place, he thanked God, who had watched over him in the time of his tribulation, and kept him from wandering out of the right path. A few years have passed since then. Several baby voices make cheerful music in the old house

over the workshop, and delight Grandfather Elton, as (they call him (setting all laws of relationship at defiance) in his old age; and there is not a happier man in all Maybury than Paul Dale, the Carpenter.

It was Christmas Eve, and the snow lay deep in the streets of Seeberg, a small mining town in Germany; but the neighbouring peasants came down from their mountain homes, and sought to forget the rigour of the season in innocent festivity. Family groups assemble together, the voice of song and of childish merriment resounds from many an humble home, and preparations are being made for a general illumination.

Christmas Eve in Germany is welcomed as a season of rejoicing by the poorest peasant, as well as by the wealthiest noble of the land. But, amidst all these happy homes, there was one lowly dwelling at least where no feast had been prepared, where no sounds of merriment were heard.

Veronica Madel had, for some time past, supported her blind father and a little brother by lace-making. Once they had known better days. The father had been a slater, an industrious man, but had lost his eyesight from the effects of a conflagration which he had bravely helped to extinguish. His wife did not long survive this calamity, but died, partly of grief, partly of over-exertion, committing her blind husband and her infant boy to the care of her daughter Veronica, herself still a child.

Veronica's mind, however, had been prematurely ripened by the care and sorrow which had so early fallen to her lot; and she well fulfilled the charge committed to her by her dying parent.

On this Christmas Eve of which we speak, the young girl had been seated before her lacepillow, working without intermission from early morning till night closed in; then, poor child, she was forced to pause in her labours, for she could not afford a light. She made, however, a good fire in the stove to warm her blind father; and, having placed him in his easy-chair close by its side, she yielded to her little brother's entreaties that she would take him out to see the illuminations.

The two children accordingly set forth together. Already the whole town was astir. Miners in their characteristic costume marched along in groups, with bands of music preceding them; and ever and anon they paused before the door of some wealthy citizen, and carolled forth their Christmas greeting. Then the door of the house so honoured might be seen to

EVE.

open, and the master himself would generally step forth and reward the leader of the serenade by presenting to him some small gratuity. Children, following the example of their elders, wandered also in little bands from door to door, singing their Christmas carols; and seldom were the young singers dismissed without some trifling present, accompanied by a kindly word.

As Veronica passed on her way, holding her little brother by the hand, and gazing on these varied groups, a new thought suddenly suggested itself to her mind: "Why should she not seek to win some trifling Christmas gifts for her poor blind father?"

Timidly, and with a beating heart, the poor child bent her steps towards a part of the town where she was but little known. The character she was about to play was very new to her; and her heart well nigh failed her when it came to the point; but love to her father nerved her to the task; and, drawing her hood closely around her, she stepped close under the window of a house of lowly aspect, and sang in clear, though subdued tones, the following verse:

"Cheer up, ye miners bold,

Nor let your courage flag!
For earth, her wealth untold,
Yields to your patient toil;
Then joyous dig beneath the soil,
And still be your gathering-cry,
Cheer up, brave hearts, cheer up!"

Veronica's voice was tremulous with fear when she began these simple lines; but she gained courage as she proceeded; and she repeated the burden of the song with spirit and energy. She then paused, and anxiously awaited the result of her efforts. Two or three minutes elapsed; the time seemed long to poor Veronica; she felt humiliated and confused, and was about to withdraw; but at last the door turned on its hinges, and a woman came out, and placed in Veronica's trembling hands a cake, some sugar-plums, and a few pence.

The poor child could scarcely contain herself for joy.

"Oh, my dear George!" she exclaimed, "see what a happy beginning I have made! You shall have the sugar-plum, but the cake and the money are for father, that he too may be able to keep his Christmas feast."

The night was now far advanced; and Ve

ronica thought she would make but one trial | more before she turned her steps homeward. This time, she determined on trying her chance at the door of a rich man, an inspector of some mines. Clear and firm her young voice now rose through the still midnight air; and when her song ceased, the window on the first floor of the house opened, and an arm was stretched out, holding a slender pair of tongs, by means of which a piece of money was deposited in Veronica's open hand. But scarcely had she received this Christmas gift ere a cry of pain escaped her lips-a cry which was responded to by a laugh of insulting mockery from the heartless wretch who was still standing in the open window. The penny which he had handed to the poor child had been drawn red hot from the fire. Veronica hastily dropped the perfidious gift, and, with many a bitter tear, retraced her steps to her lonely home.

When Veronica returned to her father's side, and told him of the Christmas gifts she had brought, it cost the poor girl a severe struggle to conceal her sufferings and speak to the blind man in cheerful tones. He, unconscious of the pain she was enduring, asked her to sing for him once more before she retired to rest; and then he kissed his darling, and bestowed on her his Christmas blessing; but Veronica's hand pained her much, and she went to bed with a heavy heart.

In the mountain districts of Germany, the schools are very large, one master not unfrequently having charge of two hundred children. Under these circumstances, he can scarcely be expected to have any particular acquaintance with the disposition or tastes of each individual scholar, unless some casual occurrence chances to bring it to his notice.

"Is not your hand healed yet?" one day inquired M. Rossel, the parish schoolmaster, addressing his pupil Veronica Madel.

Veronica unfastened the bandage, which she daily tied on as well as she could with her left hand; and the worthy schoolmaster, seeing the inflamed state of the wound, became very indignant when he learned how it had been produced.

Shameful," he exclaimed, "thus to injure a child singing her Christmas carol! Will you let me hear your song, my little maid? I love music well myself. You know I am the parish precentor, as well as the schoolmaster."

Veronica timidly obeyed. The schoolmaster was to her a formidable auditor; but the good man's kindness soon set her at ease; and she sang with so much expression that M. Rossel was not only surprised, but deeply moved. "Who taught you to sing thus, my child?" he inquired, when the young songstress paused.

"No one," she replied. "My father is blind; he often finds the day very long, and I sing to him to amuse him. It is almost the greatest pleasure he has; and I am so glad of that, for

we are poor, and he cannot afford himself many other pleasures."

"But the melody itself, and the methodwhere did you learn all that?" inquired the schoolmaster.

Veronica looked perplexed, but after a moment's reflection, replied: "I have often heard our miners sing that air."

"My child," said M. Rossel to the little girl, "I see how God often overrules the wickedness of man for His own wise purposes. The burn you received on your hand has caused you much suffering, and has prevented your working at your lace to earn money for your father; but if it had not been for this accident, I should never have noticed your voice, which will, I hope, prove to you a nine of wealth, and enable you to procure more comforts for him than if you had been working night and day at your pillow."

Veronica did not very well understand the good man's meaning, but she felt gratified for his kindness, and anxious to do her best to please him. From that day forward, M. Rossel gave her regular instruction in the art of singing, whilst, at the same time, he contrived to interest several benevolent people in the fate of this deserving family; so that the blind man's wants were fully supplied, and his little daughter was thus enabled to pursue her studies with a cheerful heart.

Twelve years passed away. It was a fine autumn evening, and the wealthier inhabitants of Seeberg might be seen in full toilet, flocking to the town-hall. An event, rare in this somewhat secluded region, has set the whole town astir. The first cantatrice of the capital, one who enjoys a European celebrity, is about to give a concert, in conjunction with her brother, for the benefit of the poor of Seeberg.

At the entrance of the hall might be seen the old schoolmaster and precentor, M. Rossel, who was filling the office of cashier on the occasion. His eyes beamed with delight as the money accumulated on his desk: and when he recognized an acquaintance amongst the nu merous arrivals, it was with no small pride that the good man produced a golden snuff-box, and offering his friend a pinch of true Virginian, at the same time whispered in his ear: "This is a gift from a grateful pupil. See! it is engraved upon the lid; and when it was given to me, it was full of gold pieces. And look at this, too," he added, drawing a handsome repeater from his fob; "this, too, is the gift of my former pupil."

"You are celebrating your triumph to-night, M. Rossel," observed one of the new-comers.

"Yes, it is a day of triumph for me, and for the town of Seeberg too," rejoined the schoolmaster, "for she was born amongst us here, and I was her first teacher."

At last all the company had arrived, the hall was thronged to the very door, and, at the appointed hour, Veronica Madel appeared upon the platform, accompanied by her youthful brother, and with her blind father leaning on her

arm. A burst of enthusiastic plaudits greeted the young cantatrice as she gracefully curtsied to the assemblage. A band of mountain musicians supported their parts admirably, and exerted themselves to the utmost to do honour to their countrywoman. George Madel accompanied his sister on the violin, to the admiration of all present, and Veronica herself sang as she had seldom been heard to sing before; her voice reached every heart and charmed every

ear.

All the pieces named in the programme had been performed, a moment's pause ensued, and, after repeated acclamations, the assemblage were about to disperse, when, suddenly, young Madel touched his violin. A familiar air arrested every ear, and Veronica, with a voice as pure and clear as in her childish days, commenced the verse so well known to all the miners of Seeberg-the same she had sung on that eventful Christmas Eve. At this moment the whole of the assemblage present started to their feet as one man, the band of musicians laid down their instruments, and every voice joined in the chorus

"Cheer up, brave hearts, cheer up!"

The celebrated cantatrice was for the moment forgotten; and Veronica Madel was only remembered as the young mountain-peasant, the dutiful daughter, the loving sister, the obedient pupil. The good old schoolmaster, oblivious of his dignity, rushed to the platform, and, with tears in his eyes, folded to his heart the pupil who had so far surpassed his utmost expectations. Veronica, turning towards the assemblage, with a simple grace and humility of manner which touched every heart, owned that to this good old man, under God, she owed all her

success.

The worthy citizens of Seeberg had prepared a banquet in honour of the young cantatrice; but during the interval which elapsed between the concert and the banquet, M. Rossel drew his former pupil aside, and speaking to her in the familiar tones of earlier days, he said: "Will you come with me, my good Veronica, for one half-hour? This money you have intrusted to my care is weighing down my pocket. I should like to distribute some of it this evening, and to deposit the remainder of the sum in safety at my own house."

Veronica, though somewhat wearied after the exertion and excitement of the day, could not bear to refuse her old master's request, and, committing her father to George's care, she set forth, under the escort of the kindhearted schoolmaster. The darkening shades of evening prevented the young singer from distinguishing surrounding objects; and she allowed Rossel to guide her as he pleased, unconscious whither he was leading her.

"I should like you," observed the old man, "to see some, at least, of those on whom your bounty is to be bestowed. On the ground-floor of the house we have now reached we shall find a family in deep distress."

Entering a dark passage, the precentor, followed by Veronica, lifted a latch, and passed into a spacious, but gloomy apartment, lighted by a single candle, and offering a striking contrast to the brilliant concert-hall they had just quitted. A pale, careworn woman, miserably clad, was pacing the room, vainly striving to lull her infant to rest. Two other children, about three and four years of age, lay sleeping on a tattered mattress, in one corner of the room; whilst on a pallet, near the stove, lay a sick man, supported by straw pillows. The two strangers were received by this unhappy wife and mother with that cold indifference which is so frequently the companion of despair.

"Is your husband asleep," inquired M. Rossel.

"Asleep! oh no!" replied the woman. "I know not what will become of us!"

The schoolmaster then approached the sick man's bed, and, addressing him kindly, said: "How are you to-day, Kunkel?"

"Just as I am always," replied the sufferer; "and so long as I feel that piece of money burning in my throat, I shall never get better."

66 Cannot you dismiss that delusion?" interrupted Rossel. "The doctor and I have told you a hundred times that that burning sensation in your throat is a natural result of your disease; and what is the use of indulging a fancy which only aggravates your malady?"

"I ought to know what I feel, better than either you or the doctor can tell it to me," rejoined the sick man, somewhat impatiently; "and I know that I feel one hard, burning spot in my throat, just as if I had tried to swallow a piece of red-hot copper. No water can cool that spot; it is always the same, always burning."

Veronica's thoughts recurred to the suffering she had experienced when her hand was burned, and her pity for the poor man doubled.

Well, Kunkel," replied the schoolmaster, "I can only repeat what I said before-this is all a figment of your own imagination. How in the world could a piece of burning money find its way into the centre of your throat?"

"Oh, I know. it! I know it well!" exclaimed "It was last Christmas Eve that the sick man.

I felt for the first time that burning spot.” "You felt it on that evening because the ulceration of your throat had just become more acute and widely spread.”

"Oh, no! no! there was another reason than that !" groaned the unhappy man. "It was on a Christmas Eve, twelve years ago-stop! do you hear that cry under the window? It was just such a cry as that the poor child gave when I rewarded her Christmas carol by dropping a piece of burning money into her hand. Oh, I deserve all my sufferings richly, I too well know !"

As Veronica heard these words, a cry of dismay burst from her lips. It seemed as if the retributive justice of God had fallen upon this unhappy man before her very eyes. It was to her a solemn and overpowering emotion; and the young singer covered her face with her

hands, and burst into tears. The old schoolmaster, deeply moved, turned towards Veronica.

"Kunkel," said the schoolmaster, in a tone of deep solemnity, "here is the very hand which, twelve years ago, you were so cruel as to burn. This hand is now held out to you in token of forgiveness: and see! no trace remains of the wound you then inflicted; and no unkind thought harbours in the bosom of her who has now come to minister to your wants."

Kunkel raised his head, and looked at Veronica. "No! no!" he replied, sighing heavily; "it is impossible; that fine lady cannot be the same as the poor child whom I so cruelly injured twelve years ago. You are mocking me, M. Rossel."

"Believe me, Kunkel, what I have told you is true. Through God's goodness, that burning penny has turned to a mine of gold in the hand of Veronica Madel; and here," added he, laying a pile of crowns upon the table-"here is a share of her gains, which she has brought to you."

Kunkel, with an air of bewilderment, gazed alternately at Veronica, at his wife, who stood weeping by his side, and at the money which lay upon the table. "I wish I could believe what you tell me," he exclaimed; "but it seems to me impossible. Do you remember, lady, the song that was sung beneath my window that Christmas Eve? That song, and the cry of anguish which followed it, still ring in my ears. If you can repeat it to me now, I shall believe that what M. Rossel tells me is indeed the truth."

Veronica, with a voice tremulous from emotion, sang the well-known miner's song; and, as she sang, the little infant's cry was hushed, the broken-hearted mother listened in admiring silence, and the sick man, folding his hands across his breast, and raising his eyes to heaven, exclaimed, "God be merciful to me a sinner!"

Veronica seated herself by his side, spoke to him of pardon and of peace, until, at length, a ray of hope beamed from the sufferer's eye. He stretched his wearied limbs, as though seeking that repose which had long been denied to him; and then, with a gentle sigh, he fell asleep.

The schoolmaster, familiar by long experience with scenes of suffering and of death, quickly perceived that the vital spark had fled. He laid his hand upon the marble brow of the dead man; and, repeating the burden of the miner's song, he said, turning towards the weeping widow

"Cheer up, sad hearts, cheer up!'

"I trust, my poor friend, that your husband is at rest after his long struggle; and you and your children shall not be forsaken. Put your trust in the God of the fatherless and the widow, and to-morrow I will come again, and see what can be done for you."

Veronica Madel and her old instructor now

How well I remember the excitement of the evening when my husband returned from the Annual Conference, and told me that he had been transferred to this large and important chapel.

We had been living in an obscure country village, among an agricultural people, on the one hand, very plain, very uncultivated; and on the other ignorance, hardness, and low vice that always prevail near a manufacturing town. The church was poor, and the salary small; the parsonage a plain two-storey house, where my husband's only study was a sleeping-room, little better than an attic, with the children's bed in one corner. We always call Clark and Wesley "the children," though there were three babies besides them; but they were all gathered in our own chamber. The kitchen opened from the little parlour, and in the kitchen we ate, because we were liable to interruption at any time, and visitors could not be shown up the crooked stairs to the attic study.

It made little difference to me how the parlour was occupied, for I scarcely ever sat down through the day, unless I was putting a child to sleep. A crown a-week was one-sixth of our little income, and could not be afforded for a woman-servant, and of course the half-grown girl could not manage washing, or ironing, or even a single meal, unless it were tea, without my assistance.

I hardly know how we did manage; but the children wore Holland pinafores and patched trousers-and an apple-pie was a treat. I have dreaded to see a neighbouring "brother" come into tea many a time, because the piece of butter on the table was so small, and there was no more in the house; or nothing to replenish the bread-plate with, for the flour was out, and I had not the courage to tell John of it, for such news always made a gloomy meal to me.

However, that was all over-for two years at least! The sermons studied in that little attic chamber had been heard of far beyond our circle, and the diligent spirit that was faithful over a few things had been called to "come up higher." I shed tears of joy and thankfulness that night: I had not been so happy since Maria engaged her first five scholars.

believe anyone ever went into a husband's family with clearer ideas of new duty among them than I did when I went into John's. I have worked for them, and sought opportunities for relieving them in trouble; I have sympathized with them, and prayed for them; but they never have taken the place of those who belonged to me before I had ever seen him.

Sarah's quick spirit accused me of it; but she lived, poor girl, to find that, though her taunts hurt and wounded me, they did not change my course among John's family or alienate me from her in the least. She had never been a wife, and could not understand how sacredly I accepted every duty the change of relation brought. After her death, when only mother and Maria remained, my heart went out to them more and more. I was a mother then myself, and began to realize the early struggles to rear and educate us which my mother passed through, and to grieve that her old age should have any care. As for Maria, when Sarah was no longer there to assist, the burden all came upon her, and my longing to help her has been at times positive anguish-to feel myself so helpless, tied hand and foot by my own cares, and not able to lighten their burthen by a feather's weight! There is one thing-I believe this intense but ungratified desire has helped me to bear my own, by drawing my thoughls away from it; and perhaps this is one reason why we are charged to cherish sympathy as a Christian duty, to " rejoice with those that do rejoice, and weep with those that weep." So, when Maria's little school was fairly established, I had been so eager about it that it was like a great, good fortune happening to ourselves, and now our turn had come.

A rich chapel, a handsome parsonage, and two hundred a-year-nearly twice as much as we had lived on, and managed to keep out of debt. It was a fortune to us in prospect, and I felt as if all the petty, wearying cares of my life were at an end. I threw my arms around John's neck, and laid my head on his breast, and cried, as I have said. Sleep seemed impossible that night, so many vague plans and calculations crowded my brain. Mother should have the warm shawl I had been longing to give her, and Wesley a new Sunday suit made out of his father's second-best, and John shine in the glory of new broadcloth, with seams that did not require a weekly sponging with ink, to keep them at all respectable!