a new pentecost!
Theirs was a life-work of unceasing toil,

Churches to build up, of true living stones!
Have we not ventured to slumber awhile,
Under the spell of the world's siren tones?
Revive us, O God! re-clothe the dry bones,

Create us anew, baptize with Thy power!

Help with thy strength for the work of the hour.

Wake, Christian, wake! "we're saved to be saviours!"

And perishing millions claim thy regard ;

Know thou the pain and joy of soul-winning,

End not thy labour, till called to reward.

Up! and the blessed evangel proclaim!

"Pardon and peace, through the dear Saviour's name." MONTREAL.

A SINGER FROM THE SEA.

A CORNISH STORY.

BY AMELIA E. BARR.

Author of "The Preacher's Daughter," etc.

CHAPTER IX. -A PIECE OF MONEY AND A SONG.

"Tis but a Judas coin, though it be gold;

The price of love forsworn, 'tis full of fears
And griefs for those who dare to hold;

And leaves a stain, only washed clean with tears."

THE piece of money left by Pyn might have been a curse; no one would touch it. While the women stood in groups, talking of poor John Penelles and Denas, the men held an informal meeting around the table on which it lay.

"This be the communion table," said Jacob Trenager; "someone ought to take the money off it. And I think it be best to carry the gold to the superintendent; he will tell us what to do with it;" and after some objections, Jacob took charge of the sinful coin, and the next morning he went up the cliff to St. Penfer with it.

The preacher heard the story with an intense interest. "Jacob," he answered, "I suppose there be none so poor in your village as to feel it might do them good?"

Man, nor woman, nor child, would buy a loaf with it, sir; none of us men would let them. If Denas Penelles have gone out of the way, sir, she be a fisher's daughter, and the man and the money that beguiled her be hateful to all of us."

"Your chapel-is it not very poor?"

"Not poor enough to take the devil's coin, sir.”

61

Well, Jacob, I cannot say that I feel any more disposed to use it than you do. We know it was the wage of sin, and neither the service of God nor the poor will be the better for it. I think we will give it back to the young man. It may help to show him how his fellows regard the thing he did."

"That be the best way of all, sir. hard to find, no doubt."

But he be in London, and

"I will take it to his sister. I do not hold her quite guiltless." So Jacob threw the sovereign on the preacher's desk, and it lay on the green baize, a yellow, evil-looking thing. The Rev. William Farrar, when left alone with the unwelcome coin, looked askance at it. He did not like to see it on his desk, he had a repugnance to touch it. Then he forced himself to lift the sovereign, and by an elaborate fingering of the coin convince his intellect that he had no superstition on the subject.

* Abridged from volume of same title. Price, $1.50. Toronto: William Briggs.

He had resolved to take it to Mrs. Burrell in the afternoon, for the morning was his time for study and writing. But he found it impossible to think of his sermon. So he resolved to leave every other duty and go to Burrell Court, though it was a long walk, and the thick, misty Cornish rain had begun to fall.

Mrs. Burrell was at home, and he sent a request for an interview. Elizabeth instantly suspected that he had come on some affair relating to that wretched business. She was in trouble enough about it, but she was also proud and reticent, and not inclined to discuss Roland with a stranger.

"I am the Wesleyan preacher from St. Penfer, Mrs. Burrell." "Can I do anything for you, sir? though really, if yours is a charitable visit, I must remind you that my own church looks to me for all I can possibly afford."

"I do not come, Mrs. Burrell, to ask for money. I bring you this sovereign, which belongs to Mr. Roland Tresham."

The gold fell from his fingers, spun round a few times, and, dropping upon the polished mahogany table, made a distinct clink. "I do not understand you, Mr. Farrar."

The preacher hastened to make the circumstance more intellig ible. He related the scene at the St. Clair chapel with a dramatic force that sprang from intense feeling, and Elizabeth listened to his solemn words with angry uneasiness. Yet she made an effort to treat the affair with unconcern.

"What have I to do with the sovereign, sir?" she asked. “I am not responsible for Mr. Tresham's acts. I did my best to prevent the disgrace that has befallen the fisherman's daughter." "I think you are to blame in a great measure."

"Sir!"

"Yes. I am sure you are. You made a companion of the girl -I may say a friend."

"No, sir, not a friend. She was not my equal in any respect." "Say a companion then. You taught her how to dress, how to converse, how to carry herself above her own class. You permitted her to wander about the garden with your brother."

"I always watched them."

"You let her talk to him-you let her sing with him."

"Never but when I was present. From the first I told her what Roland was told her to mind nothing at all he said."

"If you had put a glass of cold water before a man dying of thirst, would you have been justified in telling him not to drink? You might even had added that the water contained poison; all the same he would have drunk it, and your blame it would be for putting it within his reach."

"Indeed, Mr Farrar, I will not take the blame of the creature's wickedness. It is a strange thing to be told that educating a girl and trying to lift her a step or two higher is a sin."

"It is a sin, madam, unless you persevere in it. God does not permit the rich, for their own temporary glory or convenience, to make experiments with an immortal soul, and then abandon it like a soiled glove or a game of which they have grown weary.

What you began you ought in common justice to have carried on to such perfection as was possible. No circumstances could justify you in beguiling a girl from her natural protectors and then leaving her in the midst of danger alone."

"Sir, this is my affair, not yours. I beg leave to say that you know nothing whatever of the circumstances."

"Indeed, I know a great deal about them, and I can reasonably deduce a great deal more."

"And pray, sir, what do you deduce?"

The right of Denas Penelles to have been retained as your companion. Having made a certain refinement of life necessary to her, you ought in common justice to have supplied the want you created."

"All this arose when I was on my wedding trip."

"I think you ought to have taken her with you."

"Sir!"

I think so. It was hard to be suddenly deprived of every social pleasure and refinement and sent back to a fisher's cottage to cure fish, and knot nets, and knit fishing-shirts. you have borne it?"

"Mr. Farrar, such a comparison is an insult."

How could

"I mean no insult; far from it. Even my office would give me no right to insult you. I only wish to awaken your conscience. Even yet it may take up your abandoned duty."

Perhaps you do not know that I endeavoured last week to see Denas. I wrote to her. I asked her to come and see me. I told her I wanted to talk to her about Mr. Tresham. She did not even answer my letter. I consider myself clear of the ungrateful girl -and as I am busy this morning I will be obliged to you, sir, to excuse my further attendance. Take the sovereign with you; give it to the poor."

"God will feed his poor, madam."

She made a little scornful laugh, and asked: "Do you really inquire into the character of all the money your church receives?" "No further, madam, than you inquire into the character of the visitors you receive. But if I give you a piece of gold and say, It is the price of a slain soul, or a slain body, or a slain reputation,' would you like to put it in your purse, or buy bread for your children with, or take it to church and offer it to God? I wish you good morning, Mrs. Burrell."

And Elizabeth bowed and stood watching him until the door was closed and she was alone with the coin. It offended her. It had been the cause of a most humiliating visit. She looked at it with scorn and loathing. A servant entered with a card; she took it eagerly, and pointing to the money said, "Carry it to Mr. Tresham's room and lay it upon the dressing-table." She was grateful to get it out of her sight, and very glad indeed to see the visitor who had given her such a prompt opportunity for ridding her eyes of its gleaming presence.

Thus it is that not only present but absent personalities rule us. In St. Penfer, Paul Pyn and Ann Bude, John and Joan Penelles,

the Rev. Mr. Farrar and Mrs. Burrell, were all that morning governed in some degree by Roland's evilly spent sovereign; and he, far off in London, was in the hey-day of his honeymoon with Denas They were so gay, so thoughtless and happy, that people turned to look at them as they wandered through the bazaars or stood laughing before the splendid windows in Regent Street.

At length amusements of every kind grew a little-a very little tiresome. The first glory was dimmed; the charm of freshness was duller; the unreasoning delight of ignorance a little less enthusiastic every day; and about the close of the third week Roland said one morning, "You look weary, Denasia, my darling."

I am tired, Roland-tired of going a-pleasuring.

thought anything like that could possibly happen. Ought I not to be taking lessons, learning something, doing something about my voice?"

"It is high time, love. Money melts in London like ice in summer. Suppose we go and see Signor Maria this morning." "I would like to go very much."

"Then make yourself very fine and very pretty, and let me hear if your voice is in good order to-day."

He had no fear of the future. What if the gold was low in his purse? That charmful voice was an unfailing bank from which to draw more.

Roland and Denas reached Signor Maria's in a glow of good humour and good hope. The Signor was at home and ready to receive them. He was a small, thin, dark man, with long, curling black hair and bright black eyes. He bowed to Roland and looked with marked interest into the fair, sparkling face of Denas. He was much pleased with her appearance and quite interested in her ambitions. Then he opened the piano and said, “Will monsieur play, or madame?"

Roland played and Denas sang her very best. The Signor listened attentively, and Roland was sure of an enthusiastic verdict; on the contrary, it was one of depressing qualifications. The Signor acknowledged the quality of the voice, its charmful, haunting tones-but for the opera! oh, more-very, very much more was needed. Madame must go to Italy for three years and study. She must learn the Italian language; the French; the German. Ah! then there was the acting also! Had madame histrionic power? This was indispensable for the grand opera. But in three years-perhaps four-with fine teachers, her voice might be very rich, very charming. Now it was harsh, crude, unformed.

This was undoubtedly the Signor's honest opinion, but Roland and Denas were greatly depressed by it; Denas especially so, for she had an inward conviction that he was right; she had heard the truth. It was almost two different beings that left Signor Maria's house. Silently Roland handed Denas into the waiting cab, silently he seated himself beside her.

"I am afraid I have disappointed you, Roland."