"Or how you knew that we had kept the locket for you," added Jessy.

"That part of the story I had from the lips of the poor dying wretch who owned that he had stolen the locket from the faithful and honest woman who had preferred suffering hunger, cold and distressed, to taking what was not her own."

66

Dying, sir! did you say dying!" cried Jessy.

Mr. Parr, such was the gentleman's name, took a seat which was offered to him, and then in few words gave an account to which Duncan and Jessy listened with keenest interest.

"I was not long ago in Quebec," said Mr. Parr, "and before embarking for England, visited the hospital there, in company with the chaplain of the place. As we were passing through one of the wards, the nurse addressed my companion.

"The poor fellow in yon bed,' said she, 'has been very anxious to speak to you, sir. I think that there is something on his mind. He has lately arrived from the old country; he'll never live to return to it.'

"Following the chaplain, I walked up to the patient's bedside. What was my surprise when he drew forth a locket, which I instantly recognized as my own.

66 6

'Oh, sir,' he gasped forth to the chaplain, 'I want you to take charge of this; and when I'm dead, send it to England, to the honest pair from whom I stole it-I have never known peace from that hour!'

"Of course the unhappy man was questioned, and thus the whole story came out. He died, I trust, a penitent, but in great anguish both of body and mind. On coming to England," continued Mr. Parr, "my first care was to find you out; everything that I heard of you confirmed the account of poor Muir. Take now, with a clear conscience, that which you have merited so well" -as the gentleman spoke he laid on the table a purse heavy with gold; "receive with it my thanks for having preserved for me a locket containing hair which no money could ever have replaced, and may your child, as she grows up, learn by your noble example that whatever temptations may beset us, it is better to suffer than to sin!"

A. L. 0. E.

A

GROUP of happy young people sat round their school-room fire one winter afternoon, discussing some subject evidently of pleasing importance. It was the present each meant to give to their mother on her approaching birthday. They were the children of wealthy parents, with pocket money at command; and so the merits of books, bijouterie, and other pretty or useful articles, were considered, without much regard to the question of expense.

A girl of ten years old sat at work apart from the rest, and did not join in the conversation. She looked thoughtful and sad, and an attentive observer might have seen an occasional tear drop on her fingers, or hastily wiped from her eyes. In a few minutes the other children had for the present ended their deliberations, and ran off to some amusement downstairs.

"Are you coming, Emily ?" said one of the party in a kind voice to the silent child.

"Yes, Clara, I shall come very soon."

But she only put down her work when they were gone, and leaned her head on her hand. A gentle touch behind roused her presently, and looking up she saw Miss Mortimer the governess standing by her side. "Oh, Miss Mortimer, I beg pardon," said Emily, rising quickly, "I did not know you were in the room."

"I only came in now. But there is no need to beg pardon for being found at your work when the rest are at play. Only you seem to me neither busy nor merry. What is the matter-any bad news from home?" "Oh, no; they are all well at home."

"Have the boys been teasing you?" "No; they are very kind."

"Then are you ill, my dear-or what is the matter? Do tell me; it will do yourself good, and please me."

The words were gently yet firmly spoken, and Emily, after a moment's hesitation, gave way to undisguised weeping. Miss Mortimer stood quietly for a minute or two, then took her hand and said

Now, tell me."

"You will think me very foolish, but I cannot help it. They were all talking so happily about what they are to give aunt on her birthday next week, and I-I love her so much, and she is so kind to me--and I have nothing to give."

"My dear child, is that all? We shall surely be able to find a remedy for this trouble. In the first place, I am sure your aunt would wish no better return for her kindness than to see you the good diligent child which you generally are."

"Oh, I am not always good, I vex her and you sometimes. And I love her so-and I wish I could give her something like the others."

"But she knows you have no money. It is God who gives riches to some people, and takes them away from others. It is his will that your uncle and aunt should be rich, and your widowed mother poor."

Emily still looked as if she had got no comfort. "If you really wish to have a birthday present for your aunt, just give what you can.”

"But I can give nothing. I have no money." "My child, you do not know how little the value of a present often depends upon what money it has cost.

Love makes the true value of what is meant to express love. It is quite right and proper that your cousins should lay out their pocket money in getting pretty gifts for their mother; but you must think of something different. Let us see." She was silent a minute, and then said, smiling, "For example, your bonnet was newly trimmed yesterday, and the strings, as is the fashion, are much longer than necessary. Let us cut off a bit from each end to make a pin-cushion."

"But they are all black, you know."

"Well, there is no better ground for coloured embroidery, and you embroider very nicely. I have plenty silks in my box. I shall make a design for you, and you may have a pretty house-wife ready in good time, by making the little sacrifice of wearing bonnet strings shorter than is fashionable."

"And will aunt care for it?"

"I am sure she will. You will not mind the short strings?"

"Oh, dear, no." Emily brightened up at once, and went to join her cousins in their games with a light heart and smiling face.

When the time came next day for the usual Bible lesson, Miss Mortimer said to the young people: “I have been thinking a good deal this morning about the real value of things. What do we mean when we say of any article, 'It is very valuable ?""

"We mean, of course," said one of the boys, "that it bas cost a great deal of money, or would cost, if we were to sell it."

But

"That proves the value of one kind, no doubt. what makes it cost so much? Think a little, and you will perceive that value is not dependent on size, or ferm, or colour, or material."

"Surely gold is always valuable ?"

"It is the money standard in civilized countries, and a very costly material in itself. Yet a small old brass or copper coin, from its rarity, may be of ten times greater value than one of gold. And savages, in all uncivilized lands, willingly part with gold or gems for glass beads or bits of iron. We cannot at present go farther into so wide a subject-I only wish to set you a-thinking upon it. But let us read a little from Scripture of God's standard of value-his estimate of things. Tell me, Clara, what our Lord tells us is of more value than the whole world?"

Clara readily replied: "What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul?""

"Yes; each one of us then possesses a treasure in our immortal soul, which it would be worse than folly to part with were we to receive all the riches of earth in exchange. What a solemn thought! And yet for how little the salvation of the soul is often thrown away! Now read a passage giving Paul's opinion."

"But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ

Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ'" (Phil. iii. 7, 8).

"What sort of things do you suppose Paul refers to here?"

"Worldly things."

"Yes; the possessions, rank, accomplishments, esteem and admiration of his fellow-men, which he greatly prized in his unconverted days, but now looked upon rather as temptations and snares than advantages. It is true that riches and influence, such as Paul had probably enjoyed, may be applied to the noblest use in the cause of Christ; but if a choice must be made between the two, the believer now, like Paul of old, will consider the loss of all things' unworthy of thought or hesitation compared with what the loss of an interest in Christ would be. And what deep meaning is in those words of Jesus: "That which is highly esteemed among men is abomination in the sight of God.' The expression has often seemed to me very remarkable, and it would be a good exercise for you to think out what things it may include. We may consider this together another day. Now let us see what our Lord spoke of as very precious in his sight. Do you remember the woman whom the disciples blamed for her offering, but to whom Jesus gave the blessed sentence of approval, 'She hath done what she could?""

"Yes," said Clara; "but that was itself a very costly 'box of ointment.""

"It was; and therefore a lesson for ourselves to grudge nothing in the cause of Christ; to be liberal in all our gifts for his service, as far as our circumstances allow. But at another time, what did he place in value above all the contributions of the rich to his treasury?"

"The widow's mites."

"Her two mites,' which make a farthing, were of more value in the eyes of the Lord than all the costly offerings of the rich. Why? Because he, who knew the secrets of all hearts, knew the real extent of the sacrifice she made; and above all, the motives, the feelings from which she acted. What then will still make any offering acceptable to our Lord ?"

"When it comes from love," said Emily.

"Let us take comfort from that thought when we come in lowly faith before him. Let us not fear to say, with deep humility-—

"Here is my heart; surely the gift, though poor,
My God will not despise;

Vainly and long I sought to make it pure
To meet his searching eyes.
Here is Love's offering to my king,
Which in glad sacrifice I bring-
Here is my heart!

Miss Mortimer spoke with emotion, and her pupils listened with looks of serious attention. They well knew that their teacher's whole life was that of a humble, consistent Christian.

After a brief pause, she said: "And we feel the same ourselves, in regard to the gifts we prize most highly. Love is ever the true standard of value to a loving heart. It is right and natural for you to spend your money gladly in preparing elegant gifts for your mother on her birthday, yet what will make them in reality precious to her? Will it not be the affection they are intended to express? How little in comparison would she care for the same things, coming from indifferent strangers?

"There is another light in which we may look at this subject. A thing which seems to us quite useless and worthless, or at least of very small worth, at one time, may be of the greatest value to us at another time, when we are in altered circumstances."

"Yes," said Edward; "I suppose men dying of thirst in the desert would give a camel's load of gold for a draught of pure water."

"Surely; illustrations of this kind might be multiplied without end. But a curious anecdote occurs to me just now, which I met with lately, and which will interest you. One evening, in the height of her prosperity as the wife of Napoleon, the Empress Josephine was amusing the young ladies of her court by showing them her jewels, the most splendid collection in Europe. As they looked, and admired, and asked questions about the givers, &c., Josephine suddenly said, 'Yes, my young friends, these are beautiful and costly jewels, but you need not envy what cannot of itself give real happiness. I shall no doubt very much surprise you when I tell you, that the gift of a pair of old coarse shoes once gave me greater pleasure than all these diamonds ever did.""

"Old shoes! to an empress!" exclaimed Clara.

"6 'Josephine, you know, had not always been an empress; on the contrary, she had gone through many misfortunes and privations in her earlier life. But her ladies were as much astonished as yourselves when she spoke of the old shoes. They begged for the whole story, and she willingly told it. Many years before, in very trying circumstances, she took a voyage to France from the West Indies, along with her only daughter, then a child, who afterwards became Queen of Holland. It was with difficulty that Josephine, then Madame Beauharnois, could provide the absolute necessaries for the voyage; and, by some oversight, she had actually no change of shoes for little Hortense. The child, clever

and spirited, liked to be constantly upon deck, running and jumping about, singing Negro songs, and dancing as she had been used to see the Negroes dance in Martinique. The sailors were enchanted with her performances, and she became quite their favourite and companion, while her sorrowful mother was glad to see her find amusement for herself. But when about half over the passage, to the little dancer's consternation, her thin shoes gave way. She managed to conceal this at first, but one day, on coming down to the cabin, her mother observed that every step left a mark of blood. Much alarmed, she questioned and examined the reluctant child, and found her shoes quite worn into rags, and one foot much wounded by a nail. There seemed no prospect for poor Hortense but confinement to the small cabin, and both mother and child 'began to weep bitterly;' 'for,' said Josephine, 'I felt quite overcome at the idea of the sorrow my poor Hortense would suffer, as also at the danger to which her health might be exposed, by confinement to my miserable little cabin.' At this moment the old quartermaster looked in, and seeing their distress, bluntly asked the cause. Hortense, sobbing, explained it to him. Nonsense,' said the sailor, 'is that all? I have an old pair of shoes somewhere in my chest; I will go and seek them. You, madame, can cut them to the shape, and I'll splice them up again as well as need be. On board ship you must put up with many things, provided we have the necessary-that's the most principal.' Away he went, and presently returned with his precious gift; and before next day Hortense, with a safe though not elegant chaussure, was able to resume her favourite amusement again among her sailor friends. And so," repeated the empress, as she finished the tale, 'never was a present more thankfully received, or more gratefully remembered. Only I have often reproached myself for not inquiring more of the name and history of our benefactor, that I might have done something for him when the means of helping others were in my power.'"

"That is worth hearing," said Edward.

Yes;

and worth thinking about. Whoever wishes to be really useful and helpful to others need never fear to want opportunity, in such an uncertain, changeful world as ours. Now I have given you some hints to think over, and we can discuss the subject further another time."

J. L. B.

STORY, if you please, mamma," said little Maggie Dunsmore; "you promised to tell us a story, if we should be good till you came back; and please, mamma,

let it be a nice story." "But were you good all the time that I was away?" asked mamma.

"O yes, mamma, we were all good, very good, I am sure."

"Well, I scarcely think that it is the best sign of a good child, to be so sure of her own goodness. You know that a good man, Maggie, is ready rather to confess that he is very bad. Isn't he, dear?"

"But ma, you asked if we were good, and should I

not tell you the truth! You wouldn't like me to say that we were bad when we weren't."

I

"Clearly not, my dear; always tell the truth. should be sorry to hear my little pets say that they were very bad, if they did not think it. Now, what story shall I tell you?"

"There are no stories so beautiful as the dear Bible stories; but you already know a little of the most of them, so I shall tell you to-day a nice story that I was reading this morning."

"Oh Willie, come here fast," cried Maggie, "for mamma is going to tell us a beautiful new story-and just now."

It was not many seconds till Willie was in the middle of the group; and then his mamma began.

"But I fear," she said, "that you will not remember the strange old names; let me see if you can. There was a lady, long ago, called Chelonis, and her husband's name was Cleombrotus, and her father was Leonidas, King of Sparta. Now, Jane, let me see if you remember the name of the king."

where was it, Willie?"

'King of Sparta," answered Willie. "And what was the name of the lady, his daughter?" "Oh, I remember that, it was Chelonis," said Maggie. "Yes it was; and her husband's name was- what?" But neither Maggie, nor Jane, nor Willie could tell. "It was Cle-om-brot-ns," suggested mamma. "Oh yes, Cleombrotus, Cleombrotus, Cleombrotus," said they all in a breath, to fix it in their memories. "Well, then, old King Leonidas had reason to fear that some of the great men in the state were plotting against him, so he fled for safety to a temple. His sonin-law-but what was his name?"

"Cleombrotus," said Maggie readily.

"Yes; Cleombrotus, caring nothing for his old fatherin-law, seized on the throne, and became king in his stead. Now, how did his wife act, do you think? You remember that she was the daughter of the old king."

"Perhaps she lived in the palace as the new queen," suggested Maggie; "did she mamma?"

"No indeed," said mamma; "but she put off her fine dress, and clothed herself in mourning, as if something very dreadful had happened; and while her husband was enjoying his stolen honours, she went to her old father, to weep along with him, and to comfort him with her love."

"Good Chelonis, that was very nice; I like her for doing so," interjected Maggie, always ready to speak her mind.

"In a little while," continued mamma, "his old friends rallied round Leonidas, and he was able to resume his kingly power. When he left the temple to return to his old home, Cleombrotus, afraid lest he

miserable husband in the temple. And so, when the old king came to upbraid his son-in-law with his treason, he found him sitting on the ground sorrowful and silent, with his wife sitting beside him, still dressed in the deepest mourning, and having her hair hanging in disorder round her shoulders, like a person in the extremity of despair."

"The wicked man, she should have left him alone, and never spoken to him again: I don't like him at all," said lively little Maggie.

you.

"But you forget," said mamma, "that he was her husband, and that it was her duty and her pleasure to be with him, and to share his troubles. You know how dearly she must have loved both her father and her husband. So when her father was speaking so angrily, and her husband was sitting so silent, she looked up through her tears, and said, 'Father, I did not put on this mourning for my husband, but for you; and my sorrow began, not with weeping for my husband, but for My husband's conduct has been very bad, and you have reason to be very angry with him; but then you cannot punish him without punishing me also, for he and I are one. If, then, my father, you love me, and wish me to share your happiness now, as I have shared your sorrow, you must pardon my husband, for I cannot be happy until he is forgiven. And if my love to you in your sorrow has given you any comfort, let it plead for my husband; and if you now mean to give it a reward, let the reward be his life.' The old king was so moved with her affectionate words, that for the sake of his daughter he spared the life of her husband, though he gave him a milder punishment. Now, what do you think of Chelonis?"

"Oh, mamma, I like her very much," said Maggie; "don't you like her, Jane ?"

"Well, my dears, I like her too,” said mamma; "but while I was reading her story, I could not help thinking of another, and a far more beautiful story of love. I wonder if my little pets have any remembrance of the story that I mean. Have you Willie, or Jane, or Maggie?" But no one of them had had any thought suggested by the story.

"Does it not remind you," continued mamma, "of the wonderful love of the Lord Jesus, though it comes far, far behind it? You know that when we had rebelled against his Father, and had acted very wickedly indeed, He, the Holy One, took his Father's part; and all the time he was in the world among us wicked men, he took his Father's part. He laid down even his life to please his Heavenly Father. And now, when any sinner sees his guiltiness and his danger, and desires to

be forgiven, the great and good Lord Jesus can secure forgiveness for him. He can say My Father, this soul has sinned greatly against thee, and deserves nothing but thine anger for ever; but he has accepted me to be his Saviour, and now, I pray thee to forgive him all his sins for my sake. He is one of my sheep which I died for; and if thou wert to punish him now, it would be like punishing me. My Father, wilt thou not reward me for my obedience, by pardoning him for my sake, and by counting him to be one of thy children?""

"And does the Lord Jesus say all this every time that a sinner is pardoned, mamma ?"

"I do not mean you to think that he says these very words at all; I only wish you to understand that the nature of the great work of intercession is something of this kind."

"And is that the meaning of intercession? I never knew the meaning of it before," said Maggie.

Only, I wish you to remember that the love and the worthiness of the Lord Jesus are so far above all that the tongue of man could speak, or the heart of angel think, that there is a danger of degrading it by comparisons. You see that the fire is nearly out, for the weather is growing warm now, and I can see only one little spot of red coal in the grate. Now, if Willie will put his finger near enough to the coal, he will feel a little heat, quite enough indeed, to help a person te understand what heat means, if he happens not to know; but yet, no one would think of comparing that little spot of red coal with God's great blazing fire in the sky, which gives plenty of light and heat to many worlds. And there is a far greater difference between the warmest human love, and the holy love of Jesus, than there is between the little glowing cinder and the glorious sun. I have therefore told you this little story of Chelonis, not to compare her love with the love of the great Redeemer, but only wishing that you should understand what intercession' means.

"Now you may speak about it among yourselves for a little, and if you like, perhaps we may have another talk over it at some other time."

J. D.

URSUING our way down the Valley of the Kidron, we skirted the burial-ground of the Jews, passing a funeral group assembled around a newly-dug grave. This most melancholy cemetery is on the unenclosed and rugged slope of the valley, without a single tuft of verdure to relieve its aridity, or a tree to overshadow its crowded gravestones; yet no resting-place for their bones is so earnestly desired or so deeply venerated by the Jews as this--sunk, as it is, under the shadow of the Temple, which towers above the opposite steep slope of the valley, and besides traditionally regarded as the chosen seat of that judgment which the Lord will one day execute in behalf of his oppressed people.

A short distance beyond the burial-ground, we descended into the bed of the valley, and reached the Fountain of the Virgin, or of Siloam, so called from the village or collection of hovels of that name, perched picturesquely among the tombs and cliffs on the opposite side of the valley. The rays of the sun poured down into the arid valley, and were reflected from its heated sides with such fervency, that we were glad to descend the upper flight of steps which leads down to the fountain, and to seek shelter in the cool, moist shadow of its overhanging arch. This is one of the most striking bits-to use an artistic phrase-anywhere about the city, as the illustration will partly show. At the landing of the upper steps, worn by the footfall of ages, we find ourselves, as it were, at the mouth of a

mysterious-looking cavern, down into the jaws of which dives a second and much narrower flight of steps, overhung with rocky projections, at the foot of which is found the spring. The women from the neighbouring village, ascending and descending, poising their waterjars upon their erect and often graceful figures-with the groups of chance wayfarers, who come thither to seek refreshment for themselves and their horses, who are watered at a trough above-add highly to the picturesque character of the spot.

Though it is a well-known fact that the water of this fountain ebbs and flows, the reason of this has never been fully ascertained. It is supposed to be supplied by an underground passage from the Temple area above, and to be dependent on some cistern or spring, which may vary in the supply of water. That there is a channel cut in the rock from hence to the Pool of Siloam, was proved by the enterprise of Dr. Robinson and Smith, who entering alternately at both ends, sometimes walking upright, at others bending on their knees, and in some cases creeping prone like serpents, at length succeeded in threading its entire length. Dr. Robertson remarks, with evident reason, that the purpose of such a work seems incomprehensible, unless the advantages of a fortified city are taken into account. Yet it seems very doubtful whether a spot in the level valley was included within the wall, unless we identify this with the "Pool of Solomon," by which Josephus tells us the lane passed between Zion and the Temple.-W. H. Bartlett.