Short Sermon.

of such feeling may often depend upon peculiarity of temperament; but we must also remember that it is only the humble and the penitent, the poor in spirit, the mourners, and the meek, that our Lord will acknowledge as His own.

3. Then, again, our Lord expects the fruits of love and charity in His disciples. We must not only do justly, but we must love mercy, and walk humbly with our God. There is a certain cold, hard, worldly kind of justice, which is very unlike the righteousness of the kingdom of heaven. There is a certain way of teaching and obeying the golden rule which our Lord would not recognise as His own. Compare the words of some men who think themselves very good Christians with the language of Christ, and you will see the wide difference between them. Hear the man who says, 'I keep the commandments; I do to other men as much as I expect other men to do to me; I ask no more than this, and I will do no less.' Compare this with the words of Jesus-'A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another;' or with the language of St. Paul-Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up . . . . beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.' A spirit of justice, so called, which is ignorant of this spirit of charity, is not one of the fruits of Christ.

4. Then these fruits are fruits of love to God, as well as to man, and their reality is shown in the life of communion with God, and of devotion to His service. We are here touching again upon what may be called more peculiarly the religious life; and I would earnestly remind you that these two spheres of our life may usefully correct and verify each other. Our love to God may properly be tested by our love to man. The true fountain of our love to man may be ascertained by examining the nature of our love to God. For there may be a kind of human benevolence and charity, which is the result of natural amiability and a good education, and which has not for its companion and support a true love of our Father in heaven. Now, surely, wherever this love of God exists there will be a true love of the Word of God, of the worship of God, and of the ordinances of the Church. If we love a human being, we like to be where he is, we like to hear him speak, and to hold communion with him. And so it must be if we love God; if we are, in the true sense of the word, religious men and women.

Let us ask how it is with us in this respect. Do we care for God's Word and worship? Do we pray in private? Are we regular and devout in public prayer? There are some persons whose love for God must be of the coldest, if we are to judge by their love of His house. Do you think that a man can be thought to be a religious man, who is quite satisfied that he has performed his religious duties if he comes to church once in a week, and, perhaps, is not very much distressed if he occasionally misses that one poor tribute of homage to his God? I am not now speaking of persons who are sick or in feeble health, but of persons who are strong and healthy. I can hardly bring myself to believe that such persons can be regarded as religious men and women, even according to the most charitable

construction of their conduct. Then there are many who are fairly regular in their attendance at the house of prayer, who never come to the Lord's Table. Such persons, however estimable they may be in many respects, cannot be regarded as Christians. I am quite aware of the excuses which are urged for them and by them. Such excuses only prove more completely the truth of my assertion. They are kept back by some secret sin, or by worldliness, or by self-will. Is their case improved by such an apology? It seems to me to be made worse. Our Lord does not find in us the fruits of obedience to His will if He finds us disobeying His plainest command-neglecting this duty, refusing this privilege.

I should have liked to mention other evidences of a true consecration of the heart to God, such as frequent and earnest private prayer, meditation on sacred subjects, willingness and liberality in helping forward the work of Christ in the world, and I must ask you to remember these things in the work of self-examination; but I will here only add one caution to those who apply the principle of the text to themselves and others. I would say to them, Be as severe as you please in applying this test to yourselves, and as charitable as possible in applying it to others; and more especially let us remember that the presence of faults, and even of conspicuous faults in others, will not prove that they are unfruitful trees, nor will the absence of such faults in ourselves prove that we are fruitful; there is nothing which men are more prone to do, than to fasten upon special faults which they discern in others, and to congratulate themselves that they are free from them, and so dash to the very illogical conclusion that others are irreligious men, and they are religious. Nothing can be more fallacious. A tree which bears only, or chiefly evil fruits, must be an evil tree; but one which is laden with rich and beautiful fruit, and here and there has bad fruit, is a good tree, the exceptions notwithstanding. But it is equally clear that the tree which, indeed, is free from bad fruit, but is also without any good fruit upon it, is a bad and worthless tree, a cumberer of the ground, fit only to be cut down and cast into the fire.

It is well that men should strive after a life of perfect innocence; but we must beware of judging harshly the faults of others, while we overlook their virtues and graces, and we must not too readily conclude that the absence of glaring faults in ourselves will be accepted by our Lord as signs of true fellowship with Him. We may require of others, especially of those who either profess to teach us or who seek our fellowship or our friendship, that they be not destitute of the fruits of the Spirit of God; but we shall, if we are true to our Lord and to our own souls, exercise a far more jealous scrutiny over ourselves, and labour and pray that our 'love may abound yet more and more in knowledge and in all judgment; that we may approve things that are excellent; that we may be sincere and without offence till the day of Christ, being filled with the fruits of righteousness, which are by Jesus Christ. unto the glory and praise of God.'

But, though Smith spoke no more of the excellence of his lad, though Johnnie was no more seen in the choir at church, and no longer held up his head as a model boy, and a favourite of Mr. Percy's, he did not turn out badly. Indeed, it was the very best thing for him when he was found out, for Smith's kindness was the means, in God's mercy, of making him truly sorry for his dishonesty, and he resolved to show his gratitude and win back his master's confidence. He did not know what his dishonesty had cost him; for Golding no longer thought, as he had lately often done, of the future day when he might, perhaps, tell Johnnie the story, or part of the story, and enjoy the boy's wonder and delight at the good luck in store for him. He would not claim a son who had been found out in thieving, and so as time passed he left off noticing or thinking of the lad, or young man as he was now, and indeed he was so wrapped up in his business that he had small time or thought for anything else.

One day, when he went into Smith's shop for a paper, he was surprised to find another young man, who came forward to serve him. "Where is Blake,?" he asked.

"Blake? he's been ill this fortnight.

Mr. Smith said, this

morning, that there was little hope of his living out the day."

"What is it?"

"Some kind of fever; I don't rightly know what."

As Golding walked down the sunny road, he felt cold and sick. To feel that what had been lying within his grasp for years, so that he had but to close his hand and it was his, was out of his reach for ever, came like a blow to him. Though from the first he had never even breathed to himself any regular plan for claiming his son, and for the last two years had scouted every thought of such a plan, and had thought himself lucky in being free from a thieving boy-yet now, when it was too late, it seemed the dearest hope of his life; and business, money, respect, were nothing in his thoughts compared to his boy,' as he now, for the first time, called him. Of late he had not noticed when Johnnie's tall figure passed the window; but now the day seemed darker and the street emptier, without him. When Mrs. Wilmot came in, to get his tea, he should hear. How was it the old gossip had never told him?

But tea-time seemed as if it would never come, and, unable to wait any longer, he left his errand-boy in charge of the shop, and set off for the narrow lane, not far off, where Mrs. Wilmot lived. It was a hot afternoon, and everything was very still, as Golding went on his way. As he came to the narrow entrance of the lane, he met some one coming out quickly-a tall young man, who nearly ran against him, as they met. It was Jack Stone, and he drew his sleeve quickly across his eyes, and said "Good day," in a choked tone, and then hurried on. "They were friends," Golding said to himself, with a pang at his heart. This is the cottage, the bedroom window is open, and the blind moved softly by the slight breeze; the door is partly open, and in the little tidy kitchen, Golding can see the old woman sitting with her Bible open before her, but she is not reading, for her spectacles are dim and her eyes too. Golding stood looking in, taking in all the scene and listening to the clock ticking on so steadily, as if Time were not so

James Golding's Boy.

soon over and Eternity so near. Such a hush in the house, the clock seemed saying "Too late, too late!" to his troubled mind. But the next moment Mrs. Wilmot saw him, and got up, and put her finger to her lips, and glanced towards the stairs leading up to the bedroom. The blood rushed back to Golding's heart, and sang and throbbed in his head; the hush, as of death, was gone, and the tone of the old clock sounded differently, it was saying "Not yet, not yet!"

"He is asleep," Mrs. Wilmot said, in a whisper, "and doctor says, please God, he'll wake up better. I'm sure I never thought as he'd see another day, but God knows best. Would you like to see him?" she asked, doubtfully.

"No, no," Golding said, quickly; "I'm glad he's better, and I hope he'll come round all right," and he went off. He was afraid of betraying himself in the sudden relief, of saying something rash and imprudent that he might regret afterwards. People grow so prudent and far-seeing in old age. He would certainly claim his son, oh yes, he would, and tell him all, some day; but he would do it calmly, not in a hurry, not in excitement; not yet, not yet.

Johnnie got well, slowly; but still, Golding said to himself, "Not yet;" he regained his strength and went back to his work, and was again constantly in Golding's sight, but still, "Not yet," and the old clock went steadily on, and the days, and weeks, and months passed. The old clock marked at last the dying moment of its old mistress, and old Mrs. Wilmot went to her rest, and Johnnie lost a kind friend and had to seek new lodgings; and Golding had to find some one else to do for him, and got a new woman who did not understand his ways, and put him about sadly. "But there! he's getting old and fidgety," he overheard her say to a neighbour. Was he getting old? Sixty-two next birthday; not so old as many a one round; not what one would call an old man, but he was not as strong as he used to be, he got easily tired and done up. Ah, dear! an old man!

Then he got a cold in the winter and had a bad cough; it hung about him and he could not get rid of it or pick up his strength, and when he lay by for a week or two, the man in charge of the shop mismanaged everything, and it was all in such a muddle when he looked into things, that it made him ill again setting them right. "Ah," Smith said, "if you'd such a lad as Johnnie now, you might lie by and spare yourself a bit, like I do, for we're not so young, Golding, as we were, neither of us."

As the spring came on and he only felt more weak and unequal to his work, his mind became gradually made up, and he let himself dwell on all the pleasure and comforts of having a son, and such an one as Johnnie, to be his right hand. He should no longer be a lonely man with no one but himself to care for. He would make it a pleasant home for Johnnie, and he would not mind then sitting by as an old man, if his place was so well filled.

One evening he was down in the Low Meadows, and as he stood where his poor wife died, his mind was finally made up, and he resolved to seek out Johnnie and tell him the whole truth, and ask his forgiveness and pity, and with this resolution he set off homewards.