and she made a resolution that she would try to do this, and ask God to help her. I hope, my dear readers, you will remember that you can do all this, and when inclined to be passionate or angry, listen to that voice in your hearts begging you to forgive and be kind; and though it seems very difficult at the moment, be assured you will feel much happier in the end than if you had given way to your angry temper.

At the end of a year, Norah had made so much progress that Mrs. Connor gave a willing consent to Kate and Martha (two of the younger children) attending the school also. Trade was, however, very bad, and Mr. Connor was thrown out of work, which obliged Mary to be more assiduous than ever at glove-making. Five years passed, during which many changes had happened in the little village. Ruth Kennedy, the kind teacher, after a long illness borne with great patience, had died most happily, ready for a better home in heaven. This was a sad trial to Mary, who had loved her dearly, and learned much from her example.

Norah had fully carried out her resolution, and Mrs. Connor was justly proud of her good tempered, industrious daughter. A terrible trial had fallen on poor Mary-her sight, never from childhood strong, had been much impaired by her industry at glove-making, and at nineteen she was hopelessly blind. It did not come upon her suddenly, and she had time to prepare her mind for the bitterness of the trial, and when it really struck her in all its sad reality, she submitted patiently, feeling assured that her. Heavenly Father must have some wise end in view in thus afflicting her. If my readers will accompany me, we will once more visit Mr. Connor's cottage.

Mrs. Connor and Norah are engaged in some household work, whilst the younger members of the family are gathered round Mary, who is patiently trying to teach them the mystery of the multiplication table, which they all unite in thinking very difficult. Soon the lesson is finished, and they beg her to sing them just one hymn before bed time; then their evening prayers are said, and they go with Norah very happily. Mary still sits at the open door, wondering if the sunset is as beautiful as when she saw it last, and thinking of the happy moment when her sight will be restored, and she shall see her mother's face bright with heavenly radiance. The place of Ruth Kennedy had never been supplied, and Mr. Calland thought that if Mary would consent to take it, she could instruct the children well in all those things not rendered impossible by her blindness, especially as she was universally beloved by them.

Mary therefore went every day to the village school, accompanied by her little cousins,-she was zealous in her endeavours to do right,

(and with that for a guide we can never diverge far from the true path)-she was patient, affectionate, and gentle; and truly all her efforts were rewarded by the thoughtful attention and tender love of all the village children. Her uncle and aunt, far from viewing her as a burden, regarded her as their greatest blessing. Mrs. Connor had learnt many useful lessons from her orphan niece, and every one in the family felt for her true sympathy and love.

The last time we heard of Mary Silvester, she was still doing her duty nobly, though outwardly blind, ever seeing the hand of God leading her on through this world to one far better and brighter.

My dear readers, I hope you will sometimes think of the Irish orphan, and remember that each one of you can do some good; if you have sisters and brothers, try to be forgiving and unselfish towards them,—think often how much your Father in Heaven loves you, how he is grieved when you do wrong, how he will watch over you for ever, and prepare a home for you in heaven, at least if you "will not be weary in well doing."

THE OLD MOUSE AND THE YOUNG ONE.

A LITTLE mouse, too young for thought,
Who prized no wit but what was bought,
And thought instruction glean'd from rules
Was only fit to shackle fools,

Young, pert, and vain, esteem'd it hard
To be of liberty debarr'd ;-

So gained at length mamma's consent
To see the world, and out she went;
The days were long, she travell'd hard,
And went quite round the farmer's yard;
New objects saw on every side,
Astonish'd at a world so wide.

In haste she took a transient view,

As travellers are apt to do;

And hardly gain'd the barn by night,

Unsatisfied, and in a fright;

Though pleas'd through foreign climes to roam,

Yet glad at heart to be at home.

Full many a day concludes the same,

Expected months before it came.
A London jaunt serves country wives
For conversation, all their lives.
This journey served for constant chat,
Approving this, condemning that.
Two things she saw above the rest,
Took full possession of her breast.

"I saw," says she, " Mamma, a creature
Of lovely mien and comely feature,
In shape, 'twas something like our kind,
With a long graceful tail behind,
But larger than our neighbour rat;
Upon its hinder legs it sat,

And with its fore-foot stroked its lip,
White as the milk you made me sip;
Looking so tender and so wise,
And lick'd its face and wink'd its eyes.
Such eyes I never saw before,
Green as the grass before the door :
Nearer I drew to hear its voice,
Which seem'd a gentle murmuring noise;
But happening just to turn my head,
I saw what almost struck me dead,
Close by me stood a horrid creature,
The most ferocious sure in nature,
With two long legs and monstrous claws,
Scratching, it stood among the straws;
Something it wore upon its head,
That glow'd and look'd excessive red,
All raw as if without the skin,
And dangled down below the chin;
It clapp'd its sides, and with a voice
That almost stunn'd me with the noise,
It scream'd so horrid, loud, and clear,
It made my blood run cold with fear;
I put the best foot first, and ran,
As you did, when you saw the man."

The old mouse smil'd, and said: "My dear,
How strangely you misplac'd your fear;
The thing which gave you such a shock,
Was a poor harmless, dunghill cock,
Who wakes betimes to call his neighbours,
While scatter'd grains reward his labours.
But, for your beauty, with the eyes
That look'd so innocent and wise,
And something seem'd like one of us,
'Twas that most horrid creature, puss,

Who every cunning art displays

To work destruction to our race;
Even from her kittening, prepar'd

To catch young mouselings off their guard;
Happy, oh happy, that you flew,

Or she had lick'd her lips at you,

Had cranched your bones, and suck'd your gore,
Then wash'd her face, and look'd for more;
Nothing but flight could save your bacon."
Young folks don't love to be mistaken;
The mouseling thought it strange, if true,
And blushing, half convinc'd, withdrew.

THE RELIGION OF THE GENTILES.

WE have seen how, in his first journey among the Gentiles, or peoples not Jews, Paul the Apostle found many who were ready to embrace a religion more satisfying to their reason, and more comforting to their hearts than the strange superstitions of the Pagan worship; yet the principal part of the inhabitants of these lands had no other religion-the multitude were idolators. Each city had its favourite statue of some god or goddess, which was guarded in a beautifully adorned temple, where bands of priests performed in its honour strange and mysterious rites and ceremonies, or paraded it through the streets of the city on festival days, in gorgeous processions, to the sound of music and hymns of praise. Such things were still as completely part of the life of the people as the flocking to church on Sunday at the summons of a bell, of the population of an English town. When good fortune attended the people, they ascribed it to the favour of the gods,—if evil came upon them, they said it was the anger of the gods. If a man committed a crime, he fancied that he could appease the offended deities by sacrificing some animal which was supposed to be sacred to them, or by offering up. on their altars fruits or flowers, milk or wine; and what was even worse, these very gods to whom they did homage were often such as had been men remarkable only, when on earth, for the greatness of their crimes, and whose very worship encouraged all kinds of immorality and impurity of living, so that there was no clear distinction in the minds of men between vice and virtue. With such, Paul and Barnabas would have little chance of gaining a hearing when they preached of a God of love, who liked "mercy better than sacrifice," or when they told of the holy life of Jesus of Nazareth. But in the towns they visited, the attention even of the ignorant populace would be attracted by the miracles performed by the apostles; "the Lord giving testimony to the word of his grace by signs and wondersTM done by their hands," so that of the multitude "part held with the unbelieving Jews, and part with the believing Gentiles."

In the city of Lystra, in Lycaonia, a most remarkable occurrence took place, which showed how ready were the ignorant and superstitious to interpret such manifestations of the power of God, by their own blind belief. It was perhaps in some public part of the city, that a man was lying who had been a cripple from his birth, and had never walked. This man heard Paul speak, and by the attentive way in which he listened to his words, or it may be, by the piteousness of his condition, attracted his notice, so that Paul looking on him steadfastly, perceived that he had faith to be healed, and said with a loud voice

"Stand on thy feet," and the crippled man immediately "leaped and walked." So wonderful a miracle thus performed by Paul in public, and upon one whose iufirmity was probably well known to all, caused great commotion in the city. The people cried out that the "gods had come down in the likeness of men.' They said that Barnabas, who was the older and taller of the two, must be Jupiter, the god who was considered the greatest and most powerful of all the Deities, while Paul, who had been the speaker on all occasions, and who had delivered such stirring discourses, he, said they, must be Mercury, the messenger of the gods, and the God of Eloquence. Now near the city of Lystra, was a temple erected to the honour of Jupiter, whom the inhabitants looked on as the founder and protector of their city, and to whom their priests were in the habit of offering sacrifices. It might be that just at that time some such rite was about to be performed, so that when it reached the ears of priests what had happened, they brought to the gates of the city oxen adorned with garlands of flowers, and prepared to offer them up to Paul and Barnabas, who the people said were gods" in the likeness of men. Let us picture to ourselves the shocked feelings of the two apostles, when the rumours reached them of what was intended, and when they saw approaching the crowds of people, the priests, and garlanded oxen-all ready to offer that worship to themselves which it had been the object of their teaching to condemn! After the manner of those days, when grief and horror were to be expressed, they tore their garments and running in among the people, asked them "why they did these things," assuring them that " they also were men, (not gods) of like passions with themselves, who had preached unto them, that they should turn from snch vanities unto the living God.” "The God," said they," who made heaven and earth, and the sea, and all things in them," and with more such earnest words they with difficulty restrained the people from the intended sacrifice.

In the second journey, however, which the apostle Paul, accompanied by Silas, made among the provinces of Asia Minor, and in Macedonia and Greece, he had to contend, not with such mistaken homage, but often with violence and persecution, on account of the efforts he made to show the error of some of the superstitions prevailing among the people, and the sinfulness of their idolatry. Thus at Phillipi, in Macedonia, Paul and Silas were brought up before a magistrate, "beaten with stripes, and thrown into prison," owing to their having cured of insanity a young girl who was supposed to possess the power of soothsaying or fortune-telling-a belief which was much mixed with the Pagan religion, whose priests and priestesses were in the habit of foretelling events. On this occasion the apos