The hand that grasped the welcome gift Soon felt the piercing smart, And pain dispelled the grateful smile That rayed out from the heart. Would we to spirits bowed and sad Convey a transient joy? Let not the lack of tender skill Our kindly deed alloy. E. D. IF you pursue sin for profit you will never profit by your sin. THE COST OF A BROKEN SABBATH. A bright Sabbath morning in August, a young minister was on his road to a distant parish, where he had engaged to take the services. He overtook a group of lads, evidently bent on an excursion of amusement. A boy, coming from the opposite direction, was being alternately persuaded and chaffed to give up _for once_ going to Sunday School, and join the pleasure-party instead. Just then an old man, of venerable appearance, who had watched the group from his garden, came forward and addressed the boys in the following words-- "Lads, you may think lightly _now_ of what you are doing, but Sabbath-breaking leads to ruin--has led to the gallows. Ben"--turning to the boy on his way to Sunday School--"don't be ashamed of doing right. The Lord saith, 'Them that honour Me I will honour, and they that despise Me shall be lightly esteemed.' Ah! boys, be warned in time. You cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_." Ben, strengthened thus, went on his way, regardless of the jeers of the other lads, who, turning over a stile, were quickly out of sight and hearing. The minister also went on his way, but the earnest tones and sad expression of the aged man had made a deep impression on him, and he pondered if some personal experience lay behind that solemn warning, "You cannot reckon _the cost of a broken Sabbath_." The evening of that day found him coming through the fields by a path which led hard by the door of the cottage of the old man. It had been pointed out as shorter and pleasanter than the dusty high road which he had travelled in the morning. The day had been hot, and an offer to go back to the rectory for refreshment had been declined, as it would lengthen the walk considerably; but now, tired and thirsty, he resolved to test the hospitality of the owner of the cottage. The old man sat outside his doorway, with his big Bible on a round table. The wayfarer asked for a little water to drink. He was courteously requested to enter in and rest, and a draught of milk proposed instead, unless he could wait for a cup of tea. The kettle was boiling in the back kitchen, and the little table, covered with a snowy cloth, was already set for a solitary meal, which the visitor was invited to share. He accepted the kindly offer, not sorry to have an opportunity of converse with one whose words had lingered with him through the day. Having explained how he had been occupied since passing in the early morn, he remarked-- "You live alone?"