"JONAS JASPER, general and marine store-dealer. Best prices given, no reasonable offer refused. N.B.—Families waited upon." * Such was the sign-board that for more than forty years had swung over the entry to that old shed in Preece's Place where Jonas Jasper carried on his business. Everybody knew him, and his shop too; for he was by far the oldest inhabitant, not only of the street, but of the neighbourhood, which comprised all the poorest and lowest part of the town of Helmstone, a well-known and much-frequented watering-place on the south coast.

* N.B.—nota bene

It required some little courage to penetrate into the dismal and dirty shed afore-mentioned; but Jasper was generally to be found somewhere near the entry, behind one of those three old barrels that had stood there ever since he began business. It was an understood fact now that the barrels were not for sale.

"Why, I should be quite lost without 'em," he used to say; "they be very handy for my old back to lean against, and when I'm tired of sitting by one, why, I've got two more to choose from." And so, while the sundry heaps of rags and bones, rusty iron and empty bottles and waste paper, etc., were constantly changing owners, the barrels remained in their original position, looking almost like sentries of the establishment.

There was a small room at one end of the shed, reached by a ladder, and this served as a sleeping-place for the old man. And here, amid these surroundings, had he lived for forty years, managing somehow or other to make a living in a generally honest way.

It was a fresh, bright morning in October, and, for a wonder, a ray of sunshine had found its way into the dismal shed, where Jasper, seated against his foremost barrel, was reading a newspaper, when a child's voice aroused him.

"Please, Mr. Jasper, I've come for our goods."

The tone was familiar, and with a look of genuine pleasure Jonas turned to see little Rob Mellor standing at his side. A strange, old-fashioned child he was, though barely eight years old; but, in spite of the ragged clothes and neglected appearance, there was a wonderful attraction about the little fellow, that even Jonas had been unable to resist, ever since he first knew him, some two years before.

"Ah, Rob, is that you back again?"

"Yes, Mr. Jasper."

"Well, I was thinking only last week it was about time for you to turn up; and where's Phil, and the rest of your party?"

"Well, Mr. Jasper, father and mother are coming to-morrow, so they say, and they sent Phil and me on to get things straight; only Phil's gone to the station now to carry a bag, and he thinks he'll get threepence for that; because, you see, Mr. Jasper, we've got to keep ourselves to-day and to-morrow, and we've taken our old room down at No. 20; and so I've come for our goods."

"And where have you been this turn, eh?"

"Please, Mr. Jasper, we've tramped about as usual, through Hampshire and Wiltshire, and lately we've been fruit-picking and hopping in Surrey and Kent; and mother has sold things out of her basket, and Phil and I have sung; and so we've got along nicely. But I'm oh so glad to be back home again."

"Home, eh? And is that what you call Helmstone?"

Rob was silent for a moment, but then replied slowly,—

"Well, you see, Mr. Jasper, 'tisn't Helmstone so much as you and the Mission Hall."

Jasper laughed.

"A queer mixture," said he. "However, I'm real glad to see you back, Rob. Sit down a bit till I've finished my pipe, and then we'll see to your chattels."

Quickly Rob obeyed, and curling himself up against one of the barrels, sat, looking supremely happy to be once more in the company of his old friend. For they were fast friends, Rob and Jasper, in spite of the nearly seventy years that lay between them. Perhaps, if the truth were told, that child could do more with the old man than any one living. Phil, too, was a favourite, but Rob stood first in Jasper's affection; and it was a real pleasure to him when the cold weather put an end to the Mellors' wandering life, and brought them back to that wretched attic in Preece's Place which Rob had called "home."

Poor little lad! Never yet had he known the real meaning of the word. It was a hard life that he and Phil led; up and down the country those children tramped, from May to October, sleeping where they could, and depending for a livelihood on what they begged or earned by the way, or what mother sold out of her pedlar's box. They never quite understood where father got money from; sometimes he seemed to have quite a lot. But they never dared ask where it came from, and Phil was always afraid it was not honestly gained.

No one who saw Stephen Mellor could doubt that he had seen better days; and sometimes Phil, who was nearly thirteen, would ask his mother if he was dreaming, or whether he really could recall a comfortable home away in the North. But she never satisfied his curiosity—only turned the conversation, and told him he always had such strange ideas; though Phil was sure the tears came in mother's eyes when he asked her; and then she would bid him say no more.

The love between the two boys was very strong and true. Phil was Rob's hero, Rob was Phil's charge; and Jonas Jasper was the friend of both. It was a strange thing that he should have taken such a fancy to the lads, for Jonas was reckoned anything but sociable among his neighbours; yet there was an exception even to this rule, and for two years now the old man and the children had been the fastest friends. Their quaint ways amused him, and nothing pleased him better than to see them come into his shed, and curl themselves up on the ground against the barrels.

"It's so nice there are three of them," Rob would say, "because that's one each. Anybody would think you had got them on purpose for us, you know."

And so now the happy intimacy was renewed for another winter; and Rob, sitting there, telling Jonas a summer's adventures, forgot all the hardships of the past in the happiness of the present.

It was not long before Phil joined them, as glad as Rob to be there again, but in no mood to sit down.

"No, no, Mr. Jasper, not yet. I've got some shopping to do. Look here!" and opening his hand he displayed a shilling. "Wasn't it fortunate? the gentleman whose bag I carried hadn't anything smaller, except a penny. I told him I'd go for change, but his train was just off, so he gave me this. And now, Rob, you and I will invite Mr. Jasper to dinner; only, as our room is not ready, perhaps he will allow us to dine here."

Rob clapped his hands in glee; but Jonas shook his head, though a smile crossed his face, at the boy's dry speech.

"You keep what you've got," he said. "My dinner has been ready since yesterday; see here!" and reaching down a plate from a shelf that hung near, he exhibited a black pudding and a hunch of bread.

But Phil was off, and presently returned with three pieces of cold cooked fish, a loaf of bread, and a can of hot coffee; and seating himself on the ground he held up his change.

"See here, fivepence to go on with; sevenpence spent; fish threepence, coffee twopence, bread (it's stale) twopence. Who says I don't know how to go to market? Now, Mr. Jasper, you lend us a knife, and we'll begin. But first we'll thank Jesus for giving us this;" and in a moment the two boys had bared their heads, while Phil, in simple words, asked a blessing on their meal.

Jonas sat watching them with a strange expression on his face; he had seen them do the same many times before, for they would never eat a meal without giving thanks. But somehow those boys seemed the only link between him and God. He was no infidel; there was a God, for certain, but he never thought of Him, except when, as now, the lads spoke to or of Him. And it was a strange sensation, there, in that dark shed, to be, as it were, suddenly brought to think about Him, by a few simple words like that.

"You don't suppose the Almighty is any the wiser for what you've said in this hole, do you?" he asked one day. And never had he forgotten the astonished look on Phil's face.

"Why, Mr. Jasper, God is here, close by; and we needn't have spoken out loud for Him to hear."

"God is here," and Jonas looked round the shed with its dirt and disorder, as though the thought was not altogether pleasant. A God far off was on the whole preferable to a God so very near; for it was only in His power Jasper thought of Him. God in Christ, a pitying, present, loving Saviour, was altogether unknown, and so, undesired.

A merry party were the three over their dinner. Jasper had to share the fish, and then his pudding came as second course, after which they all adjourned to the far end of the shed, in search of the Mellors' furniture, which he was obliging enough to store for them during their absence. And indeed it did not take up much room—an old mattress, two or three pieces of bedding, a couple of chairs, one or two stools, some crockery, a kettle, and an old box which did duty for a table; these comprised the whole of the family possessions.

The boys were not long in carrying the lot across to the attic, which happened to be untenanted again just when they wanted it. And so, in a settled resting-place once more (and that place Helmstone), the boys were in the highest spirits; forgetful of the past, fearless for the future, living in the present joy of Jasper's friendship, and full of simple trust in a loving Saviour who always cared for them.

[CHAPTER II.]

LOOKING BACK.

FAR away from the sea front, with its fashionable crowd of visitors and pleasure-seekers, and its splendid terraces, where the wealthy and the worldly lived, there stood an old "gone-down" street (perhaps the oldest in Helmstone), with high, narrow houses on both sides, that so shaded each other as to allow very little sunshine to find its way in. But half-way down on the right-hand side there was a break in the regular row, and a new, attractive building stood out in striking contrast to its dismal surroundings. The John Street Mission Hall was indeed as bright a place as it looked, and ever since its erection, some six years before, it had been a centre of life and love and blessing. Indeed, it quite woke up the old sleepy street, for there was always something going on in one or another of its cheery rooms—mothers' meetings and men's classes, night schools, temperance gatherings, or mission services. The doors were nearly always open, and not only so, but inside the doors there was a welcome for every one who came.

As Phil expressed it one day, "At most places they'll put up with you; but at John Street they seem to want you."

Yes; Phil was right. The sinful, the weary, the wandering, the lost, were "wanted" at John Street, and every one who set foot inside the building found himself surrounded with an atmosphere of love that was difficult to resist; for the workers were men and women whose hearts God had touched, and who, through the love of Jesus to their own souls, were, like Him, full of love for sinners.

Perhaps it was a wise move to make Forbes the policeman caretaker of the premises; for although underneath the coat of blue there beat as warm and tender a heart as could be found, yet his tall, commanding presence and somewhat stern appearance had a beneficial effect; and dire mischievous or riotous, bent on disturbance, were oftentimes restrained when they remembered that the hall-keeper was a "bobby."

One great feature of the work carried on there was a free breakfast, given every Sunday morning to a certain number of destitute people, who were expected, and indeed almost obliged, to remain for a short gospel meeting afterwards. It was Forbes who first told the Mellor boys about it. Finding them asleep in an entry one Sunday morning, as he was going home from "night duty," he roused them, and soon heard from Phil how father and mother had "gone away yesterday, and locked the door," so that the poor lads were obliged to sleep where they could. "But we've been quite comfortable, sir; because, you see, we found an old sack, and it kept us so warm."

Rob looked rather frightened at the tall policeman who thus invaded their solitude; but Phil, who never seemed afraid of anybody, not even his father, met the constable's searching gaze with an unwavering look in those clear, truthful eyes, that were such a wonderful feature of his face.

"Humph! I should think you wouldn't mind some breakfast?"

"Indeed, sir, we should be very glad; for I'm afraid father won't be back just yet; he generally comes home after dark."

Forbes laughed at the boy's innocence, and murmured to himself, "Dark, eh? one of your night birds, I reckon;" but bidding the lads follow him, he led them, not to the police station, as Rob feared, but to the Mission Hall, where, although it was still early, some four or five people were busily engaged preparing breakfast.

With just a word to one of them, Forbes left the boys, and soon they found themselves seated by the stove, eating thick slices of bread and butter, drinking hot coffee, and supremely happy in the good fortune that had brought them there.

It was a wonderful Sunday for Phil and Rob; they stayed there nearly all day, for the "after-breakfast" service was followed by Sunday School, both morning and afternoon, and this again by an evening mission service, to all of which they remained, hearing, almost for the first time in their lives, the old, old story, of Jesus and His love. Their teacher too, how kind he was! and how interested to know all about them, and where they lived!

"And now, boys, you can come up here every evening; there will always be something going on, and you will generally find me here; I'm Mr. Armstrong, so good-bye! I shall look out for you to-morrow; and then we'll have some singing, and a talk all round."

Hand in hand they went away when the last meeting was over—away from the warmth, and the cheeriness and the love of the Mission Hall, into the coldness and dreariness and poverty of that attic room in Preece's Place. But a very real happiness was in their hearts that night, for they had heard of a Father who loved them dearly, of a Saviour who cared for them always, of a Friend who would never leave them; and in simple childlike trust they believed it all, and that night lisped their first prayer to their Father in heaven.

All this had happened two years ago now, and the long summer wanderings took the boys away from Helmstone for months together; but no sooner did winter put an end to their journeys, and bring them back, than Phil and Rob would be found at the Mission Hall the very first night of their return.

Sharp beyond their years, they had learned a great deal when there. God was to them so very real. But this had come home to the boys in different ways. The absorbing thought in Phil's mind was God's intense hatred of and detection of sin, in every shape and form; while to Rob, God in His wonderful constant personal love was his constant joy. So they helped each other, and Phil's tender conscience was often a safeguard to Rob, while his simple confidence in the love of Jesus was a comfort to his elder brother.

But there was one great and mutual trouble: never yet had they succeeded in persuading Jonas Jasper to go with them to John Street.

"Not yet, boys, not yet; maybe I'll go one day, but it isn't much in my line."

This was always his answer, and the lads were discouraged.

But they had told Mr. Armstrong about it, and he was going to pray that God would bring him, and they were to pray about it too; and so it was quite certain Jasper would come before long.

As to their father, it was no use to ask him; he only swore if they mentioned it. But there was one comfort; he didn't hinder their going, only they weren't to bother him about it. Mother had been once or twice, and said it was all very nice; but somehow nothing seemed to give her pleasure or pain. There was a settled, cold, hopeless, indifferent air about her, that seemed to tell of a life out of which had been crushed all joy and hope and even feeling.

Amid these cheerless surroundings, and in this loveless home, Phil and Rob had been brought up, chilled, cursed, uncared for—nay, not that, for a Father in heaven was watching over them in infinite love, and their young lives were precious in His sight, for they were His children, and "of such is the kingdom of heaven."

[CHAPTER III.]

A NEW DISCOVERY.

A COLD, cheerless November afternoon, and the day which had begun with fog was ending in rain; but it was Sunday, and so the doors of Jonas Jasper's shed were shut, and he at the farther end was sitting over his stove, which managed to throw an almost cheerful glow on the dismal surroundings. Perhaps he could hardly have told you why he "shut shop" on Sundays. Certainly it was from no thought of keeping holy the Sabbath day, for God and His law were nothing to Jonas; but it was a comfortable thing sometimes to shut the doors, and keep warm and quiet, and in his line of business there wasn't much doing. And then, too, when nobody was peering in and out, he could count over his savings, that were so slyly stowed away in that old pickle jar up in the corner. Not that they amounted to much; but still there was enough to keep Jonas from the workhouse yet a while, even if he "retired from business," as folk say. That was the one dread of his life—lest he should end his days as a pauper. But of the afterward of those days he never thought, or of the moment when pauper and prince alike should stand before God in judgment, to give an account, not of poverty or of riches, but of how they had treated the Lord Jesus Christ, whom God had sent to save sinners.

And so this afternoon, as usual, the money had been counted and added to, and the old man had smoked his pipe, and read his newspaper, and dozed for an hour or more, when he was roused up by a knocking at the door of his shed, and Rob's voice breaking the dismal silence.

"Please, Mr. Jasper, it's Rob."

"Oh, it's you, is it?" and making his way to the door, Jonas drew the bolt, and admitted his little, ragged, shivering, dripping visitor.

"Well, Rob, what's brought you round here? I thought you'd got a tea on at your mission place?"

"So we have, Mr. Jasper; but I've got something for you, and I wanted to bring it quick. See here!" and Rob displayed from under his little jacket (hardly big enough to be any protection) a nicely illuminated text, which his teacher had given him that afternoon for his old friend. "Isn't it beautiful, Mr. Jasper? Look at the flowers all painted so lovely, and the colours?"

Jasper smiled. "My old eyes won't hurry themselves," he said. "I can't see yet. We must have more light, I reckon; put a match to the lamp, Rob, and hand down my glasses. Now then, we'll have a look. What's it all about, eh? 'He careth for you.' Humph! It's very pretty to look at; but I don't see much meaning in it."

"But teacher said I was to tell you that 'He' is God, and 'you' is Mr. Jasper, and so you were to read it, 'God careth for Mr. Jasper;' and it's out of the Bible, and so it is quite true." Having delivered his gift and his message, Rob sat down and watched his old friend.

"Oh, that's what he says, is it? Well, Rob, I think different to that. I don't think God has ever cared much about me, or I about Him. I've gone on my own way, and never harmed anybody as I know of, so He's had no cause to interfere with me; and when my time comes to go, well, I must take my chance with the rest."

"But where shall you go when your 'time comes,' Mr. Jasper?"

Jonas was silent for a moment, and then answered, "I don't see as anybody can tell, Rob, so it's no use wasting time talking about it. Just fetch down the cups, and we'll have some tea; you look as though you'd be none the worse for it."

But there was a cloud on Rob's face. "I thought you'd like that card so much," he said, "and teacher hoped you'd put it up against your wall."

"So I will, Rob, and you shall fix it where you please, if you can find any room."

In an instant the child was on his feet, trying one place after another, and finally resting it on a strip of wood just opposite the old man's chair. "That's lovely," he said; "but oh my!"

"What's the matter, Rob?"

"Doesn't it make the wall look dirty?"

Jasper glanced up, and there, truly enough, the clean white card, with God's message upon it, made everything around look almost black in contrast.

"Dear me, Rob, I didn't know my old place was so dirty, and 'tisn't long ago I gave it a touch of whitewash. Seems to me the card and the place don't agree very well. Anyhow, 'tis pretty; and now we'll have our tea, such as 'tis. But you won't have any cake here, Rob, like you would have done at the Hall."

"I'd rather be with you, Mr. Jasper, and have no cake."

"Would you now?" and a glow of pleasure shot into the old man's heart at this childish test of love. "Do you care so much for me as all that, Rob?" As he said the words, his eyes fell once more upon the text, "He careth," the very word he used himself about Rob. What had he meant by it? Love, and a desire to be with him; and could it be that God had any such feelings towards him? "He, God, careth for you, Mr. Jasper," and it was in the Bible. That was the message Rob had brought. Well, the Bible was true, for certain; he had never doubted that. But this was a staggerer! That he, Jasper, as a man, was anything to God, seemed so utterly strange and new.

"'He,' 'you,' like as if there was only the two of us," he half muttered to himself; and then for some minutes there was silence, while the child ate his tea, and the old man, pretending to eat, was lost in thought.

"God don't care about me, or I about Him," he had said a few minutes before. But there, in front of him, was God's contradiction of half the words! True enough it was of him, that he had cared nothing for God all these long years; but perhaps God had cared for him! Loved him, liked to be with him! Ay, the lads had often told him that Jesus Christ was in that dark shed of his; but he had only laughed, although perhaps the words had not been utterly lost, and sometimes, when sitting alone, the thought of God's presence—there because everywhere—would come into his mind, and make him somewhat uneasy. But now a fresh idea had struck him. Was God in that shed of his because He loved him and liked to be with him? Nay, it could not be. And yet there, in the dim light and the silence (for Rob had fallen asleep in his warm corner), old Jonas sat and thought, and the words echoed and re-echoed, "careth for you."

Somehow that word seemed to mean so much just then. God takes an interest in you; God thinks of you; God loves you. And then a memory of long years ago flashed a new light upon the words, and he recalled how once, and only once, the strong love of his man's heart had been repulsed with the words, "But I don't care for you, Jonas." Even now the memory of that early love, refused, rejected, was deep in his heart. And could it be, though he had said to God, "I don't care for You," that God still loved him, and wanted him for His own?

"Well, I don't rightly understand it," he muttered; "but there's something comfortable about it anyhow, and maybe some time I'll know better what it means. Halloa, there's some one at the door. That must be Phil, for certain."

Phil it was, who, having stayed to the tea at the Mission Hall, came in to fetch his brother home.

"I wanted him to go back to you, and have a good feed, Phil," said Jasper; "but he was minded to stay here with me, and put up his card that he brought."

Phil glanced up at the wall. "It looks nice up there," he said. "Only—" and he hesitated.

"Only what, boy?"

"How it does show up the wall all round."

"Well, that's what Rob said; it's too clean for my place."

Phil was silent for a moment, and then sitting down, he said, in that queer, old-fashioned way of his, "I think that's what God's Word generally does, Mr. Jasper; it shows us up. Mr. Armstrong said the other day that we don't find out how filthy sin makes us until we see what God says about it in His Word. Every wrong thing we do or say leaves a stain upon us, and then, when we put our lives alongside of God's Word we find out how filthy we are; and so I was thinking, you didn't know how dirty your old wall was until Rob put up the clean text. And perhaps, Mr. Jasper—" and Phil hesitated, as though afraid of saying too much.

"Well, lad, what is it?"

"Perhaps, if you were to take down your old Bible and read it sometimes, you would find out how black you are, and then Jesus would wash you in His blood, and make you quite clean." Phil ceased, almost frightened at his own boldness.

But Jasper was not offended; so Phil took courage, and went on, "You see, Mr. Jasper, you've often told us you've never wronged anybody, or cursed like father does; but there's lots of other things are wrong, that leave their marks upon us, only you haven't found them out yet; and I was thinking you had better know all about it, because, you see, it would be dreadful to die, and find it out afterwards! Now, Rob, we must be off, or father will be angry. Good-night, Mr. Jasper."

Out into the cold and the darkness went the two boys, leaving their old friend in a strangely disturbed state of mind. Rob's message and Phil's were so different; the one comforting, the other arousing. Yet both were true; but Phil's was uppermost just now. Perhaps, after all, his life in God's sight wouldn't bear inspection. Nay, deep down in his heart he knew it wouldn't. God's Word (he used to read it long ago) would "show him up," and prove him a sinner; and once more his eyes fell upon the clean text that made all around look so soiled.

But yet the very God whose word would convince him of sin was the God that "cared" for him; and so, with strangely conflicting ideas the old man blew out his lamp, and ascending the ladder that led to his bedroom, soon forgot in sleep all that perplexed him.

[CHAPTER IV.]

TROUBLED THOUGHTS.

"FATHER, it's my birthday to-day;" and Phil Mellor stole his hand into his father's, as he sat moodily over the fire one Sunday morning in December.

"Is it, Phil? Well, 'twould have been a good thing for me and you too if you'd never had a birthday."

"Oh, father!" and the boy's eyes filled with tears, "would you just as soon be without me? Don't you care one bit about me, father?"

A strange look came over Stephen Mellor's face, as he glanced down at the lad kneeling beside him.

"I didn't say that, Phil; but you've had a rough time of it, and—yes, I do wish you'd never been born; not that I want to be rid of you; but when I think of what—" and then he stopped. "But there, I don't wish to think. Let me see, how old are you?"

"Thirteen, father; and I was thinking lots of boys have good times on their birthday, and presents of all sorts, and I've never had that; and so I wondered to-day if you'd let me have a birthday treat."

Stephen Mellor stared. "Treat, indeed; I don't see much likelihood of that, Phil."

"Oh yes, I could, father; something I want so much; and you can do it for me."

"Out with it, then. What is it?"

"Oh, father, will you come up to the Mission Hall to-night?" And Phil took both his father's hands, and looked pleadingly into the troubled, restless face before him.

For a moment there was a struggle. In his sober moments Mellor had a father's heart, and just now it was rather drawn out to the bright-faced boy before him, whose life he had made so sad. Surely it was a little thing to do, and the Mission Hall folk had been kind to the lads. Why shouldn't he go for once? He'd never done much to give his boys pleasure yet. Phil's birthday!

How well he remembered the day he was born, in that comfortable home away in the North, when he was a well-to-do man, earning a good salary, and living in ease! But now—and he glanced round the wretched room, with its miserable belongings—at his boy, with the ragged, shabby clothes—at himself. Ay, that was the worst look of all; for it was he, Stephen Mellor, who, by his own sin and folly, had brought all this want and misery on his wife and boys. And as he sat there, crushed and hopeless, the tears forced themselves down between his fingers and on to Phil's hand.

The boy was startled. "Why, father, what is it? Are you ill?"

"No, Phil, no; don't talk to me. Yes, I'll go with you to-night; anywhere for a change;" and the man rose from his seat, and walked restlessly to and fro.

And so the cherished desire of Phil and Rob was fulfilled at last, and that same evening Stephen Mellor was seen in the Mission Hall, sitting on the very back seat in the farthest corner, between his two boys, who with the most important air were pointing out everybody and everything.

But just as the service commenced Mellor gave a sudden start, as he saw a policeman enter the room and make straight for the corner in which he sat.

"Phil, why is that man corning here? What does he want?"

"Why, father, it's only Mr. Forbes. He lives close here, and takes care of the place, and he's just going to shut the window."

"Are you sure, Phil?" And though reassured when he saw Forbes give a kindly nod to the boys and pass on, it was yet some time before he recovered himself sufficiently to pay any heed to the service.

Hymns were sung, prayers offered, and Scripture read, without much effect upon him. But then a tall, earnest-looking man ascended the platform, and in a clear voice said, "I've a very short text to-night, friends, only four words; and you'll find it in Daniel v. 6, 'His thoughts troubled him.'"

In an instant Mellor was arrested, and leaning forward he gazed earnestly at the preacher, as he narrated the familiar story of Belshazzar's feast, with the mysterious writing on the wall that put so sudden an end to all the festivities, and turned the gay, light-hearted king, who had been the leader of all the merriment, into a pale, trembling, awestruck man.

"Ah, my friends, it only needs a very short message from God to put a stop to all earth's pleasures; and so it was that night when there went home to Belshazzar's heart a consciousness that he was wrong, and so 'his thoughts troubled him.'"

"I think the same might be said of a good many here to-night, and there's nothing has more power to trouble a man than his own thoughts. Poverty, pain, sorrow, all are easier to bear than an accusing conscience, a haunting memory, a condemning thought, for it's a trouble you can't get away from. Some have bad homes, and they leave them; trying situations, and they give notice; bad husbands or wives, and maybe they get a separation; but you can't get a separation from your thoughts, or give them notice to quit, for, go where you will, your thoughts go too, and you've wished you needn't think, and the cry of many a heart is, 'Oh, if I could only forget.' Perhaps you've tried to drown your thoughts in drink, but they won't be drowned; or to banish them by pleasure, but they don't go; and now to-night, in this very hall, they are troubling you. Yes, thoughts of sin committed against God or man. And shall I tell you why they trouble you? Because God is saying to you as to Israel of old, 'I know your thoughts and your works. I know the things that come into your mind, every one of them.' Ah, friends, it's because God knows what you know, that you are uneasy."

"Perhaps it is not thoughts of the past only, but of the future, when you know you will have to meet God in judgment, and you say, 'I don't like to think about death.' Well, now, I'll tell you how to get rid of these troubling thoughts. Instead of keeping away from God, go and tell Him all about it. You see, He won't be surprised at any startling revelations of evil, because He knows it all now; only, before He can help you, you must take Him into your confidence, and, oh! you will find Him a friend indeed. Your sin against Himself He will forgive, for 'if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us'; and won't it be better to get rid of it by confession than to seek to cover it up? And if I have wronged my neighbour, there must be confession to him too. God's Word is very plain about this. He won't forgive unless we ask forgiveness also from the one whom we have wronged; and so, by confession to God and man, there will come pardon for all that is past, and your thoughts will cease to trouble you."

"You see, the writing on the wall didn't trouble Daniel one bit, but he was the only one in that vast assembly who was at rest. And why? He was a sinner indeed, but a forgiven sinner. And so, my friends, it may be with you. And then God's messages shall no more alarm you, not even when the last one comes to bid you meet your God, for, washed in the blood of Jesus, you will be ready to meet Him without fear."

"But one word in closing. God knows your thoughts, but do you know His? Oh, listen. 'I know the thoughts that I think towards you, saith the Lord; thoughts of peace, and not of evil.' Yes, however black your past may be with sin, God has thoughts of peace about it; for Jesus has made peace by the blood of His cross, and He offers that peace to you now. Peace for your conscience, peace for your heart. Will you accept it? Will you come to Him as a poor sinner for whom Jesus died? If so, He will say to you as to one of old, 'Go in peace; thy sins are forgiven thee.' 'Let not your heart be troubled.'"

For a moment there was silence ere the speaker closed in prayer, and then, while every head was bowed, the choir sang softly,—

"Sinner, now thy heart is troubled;

God is coming very near;

Do not hide that deep emotion,

Do not check that falling tear.

Oh, be saved, His grace is free; oh, be saved, He died

for thee."

"Jesus now is bending o'er thee;

Jesus, lowly, meek, and mild;

To the Friend who died to save thee

Wilt thou not be reconciled?"

"With a lowly, contrite spirit,

Bending at the Saviour's feet,

Thou may'st feel this very moment

Pardon, precious, pure, and sweet.

Oh, be saved, His grace is free; oh, be saved, He died

for thee."

The music ceased, and the meeting was closed with earnest prayer; but any who wished to stay behind were asked to do so.

"Will you stop, father?" The question came timidly from Phil.

"No; I've had enough. Let me get out of this!" and in a moment Mellor had slipped from between his boys and was gone. Then finding himself outside, he paused for a moment, as if hesitating where to go or what to do; but finally he turned up a side street, and walked with short, rapid strides up and down.

There was a tremendous struggle going on in his heart just then. The words at the Mission Hall had gone straight home. His thoughts were indeed troubling him. But how should he get rid of them—confession or concealment? For years he had tried the latter, and now once more conscience was speaking. "Make a clean breast of it to God and man." How could he? It might mean arrest, imprisonment; and yet his present life was hardly preferable. Should he? Could he? And up and down the street he paced with this tremendous struggle going on in his heart. Christ longing to save, and Satan longing to keep his slave. But the decision lay with Mellor. At last it came.

"No," he muttered to himself, "I can't face it. It's too hard. I must go on as I am!" And with this resolve he turned into the public-house at the corner, there (as Mr. Armstrong had said) to try and drown his thoughts in drink.

All unknown to Mellor, Phil had been following at a distance, sure that something unusual was at work in his father's mind, and wondering what would come of it. When he saw the swing door of the White Horse open, and his father go in, something very like a sob came from him, and sitting down on a doorstep he buried his face in his hands and burst into tears. Poor lad! His father's promise to go to the Hall had made him quite hopeful all day; but now,—'twas the old story—drink, drink, drink. Oh, would things never be different? Was life always to be as now? For some time poor Phil (brave as he generally was) gave way utterly. The harsh treatment, the wretched home, the constant struggle for existence, seemed altogether more than he could bear; but presently the church clock striking roused him, and getting up, he walked away homeward, passing the public-house in which at that moment his father sat.

He paused outside. Should he go in and fetch him? It wouldn't be the first time; and pushing the door gently, he peeped in. There sat his father, glass in hand, joining in a drunken chorus. No, 'twas no use to go. So, sadly and wearily he turned away, and with aching heart and tearful eyes made his way home.

But love awaited him there. Rob was looking out for his brother, and after a frugal supper of dry bread, the two lads lay down upon their bed, which was little more than a heap of rags, and with their arms around each other's necks, and their faces close together, forgot in sweet sleep all the sorrows and hardships of their young lives.

[CHAPTER V.]

LESSONS FROM RAGS.

"MR. JASPER, are you there?" and Rob peered anxiously into the shed, where his friend was generally to be found.

"Yes, Rob, of course; and in want of a boy to help me pick over this lot of stuff that I bought yesterday; come along."

Rob was delighted, and making his way to the back of the shed, found Jonas stooping over a heap of bottles, rags, rusty iron, bits of rope, and every other indescribable rubbish.

"Dear me, Mr. Jasper, what are you going to do with all this?"

"Sort it, Rob, and then see what can be done with it. Now just you put all the bits of iron there, and the bottles together, and the rags by themselves there, in the corner. Now we'll get to work."

For some time both were busily engaged, and too engrossed even to talk.

Jonas was the first to break the silence. "Dear me," he said, "my old back isn't so fond of stooping as it used to be; it begins to cry out now. I must rest a few minutes."

Rob looked up. "I suppose, Mr. Jasper, you are getting old."

"I suppose I am, Rob; I shall never see seventy-nine again."

The child opened his eyes. "Seventy-nine? Why, Mr. Jasper, I should think you'll soon have to die, won't you?"

"Bless the child! where do you get your talk from? Die? No. Why, there's lots of folks live to be ninety and more. Of course there's no knowing. I shall have to go when my time comes;" and as he said the words an uneasy look came over his face, that had often been there lately. Supposing he did live to be ninety or more, why, it was only putting off, not getting rid of, that meeting with God, that must come to each one sooner or later. He had not yet forgotten what Phil said about the stain that every sin left on the heart, and many an uncomfortable thought had he had about it. Once or twice he had been on the point of taking down his old Bible; but the remembrance of Phil's remarks that God's Word "showed us up," and the inner conviction of his own conscience that it would do so, made him hesitate; and so, whilst dreading its warnings, he missed its precious promises of comfort, missed the loving messages of the loving Father, who, while hating sin, yet loved the sinner, and longed to pardon and to save.

"Ah, Rob, that won't do;" and the old man woke up from his reverie. "You mustn't mix those rags. Put the white ones by themselves here, and the coloured ones in the corner."

Rob looked up astonished. "Why, Mr. Jasper, they're all so dirty and torn they can't be any good."

"Yes, they are, though; those white ones will be made into paper."

"Paper?"

"Yes, beautiful white writing paper."

This was a new idea, and stopping his work Rob sat down and looked at Jasper. "Tell me how," he said.

"Ah, that's more than I can do, Rob; only I know I sell them to a man down in High Street, and he sends them to a paper-mill, and they do all the work there. But it doesn't look as if they could come to much, does it now?"

"Would you like to know how they do it?" And a voice from the entry of the shed startled the two rag-pickers, as Forbes the policeman made his way in. "I've been watching you two," he said with a smile, "and listening to you; but you were both so busy you didn't see me."

Jasper laughed. "Rob's doing the work, and I'm doing the looking on part; but sit down, Forbes, if you can find a seat."

"I can't stay now, Jasper—my wife will have my dinner ready; but when I heard you both wondering how those dirty old rags could ever be made into clean white paper, I thought I'd step in a minute, for my father was foreman at a paper-mill, and many's the time I've gone all over the place with him, and seen how 'twas done. Just such stuff as you've got there in that heap of Rob's they take it, and break it into little tiny bits, and put it into some strong stuff—caustic, or acid, or something—and they get all the dirt out, and boil, and boil, and boil it until it's quite soft and white, and you'd never know it had been so dirty. I can't tell you all about it now, but it always sets me thinking of what the Lord will do with a sinner. Filthy as we are, He can just take us and wash away all our filth, and soften our hard hearts, and make something altogether new out of us. 'Tis very wonderful, and I don't know that we can quite understand how He does it; but you see, like the rags in the mill, the master undertakes to do it all, and he knows how and he does it, and so the Lord will undertake to wash the blackest sinner white; and He'll do it too, if we'll only let Him; and when the Lord takes a man in hand it's astonishing what He can make of him, no matter how worthless he seems to be. Like your text says that you learnt at Sunday School yesterday, Rob; can you mind it now?" And the tall policeman looked down at the little lad crouched at his feet.

Rob thought for a moment, and then clapping his hands said, "I've got it. I can say it. 'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.'"

"There now, that's just it, isn't it? Good-bye, and may we all be washed in the precious blood of Jesus!" And away walked the worthy man, with an earnest prayer in his heart that Jasper might know the cleansing power of the Saviour's blood.

Of course he had known the old man for years, but Rob's prattle about him had awakened a special interest in his heart, and often, if "on duty" in the neighbourhood, he would drop in and try to say a word or two for his Master, that might go home to Jasper's conscience. And indeed he had done so to-day; and for a long time Jasper sat, gazing at the rags, that brought such a lesson to his heart. Filthy? so was he; apparently worthless? so was he; unable to get rid of the filth? so was he. But what the rags couldn't do, and what he couldn't do, another could.

"What was that you said, Rob?"

"'Twas our text in school yesterday, Mr. Jasper."

"Is it out of the Bible?"

"Why, yes."

"Whereabouts is it, then?"

Rob shook his head. "I don't know," he said, "but perhaps I could find it;" and jumping up he reached down the old dusty book from the shelf, and opened its pages, turning them over and over, but in vain. After some minutes he put it down wearily, saying, "'Tis such a lot of reading, and I can't find it; but Phil will know, and I'll ask him, and be sure to tell you."

"All right, Rob! But anyhow you're sure it's there?"

"Oh yes, because teacher read it out of his Bible, and then he chalked it on the board for us to learn; but Phil always finds the verses himself as well. You see, he's so clever, and then he's five years older than me." And with this excuse for his inferior capacities, Rob set to work at his rags again, and Jasper to his thoughts.

Then, after all, the Bible wasn't all against a man; anyhow Rob's verse wasn't. Perhaps he needn't be afraid to read it? He'd have a look by-and-by when the child was gone, and see for himself. But now he must set to work again.

"Dear me, Rob, you're getting on first-rate, and making that big heap look quite foolish; but how about the time? Is there any dinner going for you at home, child?"

"Oh yes; soup to-day. Mr. Armstrong gave us tickets yesterday, and Phil went to fetch it when I came here; so 'tis ready now, and I'll have to go; and then it will be school time. But after, if father doesn't want me, I shall come in and finish my work."

"Father want you, eh? That doesn't happen very often, does it?"

"No, Mr. Jasper; I don't think he ever wants me myself, but you know sometimes when Phil and I go out singing, we get quite a nice bit of money given us, and father likes that. One night he made us go into a public-house, and we got more than five shillings there. But Phil says he'll never go again; and he and father had a row about it, but Phil wouldn't give in, though father said he'd thrash him. But of course we do go into the squares and terraces, and some of the people are so kind to us; and I think, you know, Mr. Jasper, that Jesus tells them we are poor and hungry, because, you see, we tell Him about it, and then He tells them; so we always get something. But, oh! I like being here best of all;" and rubbing his cheeks against the old man's knee, by way of a farewell, the child ran quickly out of the shed, and up Preece's Place, to his own home, where, as he expected, he found Phil and the soup.

Not again that day did he visit his friend; so Jasper finished his sorting alone, and then clearing up his place a bit, and shutting his doors earlier than usual (for these December nights were sharp and cold), he drew his chair close to the stove, put his lamp on the shelf just behind, and with almost trembling hands took down the Bible.

It was long years since he had opened it, and its pages were yellow and brown, not, indeed, from use, but from age; for it had been his father's before him. The book was open just as Rob had left it after his fruitless search, and surely it was not by accident, but by God's own loving arrangement, that Jasper, when he had put on his glasses, and glanced down at its pages, read, "The Book of the Prophet Isaiah."

A verse or two at the beginning he read, and murmuring, "I can't make anything of this," was just going to turn over when his eye caught the words, "Wash you, make you clean," and for a moment he stopped. "The same old story again," he muttered, but almost in the same breath there came an explanation, for there, just below, were the very words Rob had repeated, "Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." With almost a nervous clutch he held the book nearer to the lamp, to make quite sure. Yes, there they were; Rob was right, and glancing up for a moment, as if to try and think it out, his eyes fell once more on the text Rob had brought him two or three weeks before: "He careth for you."

"Well, really it seems like it," he said to himself, "if He'll do so much for anybody as to make 'em clean;" and for a long time he sat lost in thought over these two wonderful messages from God to him. "But I can't see how it comes about: I'm down here in my old shed, and the Lord's up in heaven, a mighty way away; and yet those boys often tell me He's here! Anyhow, it don't seem much like it! I wish I knew things rightly;" and Rob's words came back to him, "I suppose, Mr. Jasper, you'll soon have to die?"

It was a terrible thought; but he faced it then. "Yes; I shall have to die, and I daresay I shall be all alone in this dark place when I do die; and I'm afraid of the thought, I'm afraid to meet God; and why? Because of sin."

Yes, he knew it now; it had come to him he hardly knew how. Partly by the boys' talk, maybe; partly by God's Spirit working in his heart; and as he sat there by the dying fire and the fading light, a great fear came over him, a fear that must come to every man who thinks of God apart from Christ, and knows not that the God who hates sin is the God who so loved the sinner as to give His only begotten Son, that all through Him might be saved. Yes; the God that Jasper feared, as he sat thinking late into the night, was the God who was in Christ, reconciling the world unto Himself, not imputing their trespasses unto them.

[CHAPTER VI.]

PHIL GETS A START.

"JASPER, are the boys here?" and Forbes peered into the shed where they were so often to be found.

"No; Phil has got a day's work taking round circulars, and I expect Rob's with him. Anyhow, I haven't seen either of them this morning."

"Well, their father has been knocked down by a runaway horse, and badly hurt, I'm afraid; anyhow, his leg is broken in two places. We've taken him to the Infirmary, and I've been round to their room, but it's locked up, and the folk downstairs don't know where Mrs. Mellor has gone."

"Broken his leg, eh? That's a long job."

"Yes, three months at least, the doctor said."

"Well, Forbes, 'pon my word I don't know that it's a bad thing; he'll have to keep from the drink for certain, and then I should think his wife and boys would have a better chance without him, for what they pick up he spends."

Forbes shrugged his shoulders. "Humph! I don't know but what you're right; but there, I think Phil's fond of his father in a way. Rob's afraid of him, and no wonder, poor little chap. It seems to me you're his father, Jasper; anyhow, he spends most of his time here, according to his own accounts."

"Yes, he's always welcome to what I have, though that isn't much; and I do really look out for their coming in."

"Well, if you see either of them, or the wife, just tell them what's happened, will you? He's all safe up at the Infirmary, and they can go up as soon as they like. I've left word round at their place; but maybe they'll drop in here first."

But ill news travels fast, and as Phil and Rob were together distributing circulars in quite another part of Helmstone, the tidings reached them of their father's accident. One of the Mission Hall folk, who had seen Mellor knocked down, met the boys and told them.

"You'd better be off to see him, I should think; they'll let you in all right."

Phil hesitated. "No," he said; "I've promised to leave these circulars every one to-day, and I can't go until I've done it, or else they would say I wasn't truthful; but I'll be as quick as ever I can, and Rob shall help, and then we'll both go and see father."

And so all the afternoon Stephen Mellor lay on his bed, after his leg had been set and his injuries attended to, hardly able to realize what had happened; surrounded by strangers and suffering, and almost astonished at the longing in his heart to see either his wife or his boys come in.

"Maybe they don't know it yet," he said to himself, after looking eagerly at the opening door, which, however, only admitted the nurse. "Or perhaps, perhaps, they don't care to come; and little wonder, too! Glad to be rid of me. And here I am for I don't know how long, confound it! with nothing to do but lie here and think, think, think!" He clenched his fist almost in despair. Ah! There lay the greatest dread; the physical pain was bad enough, but the pain at the heart was far worse—those troubling thoughts that would not be banished, but that clung to him with persistence, go where he would.

Yes, the three days that had elapsed since his visit to the Mission Hall had been three wretched days, for God had been striving, and he had been resisting that Holy Spirit, who would have led him to repentance and peace. But his reverie was at last broken by the arrival of Phil, who, having finished his work, had hurried to his father. He was rather awestruck at the bandaged head and pale face lying on the pillow, and putting his hand into his father's he said quietly, "Poor father! I'm so sorry. Are you very bad?"

"Bad enough, and no mistake, Phil."

"How did it happen, father?"

Mellor put his hand to his head. "I hardly know," he said; "it seems all confused; but your policeman friend, who brought me up here, said he'd find it all out. It's all like a dream; but my leg pains me dreadful, and my head too. I don't know, but I believe the horse kicked me."

Phil put his hand over his father's aching brow, and said quietly, "Yes, it's very bad to be kicked."

Mellor winced at the words, for they recalled how the bright boy before him had more than once been kicked, not by a runaway horse, but by his own father,—maddened, indeed, through drink. And yet, now that he was suffering, Phil was ready to come with sympathy and love, just as if the cruel past had never been; he was a strange lad, and no mistake!

For more than an hour did Phil stay, trying to while away the time, and to interest the sufferer, until at last the nurse came to him and told him he must leave, but could come again on the morrow.

"Of course, father, if I get work you won't see me; because, you know, I shall have to keep the family now." He said the words laughingly, while in his heart he knew they would be better off without him; and secretly he saw a more prosperous, peaceful time during his father's enforced absence, than he had hitherto known. But of all this he said nothing, and promising that either he or his mother should come on the morrow, he went away, leaving his father once more to the unpleasant society of his thoughts.

The ward in which he lay was a small one, and the bed on either side empty, so that Mellor was left pretty much to himself; but the nurse was kind, and sat by him, talking to him, until at last, weary with pain, he fell asleep.

Phil's first errand the next morning was to his friend Forbes, to find out from him the owner of the horse that had knocked down his father. "Because, you see, Mr. Forbes, I should think he ought to do something for us, and I'm going to try; only I wish I looked more decent; you see my clothes are so very shabby." Phil looked longingly at Forbes' blue coat, with its bright buttons, and then sadly at his own patched garments. "Mother sat up last night mending my jacket," he said, half apologetically; "because, you know, rags look dreadful."

"Well, let's see, Phil, I think I could find an old waistcoat of my Tom's that would look better than yours, and a necktie too. There; now you'll do. Well, it's Mr. Cross, the news-agent down in George Street, whose horse knocked your father down; not that he was to blame, though, from all I hear, for the horse is quiet enough, they say, but took fright at a traction engine. Anyhow, you might call down, Phil, and tell your story."

So off the boy went; and after a patient waiting, found himself in the presence of Mr. Cross, one of the busiest tradesmen in Helmstone, an advertising and news-agent.

"Now, my lad, what's your business?"

In few words Phil told of his father's accident. "And I should be very much obliged, sir, if you could give me work; because, you see, I shall have to keep mother and Rob now."

"Work, eh?" and Mr. Cross looked down at the little lad beside him, with his bright honest face, that had such a wonderful attraction about it. "Work? I fancy I should have the School Board officer down on me if I took you on here. How old are you?"

"Thirteen last Sunday, sir; so you see I'm all right that way; and, oh, please, sir, take me. I'll do anything."

Mr. Cross paused. He did want a boy just then. "Is there anybody knows you?" he said.

"Oh yes, sir; Mr. Forbes, the policeman, and Mr. Jasper up at the shed in Preece's Place."

The man smiled at Phil's two references. "Known to the police, eh?" he said.

"And there's Mr. Armstrong, sir, my teacher up at the Mission Hall in John Street, he can tell you all about me, and he lives up in Sydney Square."

"Mr. Armstrong the lawyer? I know him. Well, you can call round to-morrow morning at nine o'clock, and then I'll see what I can do for you, if he gives you a good character; but you must tidy yourself up a bit."

Phil looked despondent. "I'm afraid I can't, sir; these are all the clothes I have, and mother sat up last night mending them; but of course, if you take me on, sir—" and his face brightened at the thought—"I shall soon be able to buy some, and then I'll look respectable." And away he bounded in high spirits, confident that Mr. Armstrong would speak well of him. He was not mistaken, Mr. Armstrong's recommendation was good indeed.

"I believe he's perfectly straightforward and genuine, Mr. Cross; I've known him for nearly three years, and have never found him out in the smallest deception. His surroundings have been of the worst, but amidst all the lad has been kept true and honest; and I don't believe you'll ever regret taking him; and I should be glad to know he had work."

And so the next morning, when Phil presented himself punctually at nine o'clock, with face and hands as clean as soap and water could make them, the foreman met him with the welcome news that Mr. Cross would give him a trial, and he was set to work at once; sorting old newspapers, of which, to Phil's astonished eyes, there seemed to be thousands in that large warehouse behind the shop.

And so some good had come out of Stephen Mellor's accident; for thereby the boy was rescued from the dangers of a life in the streets, and taken into good regular employment.

[CHAPTER VII.]

THE CHRISTMAS MESSAGE.

CHRISTMAS DAY had come once more, bringing not only its message of "Peace on earth" from God, but of goodwill from men to men; for into many a poor home had gone gifts to gladden, and Christmas cheer to chase away, for the time at least, some of the clouds of poverty and care that hung so heavily there.

To the Mellors it had been an unusually good time; a substantial dinner of beef and plum pudding from the Mission Hall, a present of groceries from Phil's employer, two hundredweight of coals from Mr. Armstrong, and new jackets for Phil and Rob, made by Mrs. Forbes' clever, kindly fingers, out of one of her husband's big police overcoats, all combined to make the day a very happy one; and though there was genuine regret that the father was upon a suffering bed, yet both to wife and children Stephen Mellor's absence was undoubtedly a source of peace.

The week that had elapsed since his accident had been a week of unusual quietness and comfort in the home. To Rob, the chief joy of Christmas Day lay in a surprise that he had for Mr. Jasper; for not only had the Mission Hall folk sent an ample supply of dinner to the Mellors, but, in response to Rob's earnest pleadings, a good basinful of beef, potatoes and pudding had been given him for his old friend; and no sooner had Rob swallowed the last mouthful of his own dinner, than Jasper's portion, which had been carefully put close to the fire to keep warm must be taken round.

As fast as his little legs could carry him Rob speeded down Preece's Place with his precious burden. The shed was soon reached, and in response to Rob's knock Jasper appeared at the door.

"Halloa, Rob, I thought Christmas Day was a sort of stay-at-home day to family folk like you. What's brought you here?"

But Rob was too excited to say much, until, having put the basin on the table, and taken off the newspaper wherewith he had covered and hidden the dinner, he turned round and gasped out, "There!"

Jasper was fairly surprised. "Why, where has this sprung from?" he said. "Have you and Phil been stinting yourselves to give your old friend a taste of Christmas fare?"

"No, Mr. Jasper; our Mr. Armstrong sent it to you, every bit; only I didn't want you to know about it until 'twas all here." And the child stood beaming with delight at his friend's pleasant surprise.

"Ah, but I guess if Mr. Armstrong sent it, it was Rob Mellor asked for it, eh?" And tears came into the old man's eyes at this fresh proof of the child's genuine love.

"Why, yes, of course, he knows all about you, Mr. Jasper, and what a great friend you are of mine; and you know he'll be very glad to see you when you come to the Hall."

Jasper laughed. "One of these fine days, Rob, perhaps! Wait till the spring comes, and we shall see. But anyhow you must give him my very best thanks for this beautiful dinner;" and sitting down, he began to taste the goodly fare that Rob had brought, while the child crouched down at his feet, close to the stove.

"I like Christmas, Mr. Jasper, don't you?"

"Well, Rob, I like Christmas dinner, but I don't see much in the day, except that sometimes it sets a man wishing he had somebody belonging to him."

"But it's Jesus Christ's birthday."

"So I've heard say, Rob; but what of that?"

"Why, Mr. Jasper, don't you see, if He hadn't had a birthday down here, He wouldn't have ever lived down here, and then died for us that we might go to heaven. Teacher says that for a long, long time God had promised that He would send a Saviour to die for us, to save us from being punished for our sins; and then one night, in the very middle of the night, the angels brought the message that the Saviour had come; and I should think everybody was glad. Then the shepherds that the angels spoke to went off directly to see the little baby that was to grow to be a man, and then to die; and when they looked at Him, they knew that God had kept His promise, and they were so glad, because He was going to be punished instead of them; and that's why He's called a Saviour. I can find it in the Bible, if you like, because I have read it my own self; it's in the second chapter of Luke;" and Rob jumped up and reached down the old book.

"It's rather hard words," he said. "I don't know that I can read it all."

"Never mind, Rob; you leave it open there. Maybe I'll have a look at it myself by-and-by."

And when the child had gone, and he was left alone, he did "have a look at it," not only by the light of the lamp that burned at his side, but by the light of God's Holy Spirit shining in his heart.

That light had indeed of late been making manifest the evil, and showing him that he was a sinner; but God never does His work by halves, and now the same light should reveal to him God's provision for sin—a Saviour.

Carefully did he read the Gospel narrative of the birth of Christ; the joyous message that had come from heaven to earth on that first Christmas morn. "Unto you is born this day a Saviour."

"Unto you;" but did that mean a favoured few? Nay; what said the next verse? "I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people." "All!" then that must include him—Jonas Jasper! "A Saviour which is Christ the Lord." "The Lord," why, that was God Himself; the Lord who said all the terrible things about sin was the Lord who came to be the Saviour! For the first time in his life Jonas began to see the two sides of God's heart, His hatred of sin, and His love for the sinner. He hated sin so much that He must punish it; but He loved the sinner so much that He bore the punishment for him.

For a long time the old man sat with his eyes fixed on the words, as if trying to take in their full meaning. "It's just what I want, and no mistake," he said to himself. "'A Saviour.' I shouldn't be afraid to die then, if my sins had all been punished. 'My sins'—and I used to think I wasn't a sinner, but a respectable fellow who could hold his own before God and man. Anyhow, it's a good thing I've found it out. I mind Phil said one day 'twould be a dreadful thing to find it out afterwards."

"'Tis bad enough now, but I begin to see a little hope, if God has sent a Saviour! I never used to think these things concerned me, but it seems to me now the Bible must have been written on purpose for me; anyhow it just fits me. How I wish I had started reading it before! Halloa, what's that?" and Jasper listened, as a sound of singing broke upon his ear, sweet, clear, childish voices outside somewhere.

"That's Phil and Rob, I'll be bound, come carol-singing to their old friend. What voices they've got, to be sure! No wonder they pick up something when they start that! What is it they're singing?" And before opening his door Jasper stopped to listen. They were close outside, so the words came clearly.

"Jesus, my Saviour, to Bethlehem came,

Born in a manger, to sorrow and shame;

Oh, it was wonderful, blest be His name,

"PLEASE, MR. JASPER, I'VE COME FOR OUR GOODS."

JASPER'S

OLD SHED

AND

HOW THE LIGHT SHONE IN

BY

A. M. COKER

Author of "Crookside Lads," etc.

LONDON

THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY

4 Bouverie Street & 65 St. Paul's Churchyard

CONTENTS

JASPER'S OLD SHED

[CHAPTER I.]

THE SHED AND ITS MASTER.