sionally by exclamations like this from the old farmer; "Fudge-stuff-great overgrown baby-making a fool of him-never be out of leading-strings;" and then turning short about and facing Will as he entered, he said

"Well, sir, look in your sea-chest, and you'll find gingerbread and physic, darning-needles and tracts, 'bitters' and Bibles, peppermint and old linen rags and opodeldoc. Pshaw! I was more of a man than you are when I was nine years old. Your mother always made a fool of you, and that was entirely unnecessary, too, for you were always short of what is called common sense. You needn't tell the captain you went to sea because you didn't know enough to be a landsman; or that you never did anything right in your life, except by accident. You are as like that ne'er do well Jack Halpine, as two peas. If there is anything in you, I hope the salt water will fetch it out. Come, your

mother has your supper ready, I see."

Mrs. Low's hand trembled as she passed her boy's cup. It was his last meal under that roof for many a long day. She did not trust herself to speak-her heart was too full. She heard all his father so injudiciously said to him, and she knew too well from former experience the effect it would have upon his impetuous, fiery spirit. She had only to oppose to it a mother's prayers, and tears, and all-enduring love. She never condemned in Will's hearing any of his father's philippics; always excusing him with the general remark that he didn't understand him. Alone, she mourned over it; and when with her husband, tried to place matters on a better footing for both parties.

Will noted his mother's swollen eyelids; he saw his favourite tea-cakes that she had busied herself in preparing for him, and he ate and drank what she gave him, without tasting a morsel he swallowed, listening for the hundredth time to his father's account of "what he did when he was a young man.'

"Just half an hour, Will," said his father, "before

you start; run up your duds."

and see if you

have forgotten any of

It was the little room he had always called his own. How many nights he had lain there listening to the rain pattering on the low roof; how many mornings awakened by the chirp of the robin in the apple-tree under the window. There was the little bed with its snowy covering, and the thousand and one little comforts prepared by his mother's hand. He turned his head-she was at his side, her arms about his neck. "God keep my boy," was all she could utter. He knelt at her feet as in the days of childhood, and from those wayward lips came this tearful prayer, "Oh, God, spare my mother, that I may look upon her face again in this world!"

Oh, in after days, when that voice had died out from under the parental roof, how sacred was that spot to her who gave him birth! There was hope for the boy! he had recognised his mother's God. By that invisible silken cord she still held the wanderer, though broad seas roll between.

Letters came to Moss Glen-at stated intervals, then more irregularly, picturing only the bright spots in his sailor life (for Will was proud, and they were to be scanned by his father's eye). The usual temptations of a sailor's life when in port were not unknown to him. Of every cup the siren pleasure held to his lips, he drank to the dregs; but there were moments in his maddest revels, when that angel whisper "God keep my boy," palsied his daring hand, and arrested the halfuttered oath. Disgusted with himself, he would turn aside for an instant, but only to drown again more recklessly "that still small torturing voice."

"You're a stranger in these parts," said a rough farmer to a sun-burnt traveller. "Look as though you'd been in foreign parts?"

"Do I?" said Will, slouching his hat over his eyes. "Who lives in that little cottage under the hill ?"

"Old Farmer Low-and a tough customer he is, too; it's a word and a blow with him. The old lady has had a hard time of it, good as she is, to put up with all his kinks and quirks. She bore it very well till the lad went away; and then she began to droop like a willow in a storm, and lose all heart, like. Doctor's stuff didn't do any good as long as she got no news of the boy. She's to be buried this afternoon, sir."

Poor Will stayed to hear no more, but tottered in the direction of the cottage. He asked no leave to enter, but passed over the threshold into the little "best parlour," and found himself alone with the dead. It was too true! Dumb were the lips that should have welcomed him; and the arms that should have enfolded him were crossed peacefully over the heart that beat true to him till the last.

Conscience did its office. Long years of mad folly passed in swift review before him; and over that insensible form a vow was made, and registered in heaven.

"Your mother should have lived to see this day, Will," said a grey-haired old man, as he leaned on the arm of the clergyman, and passed into the village church.

"Bless God, my dear father, there is 'joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth;' and of all the angel band, there is one seraph hand that sweeps more rapturously its harp to-day for the lost that is found.'"

TO YONDER SIDE.

REV. ROBERT MURRAY M'CHEYNE.

THE Cooling breath of evening woke

The waves of Galilee,

Till on the shore the waters broke
In softest melody.

"Now launch the bark," the Saviour cried, The chosen twelve stood by, "And let us cross to yonder side,

Where the hills are steep and high.”

Gently the bark o'er the water creeps,
While the swelling sail they spread,
And the wearied Saviour gently sleeps,
With a pillow 'neath His head.

On downy bed the world seeks rest,
Sleep flies the guilty eye,

But he who leans on the Father's breast
May sleep when storms are nigh.

But soon the lowering sky grew dark
O'er Bashan's rocky brow,

The storm rushed down upon the bark,
And waves dashed o'er the prow.

The pale disciples trembling spake,
While yawned the watery grave,
"We perish, Master,-Master, wake!
Carest Thou not to save?"

Calmly He rose, with sovereign will,
And hushed the storm to rest.

"Ye waves," he whispered, "Peace! be still!" They calmed like a pardoned breast.

So have I seen a fearful storm
O'er wakened sinner roll,

Till Jesus' voice, and Jesus' form
Said, "Peace, thou weary soul."

And now He bends His gentle eye
His wondering followers o'er,
"Why raise this unbelieving cry?
I said 'to yonder shore.""

When first the Saviour wakened me,
And showed me why he died,

He pointed o'er life's narrow sea,

And said, "to yonder side."

"Peace, peace! be still thou raging breast,
My fulness is for thee,"
The Saviour speaks, and all is rest,

Like the waves of Galilee.

THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS.

REV. TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

"ARE they not all ministering spirits," says St. Paul, "sent forth to minister to them who shall be heirs of salvation ?" In this passage we are plainly taught, that ministering to the saints is a standing employment of angels, throughout the ages of time. Accordingly, they are exhibited in Jacob's vision of the ladder as "ascending and descending," from heaven to earth, and from earth to heaven continually, in the discharge of this great duty. According to this declaration also, we are furnished by the Scriptures with numerous examples of their actual ministry to the children of God. Thus angels delivered Lot from Sodom, Jacob from Esau, Daniel from the lions, his three companions from the fiery furnace, Peter from Herod and the Jewish Sanhedrim, and the nation of the Israelites, successively, from the Egyptians, Canaanites, and Assyrians. Thus they conducted Lot, Abraham, and the Israelites, in seasons of great difficulty and danger, to places and circumstances of safety and peace. Thus they conducted Gideon to the destruction of the Midianites, Joseph and Mary to Egypt, Philip to the Eunuch, and Cornelius to Peter, to the knowledge of the Gospel through him, and to the salvation of himself, his family,