though God had smitten you dead, and friends had been summoned to your funeral. Laden with sin, as all of us are who have arrived at mature years, that was just what might have been expected, and what would assuredly happen did not infinite mercy prevent. But did it never occur to you, how dreadful sin must appear in the sight of God, when even that young child of yours paid the awful penalty? The wages of sin is death. Did it never occur to you, that if there were nothing inconsistent in divine goodness and justice sending disease and death upon that little one, what must be your own condition, should you die impenitent and be summoned into the presence of the Judge with all your guilt upon your head? Did it never occur to you, what additional misery shall be yours in the place of perdition, when you remember there, that you have a darling child in heaven, and that had you profited by the lesson which its premature death was intended to teach, you might yourselves have been with it, and with the other glorified inhabitants, singing the high praises of our God? By the memory of that child so dear to you; by the value of your own immortal souls which are in danger of perishing; by the terrors of the day of judgment, when each one of us must give an account

of himself unto God; and by the precious blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin, I beseech you now to repent and to accept the overtures of divine compassion. Mercy there is for you still, much as you have hitherto hardened your hearts and despised the chastisements of Jehovah. Flee, without delay, to the Shepherd and Bishop of your souls, and surrender yourselves freely unto Him. Then it will be in your power to say, with the bereaved Shunammite, "It is well;" and also to adopt the language of David, with reference to his dead son, "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."

A WORD IN SEASON.

REV. HENRY BATCHELOR, GLASGOW.

You need not ask the Prophet's question, "Is it well with the child?" The "Good Shepherd" always carries the drooping lamb in His bosom, and the last breath is the token. that it has reached the sacred and guarded fold, and that its spirit has found rest. Death to a little one is like liberating a bird to seek its native clime. Its unsoiled pinion and virgin song are for a sunnier realm. The light in

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which it is lost to thee is the radiance of the better land. For of such is the kingdom of God. But oh! parent, what of thine own soul? Hast thou one so near to thee, one that thou thoughtest inseparable from thy life and love, in heaven? Are the little feet touching the blissful shore that thou shalt never tread? Is its ear filled with sounds that shall never come to thine? Is its young and tender form lustrous with a glory which shall never shine on thee? Is it now looking on the face which thine eye, through all the eternal ages, shall never see?

Is thy little one so much to thee, and art thou less to God? "We are His offspring." The Great Teacher enjoined, "When ye pray, say, our Father." Ye have a place in the paternal love of God. Thy burdens are His care. An imperilled soul is more to Him than all his vast dominions. He has taken to Himself the little life so precious to thee, to draw thee after. This is God's most loving act to thee. Many a time thou hast heard His voice, and didst not heed it. He gave His only-begotten Son to agony and death for thee, and it touched thee not; now, He has taken thine own loved one from thee. It is not the first time that a little golden head has attracted hoary hairs to heaven. Tiny pattering feet

trace for strong men the way to God, and lead, by silken cords of love, to His blest abode. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise." May it be thy comfort that every step in life is guiding thee to embrace thy little one again, where flowers never wither, and immortality beams in every countenance.

APPEAL TO PARENTS.

REV. WILLIAM BATHGATE, KILMARNOCK.

CHRISTIAN parent, bereaved of an infantchild, one word of appeal to you. Sore was your heart in the sad hour which struck the departure, to another home and bosom, of your darling child. Though seasons may have come and gone, though years of vicissitude may have fled since you kissed for the last time the infant-clay in its snow-white dress, or heard the first clod fall relentlessly on the coffin which contained the pride of your heart, the tear still starts, and the lip still quivers, over the name and image of your beloved infant. Sorrow not for him. He stands on the other bank of the Jordan, ready to hail you as you rise from the troubled river. He tunes his

infantine harp to give you a gladsome welcome to the mansions above. Wish him not "back again," for the wish is unkind as well as vain. Comfort yourself with the assurance that you "shall go to him." Your child is not among strangers. The angels wait on him. The Saviour carries him in His bosom. Never was he so much at home. He has the blessed fortune to advance beneath the care and education of heaven. He is in the train of the blessed Saviour, for whose glorious appearing you daily look. Oh, let your affections be fixed on the heavenly world. The Great Spirit will not charge you with idolatry should you quicken your pace to glory because your departed child wearies for your coming. God smilingly looks on the reunion of sire and son. Christless parent, bereaved of an infantchild, what shall we say to you? It is well even with the spirit of little one. This is a gratifying, gladdening truth, even to a parent bound for a dread futurity. But, then, though you are welcome to all the consolation which such a truth is fitted to impart, does not the truth flash across your benighted soul a terrible suggestion? Oh, see you not that if you die Christless as you are living Christless, your little one and you shall never meet. Should it often watch for its mother's spirit emerging

your