LUCY IN TROUBLE.

HELEN was now very happy. Walking in the steady light of Lucy's example, she made fewer mistakes in judgment, and was less easily led astray by her own ardor and precipitation. Charles, too, allowed himself to be guided by Lucy when he would listen to no other voice. And this was no small point gained; for he was at that age when boys think it particularly manly to pick up all sorts of odd and questionable habits, to ornament their conversation with slang expressions, and to defy authority and laugh at reproof. His mother quietly rejoiced in the gentle, refining influence now exerted over him, while she admired Lucy's tact, her forbearance, her wonderful sagacity in her intercourse with him.

One person, however, regarded Lucy with an unfriendly eye; and this was Helen's friend, Mary Anna. Things had never been just right between

the two since the interview heretofore described. Not that Helen cherished unkind feelings towards her friend; but that Mary Anna herself ever retained an embarrassed, painful remembrance of her envious and selfish temper on that occasion. Naturally, however, Helen had been drawn more and more closely to her cousin; and that not solely on account of Lucy's attractions. It was the result of their entire sympathy in that Christian race which they pursued together. Mary Anna was full of worldly tastes, though she regarded herself as a Christian. She had not so learned Christ as to delight in forsaking even innocent pleasures for His sake, and she knew little of the serenity and the peace to be found in a life of faith. There are many uncomfortable Christians in this world. Mary Anna was one. She performed many religious duties because others did so, and because she thought she must. Lucy and Helen, on the contrary, performed these because it was their privilege so to do. cheerfulness and alacrity we sometimes see a child run to offer a flower to its mother! But how sluggishly, with what apparent difficulty, the same act is performed, when, instead of the lively emotion of love to its parent, there is only the principle of obe dience to her commands in exercise!

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Poor Mary Anna was always doing something to appease her conscience; and this was made neces sary by her so frequently doing something to torture it. Sometimes for weeks together she would lead a perfectly worldly and thoughtless life; then she would have spasms of goodness, and nothing could be more ardent than her devotion. One day she was sure she did not deserve to be called a Christian, and on the next her mountain would stand strong, and she would say, "I shall never be moved :" Now there was doubtless a little true grace in her heart; but it was but a spark, and a slight breath of temptation threatened its existence. But feeble as it was, Mary Anna tried to warm and animate herself thereby, and she kept wondering why she was always so cheerless and benumbed. And all this time the great Fountain of light and life was open to her; she only needed to turn for ever away from the contemplation of herself, to be henceforth vivified, strengthened, and filled with all the fulness of Christ. How strangely it would look to see a plant constantly employed in watching its own growth, and bemoaning itself on account of its tardy progress, when all it had to do was just to give itself up to the nurture of sun and rain, and the

kindly influences of the soil to which it had been transplanted!

"I wish I had your happy disposition!" she one morning said to Lucy, as the two cousins entered the school-room. "But every thing depends on temperament. I was born with a desponding temper, and I suppose there is no escaping it."

Lucy wanted very much to infuse into this cloudy mind some of her own sunshine, but she hesitated because she felt herself young and inexperienced.

"I was not born with a particularly happy disposition," she said. "Indeed, I think I used to suffer a great deal of either real or fancied misery." "And are you always happy now?" "Always!" replied Lucy, emphatically.

"Oh, well, you have every thing to make you so. Your uncle's family just bow down and worship you, and you have all sorts of elegances and comforts. Perhaps you would miss them a little if you should

lose them."

Lucy was a little pained by these remarks. She felt that she could leave all these elegances and comforts' cheerfully, should it be necessary. Her happiness was built on less perishable objects.

"Oh, Mary Anna!" said Helen, "I wish you could only catch a little of Lucy's faith! I wish

you knew how very happy you might be if you would!"

Mary Anna sighed. This was one of her de sponding days. She retired with a heavy heart to her desk, where amid her books she forgot for a season her depression. Indeed, she soon appeared cheerful and even merry. But Helen, who knew her well, perceived that her friend's mirth was only assumed, and that the comfortless expression was not long absent from her face.

"Ah! what can I do for her?" thought she. “I wish I might tell her how many real troubles Lucy has; then her cheerfulness would puzzle her, I'm sure and she would see how well it is worth seeking."

Every thing seemed to be going on prosperously with Lucy; but one evening, as they all sat variously occupied together, she suddenly fainted and fell from her chair. In a few moments she recovered herself, and would have resumed her lessons had her uncle allowed it. But he looked at her with anxiety, and ordered her to proceed at once to bed. Accordingly, Lucy was preparing to take leave for the night, when Helen, who had been not a little agitated and alarmed, cried out reproachfully: "Oh, Lucy! it all comes of those everlasting shirts!"