ASTENING to the end of our narrative, we pass by several intervening months, and witness again another Sabbath morning in May.

Some twenty miles from the city of Philadelphia, a sparkling little brook passes through the meadow of a beautiful farm, losing itself in a thick wood that divides the contiguous estates.

On that lovely May morning,—that serene Sabbath,—there might have been seen,—there was seen by the Omniscient eye,—a lad, some fifteen years old, walking thoughtfully along the margin of that little stream, and penetrating into the thickest part of the wood. He carried a book in his hand, and sat down close by the stream, under the shade of an old beech tree. And as he read, the tears streamed from his eyes, and his sighs indicated a burdened spirit. Indeed, his heart was very sad. He was oppressed by the consciousness of the great sinfulness of his life and heart against the holy and benevolent God. He remembered the early instructions he had received at home and in the Sabbath-school. He recalled the precious privileges he had enjoyed, and he remembered, with anguish and shame, how wickedly he had disregarded all these instructions, abused all these privileges, and sinned against his own knowledge of right, against his conscience and his God. He had long been burdened with these distressing emotions; he had often prayed, but had found little relief of his anguish, even in prayer. And now, even on this calm and beautiful Sabbath morning, there seemed to his heart a gloom in the landscape. There was a smile, he knew, upon the face of nature, but he felt that it beamed not for him. The carol of wild birds rung out sweetly around him; but the music saddened his heart yet more, for there was no inward response of gratitude and joy. The bright green of the Spring foliage and of the waving grass seemed dark and gloomy, as he gazed upon it through tearful eyes. His mourning spirit gave its own sombre interpretation to all the lovely scenes of nature. He deeply felt that he was a wretched sinner against God, and he could not see how God could be merciful to one who had so grievously transgressed. He scarcely dared to hope for the pardon of his iniquities, and was in almost utter despair of ever obtaining mercy.

The book he had taken with him in his morning walk, was "Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul." He read, carefully, the twelfth chapter in that excellent work, entitled, "The invitation to Christ of the sinner overwhelmed with a sense of the greatness of his sins." He was convinced that Jesus Christ was able to save even him; and the strong assurances of his willingness to save, "even to the uttermost," furnished in the promises of the gospel, began to dawn upon his mind as he read what seemed like a new revelation to his soul. When he read these words of Jesus, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,"—"Him that cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out,"—though he had read, or heard them read, a thousand times before, it seemed now as though they had been written expressly for him. There seemed a freshness, a force, a glorious personal adaptation in them which he had never seen before.

He turned over the leaves of the book, and the chapter on "Self Dedication" caught his eye. He read it; and when he came to the prayer with which that chapter closes, he kneeled down, with the book open before him, and solemnly, and with his whole heart, repeated that fervent prayer. It seemed to have been written on purpose to express his emotions and desires. When he had concluded, he closed the book, and remained still upon his knees, and tried, in his own language, to repeat the sentiments of that solemn act of Dedication. Never was a boy more sincere and earnest than he.

How long he prayed he did not know; but when he rose and looked round him, the sun had long passed its meridian, and the shadows of the trees were cast towards the east.

There was a delicious, joyful calm in his soul. All doubts of God's willingness to pardon and receive him had gone. A veil seemed to have been removed from the character of God. He thought of God as he had never thought before,—not as a stern and unrelenting Judge, but as a forgiving, loving Father. He saw, as he had never seen before, how sinners could be adopted as children of God, for the sake of the sufferings and sacrifice of Jesus.

His spirit was very calm, but O, how happy! He had solemnly given himself to God, pleading the merits of Jesus as the reason for his acceptance, and he believed that God had received him, pardoned his transgressions, and accepted him as one of his own children. Again and again did he throw himself on the greensward, and pour out his soul in gratitude and in prayer. It was the happiest day his life had ever known.

The whole aspect of nature seemed changed in his eyes. The gloomy shroud, that seemed to envelop it in the morning, had passed away. The smile of God seemed reflected from every sunbeam that played upon the green leaves and danced over the distant waving meadow. There was sweet melody now in the songs of the birds, in the rippling of the brook, in the hum of the bees, and in the sighing of the soft breeze. All seemed to sing of the goodness and grace of the adorable Creator. "Old things had passed away, behold all things had become new."

That lad was the Rodney Roverton of this little volume. That change was wrought by the regenerating grace of God. It was the "peace of God, that passeth all understanding," diffused through all his soul. Where "sin had abounded, grace did much more abound."

Rodney Roverton yet lives. He has been, for many years, a professed disciple of Jesus Christ, and an honored and successful minister of the Gospel.