IT  was Communion Sabbath in the little church on B street. The minister had read the 26th chapter of Matthew, and now announced the hymn, "Jesus, Lover of my Soul." He read the verses slowly and distinctly, and the congregation rose to sing; but Sylvia sat in the end of the pew thinking so busily that she almost forgot where she was. "And when they had sung a hymn, they went out." Someway that verse that the minister had read would run through her mind, and she kept thinking and thinking. She remembered that the disciples, as they "went out," took their way unto "the Mount of Olives"—but where were these people going? That was the query in Sylvia's mind. 

The Emersons, she knew, would go to their elegant home, and find luncheon ready for them, spread in the daintiest way imaginable. They never cooked on the Sabbath. Lucy Mather and her mother would go back to her brother Ralph, who had been an invalid for nearly a year, and would minister to his wants. Lucy would lay his weary head on her lap, and while she stroked the soft waving hair, would tell him about the morning's sermon, and sing to him, perhaps. The mother, meanwhile, having prepared the simple meal, together they would sit down and enjoy with grateful hearts what the Lord had given them; for were they not all of the same mind,—"the mind which was also in Christ Jesus"? 

Her eyes wandered from pew to pew, and she saw those that she knew would go to their homes to begin anew to serve the Lord, and others who would go back to their troubles and trials determined to be more patient and to live nearer to Him who is their pattern. 

"Thou, O Christ, art all I want; 

More than all in thee I find," 

were the words that awoke her from her reverie. 

She joined in the singing of that verse very heartily, for was it not what she wanted?  Yes, more 

of Christ, or, perhaps, a deeper realization of what she already knew of him. 

They sang the doxology, the benediction was pronounced, and the congregation "went out." 

Several shook hands with Sylvia as she passed down, the aisle. In the vestibule the superintendent of the Sabbath-school invited her to join one of the Bible classes, or to take a class of little girls if she desired to teach; but Sylvia, as she thought of her duties at home, could only reply, "I will think about it." 

"Seems to me Sylvia's a long time coming home this morning. I don't see what that girl wants to go to church for when there is so much to be done; 'tis the only day father and the boys are home, and the dinner's to be cooked. Are the potatoes done, Annie? Seems to me you'd better set the table, and we'll eat; she can have what's left." 

"I don't know how many to set the table for," said Annie, after she had looked to the potatoes and slammed things around a good deal; "after this she can set the table 'fore she goes." 

"Don't you forget me," said Jack, who had overheard the conversation. "If you don't hurry up, there won't be much left; I'm as hungry as a bear now. I'll count for you, Annie. There's father, Jim, and me—that's three; mother, Sylvia, you—that's six; 'Nellie, Carrie, Ben, and the baby—that's ten. That is not so bad; over to Riley's they've got fourteen. I'll help you," and he jumped up, leaving his book on the bureau as he passed. 

Sylvia had saved him from a whipping the night before, and he had not forgotten it. Mrs. Bennett put the baby into the cradle, not very gently, and was thickening the gravy when her husband came in, 

gruffly demanding dinner. This woke up the baby again, who began to cry lustily; Jim came in and began to growl when he saw Annie dish up the potatoes with "jackets" on. 

"Take a feller half an hour to peel his 'taters 'fore he can eat them!"—and in the midst of the confusion Sylvia came in. 

"Time you were coming," said her mother as she washed Ben's face, before sitting down to the table. 

"I hope you'll stop that baby's squalling soon!" and the father seated himself at the head of the table. 

"I'll take her," said Sylvia gently, as she came out of the little bedroom where she had taken off 

her hat and shawl. "I'm not hungry; I can wait." 

"Well, I can't wait much longer," thought Jack. "I wonder what she lives on." 

Ah, well could Sylvia have said with the Master, "I have meat to eat that ye know not of," as she quietly took the baby from the crib, and walked into the sitting-room with it, where she sat rocking and singing one of the verses of a favorite hymn:— 

"The midnight may be dreary, 

And the heart be worn and weary, 

But there's no more shadow yonder, 

In the presence of the King." 

Over and over again she sang the verse, her voice floating out to the room where the family were eating. The noise at the table subsided, and unconsciously each one listened to the quiet, soft strains, so soothing in their melody. 

The mother's thoughts went back to the time when she used to attend church with her parents and 

brother, and as she contrasted those Sabbaths with the present, she too yearned for something; was 

it the presence of the King in her heart? 

The father was living over again the moments spent at the bedside of a dying mother, who with her last breath committed him to the care of the "King eternal;" and as be looked around him at his own children, he thought, "Surely, I have neglected bringing them up to love the house of the Lord "and his responsibility as a father loomed up before him. 

Sylvia cradled the baby, and as she looked at the quiet group about the table, she said within herself, "Did the Lord speak! Peace?'" 

After' the dishes were washed and she had coaxed Jack, Jim, and Annie to go to Sabbath-school,—it was too late for her to go, for the baby needed attention,—she took out her little text-book and read again her verse for the day:— 

"In quietness and confidence shall be your strength.”

Church and Home.