her aunt.

"It's only Kesia-Mrs. Morris, I mean, love," replied She is sitting up with you, because you burnt yourself, do you remember?'

"Yes- yes, I remember-oh aunt, do you think I shall die ?"

"No, dear, no; why do you tremble so?"

"Because-because-oh aunt, I did very wrong. I blew the candle out in the magic lanthorn, you know, and then, because I was ashamed of it, thinking it such a silly trick, I told you a story about it, and-and-" Mrs. Fortescue looked at me in some alarm, and hastily laid her hand on her niece's head. very hot, her forehead's very hot," said she, we must persuade her to lie down.”

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"It's

And

But I, seeing that Miss Celia was much agitated, and knowing what was really on her mind, whispered to her aunt that she had better allow her to tell her all. So, with a little of my help, there came out the whole history of her falsehood. "Mrs. Morris told me I might do harm by telling it;" she added, sobbing, "and I did; perhaps Esther wouldn't have told a a story if I hadn't done so first. I heard her say she was no worse than me, and I couldn't bear that, and then I tried to be very merry, though I did not feel so a bit, and I fancied Mrs. Morris thought badly of me, so I got vexed with her for that, and would reach down the things, though she advised me not, in order

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The things? What things do you mean, dear ?” said her aunt, puzzled.

"The toys from off the Christmas tree," I said in explanation." I was afraid it was rather dangerous for Miss Celia, with her muslin frock."

Yes, yes," sobbed poor Miss Celia, "and I was determined not to mind you: and-oh I did it partly to tease yon, but you're not burnt yourself, are you?" cried she, suddenly seizing hold of one of my hands, which was bandaged up. I had said nothing about it before to any one, being unwilling, of course, to cause ́extra trouble, but I was now obliged to confess that my left hand was slightly burnt, though I assured her it gave me but little pain.

"Oh Kesia, why did you keep it to yourself? that's

just like you of old," said Mrs. Fortescue, in a reproachful way.

"Will you ever forgive me?" asked Miss Celia, looking up in my face in so piteous a manner, that it quite brought the tears to my eyes. "Forgive you, my dear! don't talk of forgiveness." I was beginning, but Mrs. Fortescue stopped me. "You do, indeed, owe a great deal to Mrs. Morris, Celia," she said, “and I am sure it must pain you to think that you did anything to vex her, or that she should suffer by your fault; still, as she is very kind (she was good enough to call me so, my dears,) I am sure she now forgives you.”

"But, aunt, I was very wrong, wasn't I? very wrong altogether," said Miss Celia, in an agitated tone. Mrs. Fortescue laid her cheek on her niece's pillow, and said very tenderly, "Yes, dear, you were; but the pain you suffer from your fault is sent, no doubt, to warn you to be more careful how you act in time to come. the prodigal son you were reading of on Sunday, we all go astray at times from our home, but it is a comfort to believe that our Father in heaven is, in His great goodness, ever ready to welcome us back. Remember

Like

Miss Celia buried her head in a pillow for a minute, then again, looking up, she said, "I'm so glad I've told you all, I felt so miserable, much more miserable about that than about my arm; and now I think I might go to sleep, if my burn does not pain me very much-only first, please give me a kiss, won't you?"

Poor child! we kissed and soothed her, till we had at last the great satisfaction of seeing her go off into a quiet sleep; and when morning came, and brought the doctor, he pronounced her burn to be doing most favourably, and said that she had no fever about her. I have reason to believe that she confessed to her mother, her falsehood and wilfulness, but she never spoke of it to me again of course, except that whenever she caught sight of my bandaged hand, she would say something of my being "so kind." She had a grateful heart, the dear young lady, though she had been a little spoiled and over-indulged; but the lesson she had

received was not lost upon her, and the idea that her faults might do harm to others as well as to herself, made, I am sure, a deep impression upon her mind. Mrs. Nelson engaged me to stay and nurse her daughter, and much, I must say, I enjoyed the time. Miss Kate was delighted to find that I was the Nurse Kesia, of whom she had so often heard; and Mrs. Fortescue used frequently to come into her niece's room in order to have a chat with me about old times. By degrees, I learnt her history from her own lips; she had married out in Canada, and had lived there until her husband's death, which had taken place about a twelvemonth before; she had now, however, been induced to return to England, as she had been offered a home in the house of her unmarried brother, Mr. Francis Elliot, my own dear Master Frank.

Oh dear! how glad I was to hear of him again, and to hear, too, that he hadn't forgotten me, nor my kindness to him (as he was pleased to call it), when he was a sickly child. He wasn't over strong now, and had been obliged to return to his native country some years before, because the climate of Canada was too cold for him. He had now taken a very pretty country house, and this he was fitting up to receive his sister and her child in.

Well, my dears, by the end of a few days Miss Celia had so far recovered from her accident as to render my services no longer necessary. I therefore returned to my lodging, quite set up, I can assure you, for the remainder of the winter, as both Mr. and Mrs. Nelson had given me many handsome presents, they made so much of my having extinguished the fire, though I'm sure I deserved no praise, it was such a simple thing to do! I was beginning again my lonely life, when Mrs. Fortescue came one day to say that her brother's house was at length prepared for her, and that she was going to leave town next week. I tried to say I was glad to hear it, but somehow the words wouldn't come out-my voice seemed as if it were choked,—and then what did Mrs. Fortescue, but come and lay her hand upon my shoulder, and ask me whether I would go with her into the country?

My brother wishes it as much as I do," she said, "He can give you a comfortable corner in his house, Kesia, and I will find you plenty of odds and ends of work to keep you from being idle, which I know you cannot endure."

Well, well, you'll call me a foolish old woman, my dears, but I can't help crying a little still, whenever I think how kindly the offer was made, and how unexpectedly my old age was lightened of its care. No more dread of the workhouse, no more need to fancy that there was scarcely a person upon earth who cared whether I lived or died; and this great good coming upon me, too, through a circumstance which I could not have foreseen, it all seemed so wonderful. Truly the lot is, cast into the lap, but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord."

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And so now you know how how it is that I come to be living here. I have spent nearly five years in this house, and very, very happy years they have been., Mrs. Fortescue is most kind and considerate to me; and as to Miss Kate, the kind young lady who teaches at your school, I need not speak to you of her, for you all know of yourselves how good she is.

Yes, I've found a sure resting place at last, my dears, as sure a one at least as can be found on earth, for our real home is to be in heaven; and when I look around me this wintry time, and see the ground quite covered with snow, and the trees all shorn of their beautiful leaves, I cannot help thinking of the words, The grass withereth, the flower fadeth, but the word of the Lord endureth for ever."

B. A. J.

my

CHEERFUL TRUST.

My little son (of six years old) came eagerly into the room where I sat quietly reading in my easy chair, with feet 66 the fender. upon 'Please, please,—PLEASE,” he exclaimed, as he ran up to me, "please grant me a great favour." 'Well, my child, what is it?" I said. Please, please" he again began, " may S— and I have the great picture-book out of aunt A-'s room, to look

at?" And he stood eagerly waiting for my answer. A single moment's thought was enough to enable me to decide what that answer must be; "No, certainly not, my child," I said, "it would not be right in me to allow it." Was there any further entreaty, or any remonstrance on the part of my child? Was there a pouting lip, or an angry look, as much as to say, "I am hardly dealt with?" Did he sit down with self-pity in his little heart, and determine to do nothing, because he could not do just what he had planned and expected, and hoped to do? Or did his disappointment cause him to loiter about in discontented mood, thinking it was not his fault if he were idle or troublesome? No: he threw his little arms round my neck with a warm embrace, gave me a sweet hearty kiss, and ran off with a loving smile upon his face, to consult with his little sister what must be their plan now, as this plan had failed.

The next Sunday, when all my little ones were assembled around me for " Sunday lessons," this same little six-year-old son amongst them, I gave them a little history of just these same facts that I have related above. "May you, when older," I said, quoting a little poem that some of them had learnt by heart,-"May you, when older, love as well, our Father in the Heavens!" and added, "trust Him as entirely, and receive as unmurmuringly all His decisions,-all His answers to your prayers!"

I think the remembrance of this little incident may perhaps come back to them helpfully in future years, when the clouds of trial, or of bereavement, or of sickness are closing about them; when some fond desire remains ungratified, or some earnest prayer apparently unanswered. Would that we parents might also learn from it a lesson of loving trust in our Father, and of cheerful submission to His will!

Without suffering there would be no fortitude, no patience, no compassion, no sympathy. Take away all sorrow from life, and you take away all depth of tenderness, and nearly all opportunity for unselfish self-sacrifice. Sorrow is the furnace in which selfish hearts are melted into union.