Mrs. Brown was a widow and very poor; it was, therefore, a humble home to which William Brown had returned; but its quiet repose and absence of outward joy suited his wounded feelings. And as he sat in the corner watching his mother at her work, or while helping her with anything he could do, he learnt many useful lessons which he had never thought of before. Youthful love is generally selfish. Willie would not have thought about his mother's loneliness, or how much she wished to have him with her, if his own wishes had been successful; and when, without speaking of her own sorrows, she soothed and comforted her son, he reproached himself for his forgetfulness of her.

"Won't you feel very dull, mother," asked Willie, "when I get off to sea again? I wish I could do anything to make you happier."

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No, Willie, I don't feel lonely; but I often fear that a great sorrow will come upon me; and I pray every day that whatever other crosses I may have, I may be spared this one."

"It's about me you pray, mother," said Willie quickly; "you're afraid I shall be wrecked, and you don't think me good enough to go to heaven. Martha once told me something like this, and you think as she does."

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Yes, Willie, you're right. But you don't know why my past sorrows would be as nothing to this; for I should think that I had failed in doing my duty as a mother. I had not given myself to God when you were young, and self-blame would bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave."

Well, mother, if I could make myself good, I would, just for your sake."

"But you never can make yourself good, Willie; you must be humble enough to ask God, for Christ's sake, to give you a new heart. You kept your promise to Martha about reading your Bible; now, I want you to pray before reading it, that you may be led to understand the true nature of conversion."

Willie was soon under sailing orders, and left the cottage amid many tears. But before going he wrote a note to Martha, telling her he did not understand her feelings, but believed that she was in the right, for his mother thought so.

It cost an effort to write these lines, for it was something new to put aside the thought of self; and small as this action seemed at the time, yet it was a pleasant memory in after-years.

In the meantime Martha's health was gradually becoming worse, but her cheerfulness increased. Her anxieties lessened, and her trust was more reliant. One especial desire was granted.

When Mrs. Hill lay on her death-bed, the greatest trial of her faith was leaving her youngest child, the impulsive, Lizzie. And Martha knew that many earnest prayers were offered that she might be a mother to her. This she had tried to be; and when her own life seemed likely to be short, her own desire was that

she might live to see her mother's prayer answered about Lizzie. She had not long to pray and wait, for Lizzie early became a devout and pious girl. Mrs. Hill would have been glad to be spared to her children; but though she was taken to her rest in heaven, her prayers for them were answered.

Martha would sometimes say to her brothers, that if her mother had lived, her prayers for her family would have been turned into praises.

The young Hills, though only lads, were very useful in the mine. Many a mother had reason to be thankful for their influence over her own boys. Sometimes misdeeds were checked at the outset, by the thought that the Hills were amongst them, and that they would not join in anything bad. When Miss Farley taught a class of rough boys in a small vestry, on a Sunday afternoon, she did not think that the influence of that teaching would, after a few years, extend through a mine, nearly three hundred miles from her home.

"They that sow in tears shall reap in joy. He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him" (Ps. cxxxvi. 5,6). Parents and teachers often sow in tears, because they see no immediate fruit from their labours; nevertheless it shall not be in vain; because He who promised is faithful.

Sometimes the case is reversed, and children have to pray and wait for their parents' conversion. James Hill, the father of this family, was led into the narrow path by the example of his children. He was a man of a few words, but one night as he sat alone with Martha, he told her what had long been in his mind. While talking with her, he said, "I haven't helped my children to do what is right, but they have helped me."

Martha had been wishing to return to Miss Farley the money she lent or gave them in their time of trouble; for she had saved a little money of her own by the things she sold; and seeing that her father took a different view of life now when thinking of the concerns of his soul, she told him her wish. He at once agreed, and the money was sent. Miss Farley handed it over to a charitable purpose, as a gift from Martha. And so Martha had at last the ineffable happiness of becoming a benefactor!

(To be continued.)

CHILDREN should be inured, as early as possible, to acts of charity and mercy. Constantine, as soon as his son could write, employed his hand in signing pardons, and delighted in conveying through his mouth all the favours he granted. A noble introduction to sovereignty, which is instituted for the happiness of mankind.

THE DYING SAILOR.

N affecting story is related of a young sailor, who died on board a whale ship in the South Atlantic. James du Boice-such was his name-had been carefully reared, but impelled by a strong love of adventure, and an ardent desire to see the world, had gone to sea. The ship had made a prosperous voyage, and was on her way home.

Of all the men in that ship, none were more elated than James. He had been on

shore at the Azores, and got a few curiosities; had been ashore at Rio and Cape Verde Islands, and clambered up the rocky sides of one of the Falkland Islands; and he felt already his mother's kiss, and heard the cordial welcome of friends at home, and saw their look of wonder, and heard their words of astonishment while he showed his shells, and related his adventures to them. He spent the whole of the middle watch in painting with enthusiastic words the anticipated meeting, and the scenes which occur at home. Poor fellow ! it was only a waking dream with him; he never saw his mother again in this world.

The next day we went to work at "stowing down" the oil. It was a rough sea, and the ship pitched heavily, so as to make it hard and dangerous work to handle the casks of oil. The last cask was stowed and filled, and in ten minutes the hatches would be down. Du Boice stood on the cask, in the main hatchway, and was passsing a few sticks of wood down amongst the water casks, when the vessel rolled deeply to the leeward, a cask of water broke from the lashings at the weather rail, and rolled into the hatchway where he stood, and in one instant both his legs above the knees were literally jammed to pieces-the bones were broken into shivers.

We took him into the steerage, and did the best we could to bind up his broken limbs, and make him comfortable; but we knew, and he knew, that his days were numbered-he must die. That night, as I sat by his berth, and watched with him, he was constantly calling, "Mother! mother!" Oh! it was heart-rending to hear him, in his piteous ravings, calling, "Mother! mother!" and then he would weep like a child because she came not. In the morning watch he grew calm, and spoke rationally again. After giving me the address of his parents, and a message for them, he slept a little while. When he awoke, he bade me go to the forecastle and open the chest, and under the till I should find the Bible. I brought it to him, and he opened it at the blank leaf, and looked long and eagerly at the name there. His mother had given it to him when he left home, and on the fly-leaf had written, "Presented to James du Boice, by his mother, Sarah du Boice."

"Now read to me," said he, handing me the book. "Where shall I read ?"

"Where it tells us how to get ready for heaven."

I felt bewildered and knew not where to read; but opening the book at random, my eye fell on the fifty-first Psalm, and I read to him from that Psalm till I came to the tenth verse, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me."

"Hold there! that is just what I want," said he. "Now, how shall I get it?"

"Pray God to give it you for Jesus' sake," I suggested.

"O yes, Jesus is the Saviour. Shipmate, it is an awful thing to die; and I've got to go. Oh, if mother was here to tell me how to get ready!" and he trembled with earnestness. After a short pause, during which he seemed to be in deep thought, he said, "Do you know of any place where it is said that such sinners as I can be saved?" I quoted 1 Tim. i. 15, "This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief." "O shipmate," said he, "that is good. Can you think of any more?" I quoted Hebrews vii. 25, "He is able to save them to the uttermost that come to God by Him, seeing He ever liveth to make intercession for them." "That's plain. Now if I only knew how to come to God." "Come like a child to its father," I suggested.

"How's that?"

"As the child feels that his father can help him in danger, so you are to feel God can help you now. And as the child trusts his father, by fleeing to him, so you must trust Jesus by casting yourself upon Him."

The

He lay a little time in earnest pleadings with God, as was evident from the few words I overheard. Then the tears began to run down his face; his eyes opened, and a bright smile played like a sunbeam over his features. "He forgives me, and I shall be saved," he said, with a voice like the sound of a flute for sweetness. day dawned-then the sun arose in regal splendour on the ocean. I held his hand in mine, and felt the death thrill; then he murmured, "He's come! He's come!" "Who has come?" said I. Jesus," he whispered, and he fell asleep.

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On sped the noble ship, till four bells in the afternoon, and then we laid the maintopsail to the mast, and buried him, closely sewed in his hammock, in the "deep, deep sea."

A LESSON OF TENDERNESS.

NE of the inspectors of Sing Sing prison was once asked how it was that he, a Wall Street lawyer, brought into sharp collision with the world, had preserved so much tenderness of heart :

"My mother was a member of the Society of Friends," said he,

"and a serious conversation she had with me when I was four or five years old has influenced my whole life. I had joined some boys who were tormenting a kitten. We chased the poor creature, and then threw stones till we killed her: when I came into the house I told my mother what we had done; she took me on her lap, and talked to me in such a moving style about my cruelty to the poor, helpless, little animal, that I sobbed as if my heart would break. Afterwards, if I were tempted to do anything unkind, she would tell me to remember how sorry I was for having hurt the poor little kitten. I never forgot that circumstance. For a long time after I could not think of it without tears. It impressed me so deeply that when I became a man I could never see a forlorn, suffering wretch run down by his fellow-beings without thinking of that hunted and pelted little animal. Even now the spectacle of that kitten, and the recollection of my dear mother's gentle lessons, come between me and the prisoners at Sing Sing, and for ever admonish me to be humane and forbearing." Behold what parents, and particularly mothers, can do!

THE LENT JEWELS.

IN schools of wisdom, all the day was spent:

His steps at eve the Rabbi homeward bent,

With homeward thoughts which dwelt upon the wife
And two fair children, who consoled his life.
She, meeting at the threshold, led him in,
And with these words preventing, did begin :
"Ever rejoicing at your wished return,
Yet do I most so now: for since this morn
I have been much perplexed and sorely tried
Upon one point, which you shall now decide.
Some years ago, a friend into my care
Some jewels gave, rich, precious gems they were ;
But having given them in my charge, this friend
Did afterwards not come for them, nor send,
But left them in my keeping for so long,
That now it seems to me almost a wrong
That he should suddenly arrive to-day,
To take those jewels, which he left, away.

What think you? Shall I freely yield them back,
And with no murmuring? so henceforth to lack
Those gems myself, which I had learned to see
Almost as mine for ever, mine in fee."

"What question can be here ?-Your own true heart

Must needs advise you of the only part.

That may be claimed again which was but lent,

And should be yielded with no discontent :

Nor surely can we find herein a wrong,

That it was left us to enjoy so long."

"Good is the word," she answered; "may we now
And evermore that it is good allow !

And rising, to an inner chamber led,

And there she showed him, stretched on one bed,
Two children pale-and he the jewels knew,
Which God had lent him, and resumed anew!