Home to the city where the sun sets never, For the LORD JESUS is its sun and shield; And so I, too, began to think of home and pastoral labours once again, finding that GOD had graciously given me back some of the health which unremitting pastoral care and toil had taken from me. Yet I, too, felt loth to go-to leave the excellent ministry under which I had so many Sabbaths sat -to leave the beauteous shores and interesting people. It was a wild, stormy evening, the great waves of the tideless Mediterranean thundered upon the shingly beach, the wind howled dismally through the narrow lanes and past the strange old houses of the old quarter of the town. Muffled up, I was facing the wind side by side with one of the most honoured of British home pastors, then sojourning in Sardinia for health's sake. My companion, grayhaired, tall, above the high stature of even tall men, pushed on regardless of the gale, and turning down a narrow ruelle or minor street, stood before an old weather-beaten edifice. Passing up the common stairway, he opened a side-door, and there, lying on a bed of straw in one corner of the room, appeared a form well known to me. I could not be mistaken, -the dark lustrous eye, the massive brow, the emaciated face, the musical hollow tones that uttered the salutation, "Buon giou," in the Provençal accent. "Dear friend, I have come to thee. How art thou this night?" The old man took the wasted hand in his, and looked down upon the flushed face of the young invalid. "It is well-nigh over," he said. "I am now dying. Blessed be GOD, I am going home at last-home to JESUS." The speaker paused, utterly exhausted. My friend held a little wine to his lips; he sipped a few drops. "Are you not lonely, friend? lonely, since father, mother, sister, all have forsaken you since you embraced the Gospel truth?" A flush of indescribable emotion filled that wan cheek, a glance of holy joy flashed through his sparkling eyes, as lifting up the little Testament that lay upon his bed, he cried with rapturous ac cents "I am not alone, for JESUS is with me." The hand fell back upon the bed, the head wearily sank downwards, a few more parting breathing sighs, a slight struggle, a change over the face, and there lay the dead Sardinian shoemaker, and Evangelist of the Place Dominique—a dog mournfully licking a dead master's hand—a flickering light cast upon the rigid features. "Come," he said, "let us return." That poor young Evangelist was followed to the grave by British and Vaudois pastors. He sleeps beneath the grass upon the mount at whose base the sea unceasingly chants forth its re C quiem; but, oh! how blessed a welcome awaited that poor, despised, abandoned Sardinian, forsaken by an earthly father for loving JESUS and HIS WORD, but made a son of the LORD GOD ALMIGHTY in the home where death has never come, sin never entered, sorrow never been felt, but joy, and peace, and rest, and ecstasy for ever and ever. CHAPTER V. HOW I WAS ARRESTED IN GENOESE WATERS. It is not by any means pleasant to be arrested. In fact, the feeling is intensely disagreeable. I have experienced it once, and must say that I should not like to experience it again. Now, when one's life is practically at the mercy of every little gamin that chooses to shout out Espion after you, I recall the feelings with which in 1855 I found myself arrested on board the ill-fated Crasus, in the Genoese waters, while working among the Sardinian artillery and cavalry. Genova la Superba lay before us; the barren hills capped with forts environing the City of Palaces; the harbour crowded with the shipping of every nation, from the Sardinian man-of-war to the British collier brig. It was a glorious day, the sun glanced down right hotly on the waters, as, leaving our hotel, we crossed the strada ferrata and entered one of the gates of the port-quay. A green-coated doganiere stands on guard, watching the persons who land from the ships, and stopping any suspicious-looking individual. Here comes a tall padré, the inexorable officer accosts him and looks into his little bundle, while the prete with deprecating gestures assures him that it is a mere nothing, and, after a few more words, and a considerable amount of gesture on both sides, the padré passes on. "Una barca signore! una barca!" A flotilla of boats lie alongside one another at the quay, their owners either lying inside, or listlessly moving about, looking for a fare. "Dove é la barca del albergo," what's the name of our hotel! aye, there she is; and we step on board the hotel boat No. 1, and detach ourselves from the chain of boats, after much vociferation from their owners, gliding past ship and steamer, warp and hawser; now under the bows of some long black felucca, anon under the counter of a merchant steamer, then past a tall American barque, close by a beautifully moulded French schooner, until, at last, we gain the clearer waters near the new mole, where the British Transport Fleet was lying. As we pulled along on our port-side, a fine Sardinian screw frigate was lying, her decks crowded with seamen, and a fleet of boats around her. Inside the frigate four small war steamers were anchored, the Sardinian tricolor and pennant waving in the gentle wind which breathed in from the sea. “Tira! Tira! Antonio." The man leaned over, his paddles, and our craft shot ahead among a |