Walter Barnard; or, the Returned Prodigal.

T was Sunday evening; the services in the various places of worship were over, and the members of the congregations were hurrying through the wet streets to their homes.

The old chapel in South Street was empty, or nearly so; not quite, though, for the minister was in his vestry, and Jones, the chapel-keeper, was standing in the porch waiting to lock up for the night.

He had to wait for some time, for the minister was long in the vestry that night. At last Jones got impatient, and began to rattle his keys together, in hope that he might remind Mr. Barnard that he was keeping him, but as this had no effect he gave a cough, which said as plainly as a cough could say, "I want to be gone." Mr. Barnard heard the cough, and answered it by opening the door and saying,

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“You need not wait, Jones; I will lock up the chapel when I come away."

This was said in a mild, almost tremulous tone, and when Jones looked at his minister's face he saw that it was pale and had a sad look upon it, and he felt sorry he had been so impatient.

"No, no, sir," he said. "I am in no hurry--I won't trouble you."

But Mr. Barnard kindly insisted on his not waiting, and Jones went away, leaving the old minister to him

self.

For some little time Mr. Barnard sat in his room, his elbows resting on the table and his white head bowed down upon his hands. He was evidently in trouble, and trouble too of a deep and powerful kind.

He was a good man, was Mr. Barnard, so far as we may call any man good. He was an old Christian, and for many years had been working in his Master's vineyard, working hard and constantly; he had borne the heat and burden of the day, and now that evening was coming on-the evening of his life I mean-it found him still quietly and patiently at work.

Does it seem strange to you that so good and consistent a man should be bowed down with sorrow? If it does, let me remind you that we are none of us quite pure gold, none of us have all our dross cleaned away, and that while we have life we must expect to feel the cleansing and purifying operation going on which is sometimes so hard to bear. Nor is the Christian minister, the ambassador of Christ, free from the afflictions and troubles that come upon others. However grand and holy the calling, however elevating the work of studying and proclaiming the truths of the Bible, or however joyful the feeling that one is really living and openly working in Christ's service, there is no guarantee that even the best and noblest preacher of the truth should escape the trials common to mankind.

Mr. Barnard had proved no exception to the general

rule that" man is born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards;" he had had his share of sorrow and disappointment, and he had borne it manfully, always leaning on the arm of his God and looking to Him for strength who has said, “As thy day so shall thy strength be." But to-night he was overcome for a time with sorrow.

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He had been preaching that night a soul-stirring sermon from the parable of the Prodigal Son. He had described the wandering sinner, living riotously and sinfully apart from his father, "without God and without hope in the world;" then the repentant man, who had found that all sin is vanity, and that there is no happiness except in holiness, and who was determined to return to his father, and say, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and in thy sight, and am no more worthy to be called thy son"; and had dwelt upon the great love displayed by the father who, when his son was "yet a great way off, saw him, and had compassion on him, and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him," who had received him back to his home, and honoured him and rejoiced over him, saying, "This my son was dead, and is alive again; was lost, and is found." It was a sermon long to be remembered by many who heard it. The minister had that night seemed to call together all his eloquence, all his descriptive powers, and all the pathos of a kindly nature, and with great earnestness had invited all to come to Him who has promised to receive returning sinners. None that attended to the sermon that evening could have felt unmoved, but not all knew how much it cost the minister to preach it. Some guessed it, however, for they knew that one son of Mr. Barnard's was a prodigal, if indeed he still lived. Some knew that, years ago, that son had been a sad affliction to his Christian father; that he had cast off even the show of religion, and, after bringing disgrace upon his family, had left his home, and had never written to his father since or communicated with his friends. Those who knew this could feel what an effort their minister had made in preaching that evening's sermon.

After sitting for a time in his vestry, Mr. Barnard rose and made preparations for his return home.

"I must rouse myself," he said. "I must not give way like this; but I can't help thinking of poor Walter. Sometimes I think my prayers will be answered; but if not, it is the will of God." Saying this to himself Mr. Barnard locked the chapel door, and began wearily to pace his way to his home.

Before he had gone very far he was met by one of his district visitors, who told him that she had just come from the bedside of a sick man who was in great distress about his soul.

"Is he very ill?" asked Mr. Barnard.

It

"Very indeed, I am afraid, sir, and in much trouble. was quite distressing to hear him talk. I am afraid he has something on his mind."

"Will you give me his address, and I will call in the morning and see him," said the minister.

"It is close by, Mr. Barnard. Will you not call to-night?" "I am very tired, very tired indeed, and want to get home to rest. But yes, I will go to-night. My Master was never too tired to do a good work, and why should I decline to do what I can for Him ?"

Mr. Barnard was soon in the sick chamber. On the couch lay a poor man, evidently extremely ill and weak, and beside him the minister took his seat. He found it a sad case, though one, unfortunately, but too common. The man had met with an accident only the day before and was in great pain and distress of body and mind.

Mr. Barnard spoke kindly to the poor sufferer, and, as he appeared to have some burden on his mind, begged of him to lay his cares upon Jesus, assuring him that if he did so, God would receive him and comfort him and give him peace.

Almost unconsciously, the minister returned to the subject of his evening's discourse, and spoke of the prodigal son, and of the loving father's reception of him on his return, and urged him, if he had wandered from God to return to Him.

The man was evidently much moved by what was said, for the tears coursed down his rough cheeks, and sobs almost stayed his utterance.

At length, after offering up for and with the sick man a prayer for restoration to health of body and soul, he left him with the promise to see him again on the next day.

Alas! how little we know what a day may bring forth. The morrow found Mr. Barnard confined to his own bed; he had been overworked and over-excited on the previous day, added to which he had caught a returning home from his visit to the sick man.

severe cold in

For several days the minister was too ill to leave his room, but he constantly spoke of his friends and congregation, and several times regretted that he had not been able to keep his promise to the stranger; and at length, as the doctor assured him he would not be able to do any visiting perhaps for weeks, he deputed his wife to visit the poor man for him.

This errand of mercy Mrs. Barnard joyfully undertook. We will not here attempt to describe the interview that she had with the man, but will show what she said to her husband one day some week afterwards.

It was one morning when Mr. Barnard was feeling better, that his wife referred to the last Sunday evening's sermon that he had preached, and induced him to repeat the substance of it; and then she led him to speak of their own prodigal son, and of the joy it would be if he, their Walter, should ever be returned to them.

"Yes," said the minister, "if my prayers for Walter were answered, and I had a proof of his love to Jesus, then I could say with the old saint, 'Now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace.' But I cannot hope for this. It is twenty years since he went away; he must be dead, or we should have heard of him."

"Be not too sure, dear John," she said. It may be that God in His mercy will yet restore him to us.”

66 It may be so, but I cannot hope for it."