found him engaged in reading a worthless novel. To his remonstrance against such trifling, he replied, "I'm so interested in this book, I must finish it, and then I will attend to the affairs of my soul." He finished the book. He attended to the concerns of his soul-NEVER. Thousands have perished by similar seductive influences. Beware then of light and exciting reading. Look to it for yourself; and for your children, see what books they have in their hands.

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ON THE ROCK.

AN aged pilgrim, full of doubts and fears,
Trod with a trembling step the vale of tears;
Her sky was cloudy, and the flowers were few
And far between, that by her wayside grew;
The lovely prospect stretched before her gaze
Was hidden by a soft, bewildering haze;
And when she took Faith's glass, that she might see
That far-off country where she longed to be-
That "land of pure delight "-her hand so shook
That she could never gain one steadfast look,
Yet fancied that a glimpse she sometimes caught
Of glories which transcended human thought.
So Sarah travelled on till sickness came,
And sore disease opprest her aged frame;
Vainly she strove to read, with tear-dimmed eyes,
Her title clear to mansions in the skies:

She could not say, in Paul's calm words, "I KNOW
That when my earthly house dissolves below,
I have a house above, not made with hands,
Eternal as the heaven in which it stands !"
No; she could only hope that she should share
Some lowly place amongst the ransomed there.
A Christian friend who called upon her said,
When he some cheering promises had read,

What, Sarah! doubtful still, when you should be
Full of rejoicing, and from sadness free?"
"Ah, yes," she sighed; "would I could chase away
The troubled thoughts that oft my heart dismay!
But though disturbed by many a tempest-shock,
I tremble as I stand upon the Rock.

Thank God! the Rock is firm-that never moves;
The Saviour faithful and unchanging proves ;
And therefore I am safe, though joy's rich beam
May never on my drooping spirit gleam;
For none shall perish-Christ himself has said-
Who trust in Him, and in his footsteps tread."
Take comfort, timid Christian, from the thought
That Christ for you has full salvation wrought!
He is the Rock of Ages; and His grace
Is your secure, eternal resting-place;
Your faith may ebb and flow like ocean waves,
But it is CHRIST, and not your faith, which saves ;
Then turn your eye from self, and look above
All frames and feelings, to His changeless love!

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW.

(Continued from page 29.)

A FEARFUL storm had been raging for three days and nights on that wild, unsheltered coast. The shores were strewn with the remains of noble vessels, and mingled with the fallen masses of timbers, iron, sails, and cordage, were chests of all kinds and sizes, from the little cabin boy's whose first voyage this most probably was, to that of the seaman of a life time. And there to the eye of the curious everything lay exposed, the hidden treasures of years, on which the breath of home memories still lingered: saturated Bibles, well thumbed hymn-books, markers, mufflers, needle-cases, all worked by the fingers of love for the absent seafarers who now came borne in by each remorseless wave. The golden-haired laddie, the mother's darling, with a smile parting the pale, bloodless lips, as if in the last struggle sweet thoughts of the distant mother, sisters, and home, had blotted out the agonising present, and launched him happily into eternity. Then came the grey-haired sire, the unconscious widow's stay; the look of suffering which had not yet passed from the still face showed that in death thoughts of the absent were very present, and the vision of yet unrevealed sufferings in store for his dear ones made the mariner's death hard.

Ah! it was a mournful sight, and from above (for the shore at this spot lay very high) the aged widow shudderingly watched each dripping corpse that was drifted in with its dank and tangled hair wreathed with shiny seaweed; with that touching, earnest look, which bespeaks a more than passing interest in the dead, she scanned the faces of the sleepers, as if she expected to recognise in one of them her long absent son; forgetting that ere now the smooth cheek she had once so often and so fondly kissed, must be most probably covered with grisly hair. But no, she did not satisfy herself that the watched-for of years lay amongst that ghastly throng. So when night closed in, the widow betook herself to her lonely home. All that night the storm raged almost more fiercely than ever, and now and then the boom of the minute gun was heard above the din of the foaming waters. There was no rest for the widow; she trimmed her light, but for the first time it burned unsteadily, and each gust of wind threatened to extinguish it; so she was obliged to sit by the fire and attend to it; for this night above all others it must not be suffered to go out. Towards morning, worn out by fatigue and anxiety, she threw herself on her bed, and fell into a deep, heavy sleep. Very soundly she slept, so soundly that she did not hear a repeated knocking at the door. At length, tired out with his ineffectual attempts to gain admittance, the knocker entered.

There was something in the stranger's manner, in the very rais

ing of the latch, which seemed to say that the place was not quite strange to him. A tall, stalwart, weather-beaten sailor, and yet with the cautious, noiseless footstep of a sick-watcher, he approached the bed on tiptoe, and as he gazed on the worn and wasted features of the aged sleeper, great tears coursed one another down his rugged checks: sobs shook his massive frame, yet he repressed them by the force of that iron will which stamped his hard but penitent features, lest he should disturb her slumbers. Then he walked gently through the room, looking at and handling everything in it with the familiar touch of an old acquaintance. Next he went into a little room which lay to one side of the only other apartment in the cottage. He stood looking at the evidences of a mother's watching love, which surrounded him everywhere his eye rested. All was in readiness, if at any happy moment the wanderer should return. Not a speck of dust on any of its simple furniture; there hung the little looking-glass on the wall, with its garniture of dried sea-weeds, of which the former owner had been very proud; and standing on the table, a glass of fresh-gathered wild-flowers, given to the widow by one of her many friends, imparted a fresh odour to the tiny room. The bed, with its snowy sheets and spotless counterpane, invited the wearied on-looker to rest. But not yet would peaceful sleep come at his desire; conscience must be unburdened of thirty years' accumulation of sin, ere he closed his eyes, and rest.

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He went back quietly to the next room, and stood before the fire; then over the place where had once been written, "Gone to sea, the sailor wrote now, with white chalk, "Come back to his mother."

She

When the widow awoke she was a little surprised to see a man sitting at the fire-but not very much, for it was no uncommon thing for her to have sailor visitors, especially after a storm. had only thrown herself on her bed, so she was quickly up and doing, and speaking to her early visitor.

"Have you been out in the storm?" she asked. "Yes, ma'am," he replied, "I am the only man living out of a crew of thirty picked hands. When our vessel broke up on yon black rock, and we were all flung out among the breakers, I caught hold of a spar that was floating by me, and held for dear life itself. It kept me from sinking, but I was bewildered, and could not tell where to steer, and must soon have let go, if I had not seen the light in the window; it cheered me up and encouraged me, for it told me a tale that made my heart glad to know. I kept my eye fixed on its glimmer, and strove to steer to it; God blessed my efforts, and I reached land, so the first thing I did, after thanking God for my wonderful escape from the jaws of death, was to come up here, and thank her who had hung out the light in the storm."

While the sailor had been speaking, his manner was strangely agitated, and when he spoke of the little light, his voice quite failed,

and he had to turn away his face to hide the conflicting emotions that were struggling for mastery there. Yet the widow did not wonder, she thought it was only as it should be, that he should feel overpowered at the recollection of his past dangers; and her heart rose in silent prayer to God that He would be pleased to bless those circumstances to the good of the sailor's soul.

She was bustling about, getting her homely breakfast ready, which she intended to share with the rescued seaman, when the sight of the large chalk writing attracted her attention. Even at that long lapse of years, the widow could not think of that bitter day in the past with calmness, and while she was putting on her spectacles, she sat down to recover herself. At last she tottered over, and when she read, "Come back to his mother," she would have fallen, but that the sailor caught her in his arms; there she lay, with her eyes shut, as if when her joy was fulfilled, it had been too much for the worn-out frame, and that the spirit had flown.

"Mother will you not forgive me?" the strong man said. "I know I am not worthy, but oh, I have repented; won't you speak to me, mother?" The memories of the past that little word "mother" evoked, acted with electric force on the aged widow. She started up, and looking at the sailor, said earnestly, "Is this my son, my only son, that I have prayed for, and watched for, for so many weary years? Tell me truly, deceive not an aged woman."

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Mother, I am your son-the child who so cruelly deserted his mother. But I have never been happy, the sting was always there, and at last I could bear it no longer. From far have I come that I might see your face once more, and ask your forgiveness. I have never known a happy hour since the day I wrote on that wall 'Gone

to sea.

Now the widow needed no one to tell her that her long-lost son stood before her, and flinging her aged arms round the dear neck, she exclaimed, "This my son was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found."

From that day the sailor never left his mother-day and night he was her faithful attendant; but ere long his watch ended. She had seen her son once more, and not even his loved presence could fan the flickering flame of life. The hope that had been her stimulus being realized, the reaction set in, and hour by hour the light burned lower and lower, until at length, with her hand fondly clasped in his, she entered the presence of the Master she had so long and trustfully served.

If six or sixty prayers be past,
Pray on, and never faint,
The blessing surely comes at last
To cheer the drooping saint.

HINTS FOR THE HOUSEHOLD.

CHILDREN'S FEET. Lifelong discomfort, disease, and sudden death often come to children through the inattention, ignorance, or carelessness of the parents. A child should never be allowed to go to sleep with cold feet; the thing to be last attended to, in putting a child to bed, should be to see that the feet are dry and warm; neglect of this has often resulted in a dangerous attack of croup, diphtheria, or fatal sorethroat.

Always, on coming from school, on entering the house from a visit or errand in rainy, muddy, or thawy weather, the child's shoes should be removed, and the mother should herself ascertain if the stockings are the least damp; and if so, should require them to be taken off, the feet held before the fire and rubbed with the hand until perfectly dry, and another pair of stockings and shoes put on, while the other stockings and shoes should be placed where they can be well dried, so as to be ready for future use at a moment's notice.

There are children not ten years of age suffering with corns, from too close-fitting shoes, by the parent having been tempted to "take" them because a few pence were deducted from the price, while the child's foot is constantly growing. A shoe, large enough with thin stockings, is too small on the approach of cold weather and thicker hose; but the consideration that they are only halfworn prevails, resulting in a corn which is to be more or less of a trouble for fifty years perhaps ; and all this to save the price of a pair of half-worn shoes. No child should be fitted with shoes with

out putting on two pairs of thick woollen stockings, and the shoe should go on moderately easy even over these. Have broad heels, and less than half an inch in thickness.

Tight shoes inevitably arrest the free circulation of the blood and nervous influences through the feet, and directly tend to cause cold feet; and health with habitually cold feet is an impossibility.

The parent is guilty of a criminal negligence, who does not always see to it that each child enters the church and schoolhouse door with feet comfortably dry and warm. Grown persons of very limited intelligence know that, as to themselves, damp feet endanger health and life, however robust; much more so must it be to the tender constitution of a growing child.—DR. HALL.

BREAD.

Simmer slowly, over a gentle fire, a pound of rice in three quarts of water, till the rice has become perfectly soft, and the water is either evaporated or imbibed by the rice: let it become cool, but not cold, and mix it completely with four pounds of flour add to it some salt, and about four table-spoonfuls of yeast. Knead it very thoroughly, for on this depends whether or not your good materials produce a superior article. Next, let it rise well before the fire, make it up into loaves with a little of the flour-which, for that purpose, you must reserve from your four pounds-and bake it rather long. This is an exceedingly good and cheap bread.

Woollen clothes should be washed in very hot suds, and not rinsed. Lukewarm water shrinks them.