ot that
the thoughts were new or clothed in loftier language than she was wont
to hear. It was the old but ever new theme, set forth in the old true
way, reverently and simply, by lips which--long ago touched by a coal
from the altar--had answered to the heavenly voice, "Here am I; send
me." It was God's love, intimated by many a sign and made visible by
many a token, but first and best of all by this, that "He spared not His
own Son, but gave Him up to die for us all."

No, the words were neither new nor strange; and yet they seemed to be
both to her. It was not as though she were listening to spoken words.
There seemed to be revealed to her, as in a vision, a glimpse of
mysteries into which the angels desire to look. Her eyes were open to
see God's plan of salvation in its glorious completeness, Christ's
finished work in all its suitableness and sufficiency, His grace in all
its fullness and freeness. Oh, that wondrous grace! Angels gaze from
afar, while ascribing to its Author greatness and power and glory. But
the redeemed have a higher and more thrilling song put into their
mouths.

"Unto Him who loved _us_, and gave Himself for _us_!" they sing; and
then and there this child had a foretaste of their unspeakable
blessedness. It was as "the chiefest among ten thousand, and altogether
lovely," that she saw Him now; and love supreme, and entire trust and
peacefulness, took possession of her heart. Very sinful, and weak and
unworthy she saw herself to be; but she saw also that the grace that can
pardon, justify, purify, and save is the more glorious on that very
account. Her sins no longer rose between her and God. They were
removed from her "as far as the east is from the west." They were cast
altogether behind His back, to be remembered against her no more for
ever.

If before to-day Christie had been one of Christ's little ones--if she
had had a place in the fold, and had now and then caught a glimpse of
the green pastures and the still waters where the "Good Shepherd" leads
His flock--it was to-day for the first time that she realised the
blessedness of her calling. Her little Bible, and her murmured prayer
night and morning, amid the sleeping children, had more than any other
thing, more than all other things together, helped her quietly and
cheerfully through the weary winter. Clinging now to one promise, and
now to another, she had never been quite without the light and help that
seemed to come