“i saw then in my dream that he went on thus, even until he came to the bottom, where he saw, a little out of the way, three men fast asleep, with fetters upon their heels.”—pilgrim’s progress.

the poor despised boy returned hungry and tired to a home where he was certain to meet with unkindness, where he knew that he would scarcely find the necessaries of life, and yet he returned with feelings that a monarch might have envied. the love of god was so shed abroad in his heart, that the sunshine seemed brighter, the earth looked more lovely; he felt certain that his lord would provide for him here, that every sorrow was leading to joy. he thought of the happiness of the man once possessed, when he sat clothed and in his right mind at the feet of the saviour: it was there that the pilgrim was resting now, it was there that he had laid his burden down. the fruit of the spirit is peace and joy, such joy as is the foretaste of heaven.

and the love of god must lead to love towards man. mark could feel kindly towards all his fellow-creatures

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his fervent desire was to do them some good, and let them share the happiness that he experienced. he thought of the rude inmates of his home, but without an emotion of anger; in that first hour of joy for pardoned sin there seemed no room in his heart for anything but love and compassion for those who were still in their blindness.

as mark drew near to his cottage, he came to a piece of ground overgrown with thistles, which belonged to farmer joyce. he was surprised to find there jack, madge, and ben pulling up the thistles most busily, with an energy which they seldom showed in anything but begging.

“come and work with us,” said ben; “this ground must be all cleared to-day.”

“and why to-day?” said mark.

“because farmer joyce told us this morning that when it was cleared he would give us half-a-crown.”

“you can work to-morrow.”

“ah, but to-morrow is the fair-day, and that is why we are so anxious for the money.”

“i will gladly rise early to help you to-morrow, but this day, ben, we ought not to work. the lord has commanded us to keep the sabbath holy, and we never shall be losers by obeying him.”

“here’s the pilgrim come to preach,” cried madge in a mocking tone.

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“i tell you what,” said jack, stopping a moment in his work, “you’d better mind your own business and be off; i don’t know what you have to do with us.”

“what i have to do with you!” exclaimed mark. “am i not your brother, the son of your mother? am i not ready and willing to help you, and to rise early if i am ever so much tired?”

there was such a bright, kindly look on the pale, weary face, that even jack could not possibly be offended.

“now, just listen for a moment,” continued mark; “suppose that as i was coming along i had spied under the bushes there a lion asleep that i knew would soon wake, and prowl in search of his prey, should i do right in going home and taking care of myself, barring our door so that no lion could come in, and never telling you of the danger at all?”

madge glanced half-frightened towards the bushes, but jack replied, “i should say that you were a cowardly fellow if you did.”

“what! leave us to be torn in pieces, and never give us warning of the lion?” cried ben.

“i should be a cowardly fellow indeed, and a most unfeeling brother. and shall i not tell you of your danger, when the evil one, who is as a roaring lion, is laying wait for your precious souls. as long as you are in sin you are in danger. oh, that you would turn to god and be safe!”

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“god will not punish poor children like us,” said madge, “just for working a little when we are so poor.”

“the evil one whispers the very same thing to us as he did to eve, ‘thou shalt not surely die;’ but she found, as we shall find, that though god is merciful, he is also just, and keeps his word.”

“there will be time enough to trouble ourselves about these things,” said ben.

“take care of yourself, and leave us in peace!” exclaimed jack; “we are not going to be taught by you!” and turning his back upon mark, he began to work more vigorously than ever.

mark walked up to the cottage with a slow, weary step, silently praying for those who would not listen to him. “god can touch their hearts though i cannot,” thought he. “he who had mercy on me may have mercy on them.”

never had the cottage looked more untidy or uncomfortable, or ann’s face worn an expression more gloomy and ill-tempered.

“mother,” cried mark cheerfully, “have you something to give me, my long walk has made me so hungry?”

“we’ve had dinner long ago.”

“but have you nothing left for me?”

“you should have been here in proper time. it’s all gone.”

exhausted in body, and wounded by unkindness,

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mark needed indeed the cordial of religion to prevent his spirit from sinking. but he thought of his lord, and his sufferings upon earth. “my saviour knew what it was to be weary and a-hungered—he knew what it was to be despised and rejected. if he drained the cup of sorrow, shall i refuse to taste it! if this trial were not good for me, it would not be sent.” so mark sat down patiently in a corner of the room, and thought over the sermon to cheer him.

his attention was soon attracted by ann’s giving two or three heavy sighs, as if she were in pain; and looking up, he saw a frown of suffering on her face, as she bent down and touched her ankle with her hand.

“have you hurt yourself, dear mother?” said he.

“yes; i think that i sprained my ankle this morning. dear me, how it has swelled!”

“i am so sorry!” cried mark, instantly rising. “you should put up your foot, and not tire it by moving about. there,” said he, sitting down at her feet, “rest it on my knee, and i will rub it gently. is it not more easy now?”

ann only replied by a sigh, but she let him go on, and patiently he sat there, chafing her ankle with his thin, weary fingers. he could scarcely prevent himself from falling asleep.

“that is very comfortable,” said the woman at last; “certainly it’s more than any of the others would do for their mother; they never so much as asked me how i did.

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you’re worth all the three, mark,” she added bitterly, “and little cause have you to show kindness to me. just go to that cupboard—it hurts me to move—you’ll find there some bread and cheese left.”

mark’s kindness.

mark joyfully obeyed, and never was a feast more delicious than that humble meal. never was a grace pronounced more from the depths of a grateful heart than that uttered by the poor peasant boy.