A BARREL OF FLOUR.

For the “Faith Home for Incurables” Mr. H. received, one day, five dollars.  A barrel of flour was terribly needed.  He went to a large house in New York, hoping the Lord would incline the proprietor to sell him a barrel for that sum.  He felt too poor, was not willing; and with a heavy heart, Mr. H. returned, asking the Lord what next he should do.  He called at the store of a friend, where the following conversation took place.  “Well, did you get the flour?” “I did not; they feel too poor, and I am terribly disappointed.  It is almost dark now; I have lost my time going over there, and at this hour, the flour merchants here are closed.”  “Well, Mr. ——­ called here, and I told him you were in, and on what errand you had gone to New York.  He said he would send a barrel to my store if I would send it up to the Home; and I did so, about an hour ago.”

WONDERFUL WAYS OF THE LORD IN GUIDING HIS PEOPLE.

Our missionaries move amidst the reality of scenes which religious fiction vainly strives to equal.  Remarkable proofs of genuine and vivid piety, triumphs of patience and grace, lifting their possessors above the most painful and distressing circumstances, are met with in all their explorations, and more than repay them for toil or privation.

WONDERFUL CONVERSION OF A ROMAN CATHOLIC.

A frame dwelling in an alley, two rooms on the first floor, in the smaller one a bed-ridden old colored man, who had fought the battle of life for ninety years, fifteen of them on his bed, with eyes so dimmed by age that he could not even read; and a wife who was eye, ear and solace to him, are the salient points of our first picture.

They were both earnest, exultant Christians, around whom the angels of God encamped day and night.  The wife was brought up in the West Indies, as a Catholic, but her ideas of religion consisted mostly in counting beads on a rosary.  After coming to Brooklyn, she became a servant in the family of a well-known naval officer, and was always a favorite on account of her vivacity.  One day, a young painter who was working there, and proved to be one of the Christians whose light shines for all in the house, spoke to her, and invited her to a prayer-meeting in a Protestant chapel.  She refused, laughing; but the painter’s assurance next day, that she had been prayed for in that meeting, made her restless, uneasy and sick.  In a few days, she was confined to her bed and pronounced by some doctors, a victim to consumption.  One, more sagacious than the rest, said her trouble was of the mind, not the body, and a minister would be better than a doctor.