dropping its leaves and turning to seed is very certainly predictive of a summer to come; and just as certainly do very many of the circumstances of an old man witness to what is to be his renewal hereafter.

MARHAM.

It is as having a Redeemer, that the old man now is so different from what he was among the heathen. In Latin writings, and, I think very likley, in Greek authors also, there is hardly a thing old age is likened to, but is what is painful to think of. But, indeed, even in our modern, our Christian literature, I know few pleasant emblems of the end of life. It is as though experience and nature yielded none. And yet an old man needs the consolation of seeing his face made glorious in glorious mirrors.

AUBIN.

A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly that is as noble, in my eyes, at least. And so I have often thought. A ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and winds that might have been its wreck, have been its service. It

has come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and night; it has come by reefs and banks, that have been avoided, and past rocks, that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to the prayers of many hearts,—a delight to the owner, a joy to many a sailor's family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it. It has been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and now it is safe. But more interesting still than this is a good life, as it approaches its threescore years and ten. It began in the century before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine, and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. even a nobler sight than a ship long voyage. On a summer's ting sun is grand to look at. beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work, and the world grew light. In his midday heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And in his light, at setting, all things seem

Yes, old age is completing a long, evening, the setIn his morning

But what is all

to grow harmonious and solemn. this to the sight of a good life, in those years that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events had their happening; with the light of it, many a house has been brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown better, some of whom are now on high. And then the closing period of such a life, how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on men and their work, and on children's children and their labors. But once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this world. It will begin again, but it will be in a new earth, and under new heavens. Yes, uncle, nobler than a ship safely ending a long voyage, and sublimer than the setting sun, is the old age of a just, and kind, and useful life.

CHAPTER XL.

With stammering lips and insufficient sound,
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night,
With dream and thought and feeling interwoven,

And inly answering all the senses' round,
With octaves of a mystic depth and height,
Which step out grandly to the infinite,

From the dark edges of the sensual ground.

E. B. BROWNING.

AUBIN.

No doubt, there is in men a love of life, and so life is eternal with them, I believe. For God is too good ever to have made us love life, had he intended to have deprived us of it, ever. So I think. I have been told that it is because of my great love of life, that I am so greatly persuaded of the signs which betoken that there is a life hereafter, to be entered upon from life here. But indeed I am not self-deceived, in this way. For I love life but little, as mere living; and indeed not at all, I think. Only let me know that the end of all men is everlasting death, and any time I would go to my grave like going to bed for ever. I do not think I have ever known a moment I would not willingly have had be my last, might it have been so for ever. All

through my life there has been no book so interesting to me, but I could have laid it down at any page; no conversation so sweet, but I could have stopped in it at once; no pleasure so great, but I could have turned from it any instant, and been quite willing to die, if it might have been for ever. And I say now, that if the coffin-lid were to hide me from the universe for ever, I could ask to have it made for me to-morrow. And at once I would have it made; for I should like the sight of it, if under it thought was to torture me no more, and despair was to cease for ever.

MARHAM.

But now, through our Saviour, Jesus Christ, it is not despair which comes of loving life, but only more earnestness of faith. But perhaps, Oliver, it would be better if I could love this life less, and life immortal more. I love this life too much, I am afraid.

AUBIN.

I do not think you do, uncle; and I do not think any man can, in a wise way. My little love of life is neither excellence nor merit in me. Chiefly it results from what my life has been for never have my circumstances been what I have felt at home in. However, as a little child, I was singularly happy. And yet, at seven or eight years of age, I used to think of death often, especially in the night. I used to think of it only