"I was with him to the very last, sir. It was a most triumphant death." "Indeed, Mr. Everest." "It was really, sir. It would have rejoiced your heart you had been there; I am sure it would, Mr. Gresham," said Mr. Everest. if "In what respect was poor Winter's death a triumphant one?" Mr. Gresham asked, neither denying or acquiescing in the assertion of Mr. Everest. Mr. Gresham and three of his parishioners were in the APRIL, 1868. village school-room, where some repairs and alterations were going on. There was Wicks the carpenter, who was doing the wood-work; and there was Parsons the blacksmith, who was doing the iron-work. What Everest, the tailor, had to do except the looking on, it would be hard to say. He was there, however. The fact is, he had seen his minister walking with Parsons and Wicks towards the school-room, and being desirous of a little conversation with the former, he nimbly leaped off his board, and followed. To do Everest justice, he was not anxious for a mere gossip, -nor was Mr. Gresham the one to encourage it if he had been-but he had something to impart to his minister, which he thought his minister would be pleased to hear. What that something was may be gathered from the conversation. "In what respect was Winter's death a triumphant one?" asked the minister. Well, sir, his mind was full of blessed assurance: he knew that his sins were pardoned, he said, and that he was fast going to heaven; but he wanted to go faster. If he could have been brought back from the grave's mouth, which was impossible-but if he could have been, he wouldn't; so he said." "Did the dying man speak of the ground of his hope, or his assurance?" Mr. Gresham asked. "Oh yes, sir. He said that he trusted in the Lord Jesus Christ, and him alone; that he had nothing in his own doings to look to, or trust in." "I am glad to hear that," said Mr. Gresham; "for this is as all who have any well-grounded hope must feel, not only in dying but while living. The true sentiment and feeling of every believer-of every pardoned sinneris and must be, I am an unprofitable servant; I have done only that which was my duty to do;'* or, in the words of one of our hymns and I am, as "Nothing in my hands I bring, you say, rejoiced to hear that poor Winter felt this in his last dying moments. But this does not * Luke xvii. 10. quite explain the term you used when speaking of his departure as being a triumphant death; for I have known many instances in which, though this has been the predominant feeling, and the only ground of hope-the departing saint has seemed to be tried, to the very last, by the powers of darkness; and has shrunk, so to speak, from the final conflict." "Ah! sir, I remember," said Wicks-who had heard the foregoing short dialogue, and who now, for a moment or two, suspended his work-" when Mrs. K- was on her death-bed her soul was harassed beyond measure, as it seemed, with terrible doubts and fears. And yet if ever there was a good and faithful Christian-a real, true disciple-she surely was one." "Yes, there can be no doubt of the sincerity of Mrs. K-'s piety while she lived. She was indeed an excellent woman, of whom it might be said that she was without guile, and feared the Lord above many. And yet, as you say, her death, in one sense, was anything but a triumphant one-that is to say, to outward appearance, and as far as bystanders were affected. The comforts, and encouragements, and hopes of the gospel which that humble and earnest believer had so often placed before others, seemed hidden from herself when, as we may suppose, she most needed them. It was excruciatingly sorrowful to witness, as I did, the imploring, piteous gaze of those eyes which were so soon to be closed for ever on this world, when she clasped the hand of a Christian friend and brother, and hoarsely whispered in apparent agony of mind: 'Praypray-pray!' I shall never forget that scene," added Mr. Gresham; and it seemed as though the remembrance of it cast a momentary shade of sadness over his thoughts. But we are wandering from your account of poor Winter, friend Everest," he continued. "You were speaking of his triumphant death." 66 "Well, sir," responded Mr. Everest, "I don't know that I can explain what I mean better than by saying it was just the opposite of what you have described. There Iwas no doubt nor fear at all in Winter's mind-no darkness in his soul. He kept on saying, 'Oh, I want to be there! I want to be there!' And he took hold of my hand once, only a little while before he breathed his last, and said-with such a smile on his countenance-'I wish you could see what I see, and hear what I hear; but you cannot but I shall soon be there.' And this is pretty much as he was all through his illness, by all accounts; for those who visited him said it was quite beautiful to see how ready and willing he was to die, and how he triumphed in Divine grace. It was quite plain that death had not any sting for him.” "This is quite news to me, Mr. Everest," said Mr. Gresham; "indeed, since Winter left this neighbourhood I had never heard of him till I was told of his illness and death, and then no particulars were mentioned; only that you had gone all the way to London to see him, which was kind and Christianly in you to do." "O sir, I did not go altogether on purpose to see Winter, because my business partly took me to London at that time. But if I had, what I saw and heard would have fully repaid the trouble of the journey. Was it not glorious, sir ?" Mr. Gresham hesitated for a moment to reply to this appeal. And before he had decided what answer he could give, Parsons the blacksmith, who without ceasing from his occupation had listened to his friend Everest with considerable interest, and yet not without uneasiness, broke out, though in a rather subdued tone, that is to say, considering that it was he who spoke : "I don't understand it, sir; I don't; and that's the truth." Mr. Gresham cast an inquiring glance at his warmhearted, leathern-aproned friend, but did not speak. 66 "I have heard Everest tell all this before," Parsons went on; indeed, I think I was the first that heard it from him, for he came across to see me the same night that he got back from London. But this does not signify. It signifies more (to me at least) that I am puzzled, and don't see my way out of it." "What is it that puzzles you, friend Parsons ?" Mr. Gresham asked. 66 I don't much like to say, sir; and, to tell the truth, I would rather not have been puzzled at all; and I wish I could understand it. For I feel as if my being puzzled is doing a great wrong to the blessed Saviour, and casting a doubt on the power of God's Holy Spirit. But I don't mean it so, Mr. Gresham: I don't indeed." 66 I am quite convinced you do not. And as to your perplexity-if speaking will relieve you, I do not think need hesitate." you "I think Parsons rather doubts my account of poor Winter, sir," said Everest, who seemed a little hurt: "I fancied he did not believe it, when I mentioned it to him the other day." "You are wrong, Everest; I believe every word you have been saying, quite as freely as I should believe my own eyes and ears. And that's the very thing. For if I had been in your place when you were standing by Winter's bedside, I should have been as much puzzled and troubled as I am now." "I think I understand you now, Parsons," said Mr. Gresham." 66 Well, sir, the truth is this," continued the hearty blacksmith: "Here is a man who is well known to have been a bad man. There's is no use in trying to hide that, and though it is not over charitable, perhaps, to say what is true always, it is only fair to speak it out sometimes. any rate poor Winter can't be hurt by anything I say: he is beyond that." True," said Mr. Gresham. At "He was a bad man, and was well known to be such up to the time he left this neighbourhood, sir. Indeed, there were not many ways in which his wickedness did not crop out. He was 66 Stay, friend Parsons; it is not worth while to enter into particulars," said Mr. Gresham, quietly: "it is enough, I think, to say that poor Winter's general conduct was extremely sinful-notoriously so, indeed.” "You are right, sir; and we needn't go into particulars; only it must be said that Tom Winter did a good deal of harm by his example. There are those now living, not far from us, who were led by him into the same course of profligacy which (there can be no harm in saying) brought poor Winter to an early grave. And it was only yesterday, sir, that I heard one of these very persons, who had been told of Winter's triumphant death,'-yes, sir, it is true, I heard him say, 'Oh then, if that's it, I can't do better than go on as I am going. It all comes right at last, you see,' said he, with a loud unpleasant laugh that made my heart ache. And he went on to say that the viler he made himself with his wickedness, the better chance there would be, by this account of Tom Winter, of his making a good end." "This was very shocking, Parsons," said Mr. Gresham, sorrowfully; " but it is not incredible. You know, there |