This may be further illustrated by a circumstance related by the naturalist Audubon, as occurring within his own knowledge, of a man who for many years had led the life of a pirate. On one occasion, while cruising along the coast of Florida, he landed, and was lying in the shade on the bank of a creek, when his attention was arrested by the soft and mournful note of a Zenaida dove. As he listened, each repetition of the melancholy sound seemed to him a voice of pity. It seemed to him like a voice from the past-a message from childhood's innocent and sunny hours; then it appeared like a voice of deep, sad sorrow for him, the far off wanderer, the self-ruined, guilty prodigal; and so thoroughly did it rouse him from his long sleep of sin, that there, on that lonely spot, where no minister of mercy had ever stood, he resolved within himself to renounce his guilty life, return to virtuous society, and seek the mercy of God; a resolution which he subsequently fulfilled, as we are assured by the

narrator.

There is that in the human heart which responds to the voice of gentle, pitying love, when all other agencies have lost their power; when all the thunder and lightning of Sinai itself might roll and flash in vain. Would that there were more, among those disposed to do good, who would make full proof of the mighty power of the spirit of kindness, pity, and love! The spirit of Jesus must be the model of our benevolence.

"ONLY BELIEVE."

"Он, my son," said one, "if there were but three men to be saved, only believe, and be sure you shall be one. Only believe,' and the gates of the celestial city will open to receive us, angelic choirs will give us glad welcome, even here we shall rest in the shadow of a great love." "But dangers stand thick on every hand," suggests Faintheart; how can we help being anxious?" "Only believe; The Lord is a shield to them that put their trust in him."

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Silver-tongued temptation may assail us." "He is able to succour them that are tempted." "What if poverty be our lot?"

the poor."

"The Lord knoweth

"What if riches, and we are cumbered with many

cares?"

"Give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure

in heaven."

"We may be homeless ?"

lay his head."

"Our Lord had not where to

"Friendless ?" "There is a Friend that sticketh closer

"The night cometh?" "He that keepeth thee will not slumber."

"Accidents may befall us?"

"The Lord shall pre

serve thy going out and thy coming in."

"Pain and sickness?" "The Lord will make all thy bed in thy sickness."

"The infirmities of age?" "They shall still bring forth fruit in old age."

"There are heavy burdens to be borne; perchance incessant daily toil?" "There remaineth a rest.'

"Wearisome nights may be appointed to us?"

giveth songs in the night."

"He

"Death will surely come. It knocketh alike at the lordly palace and the lowly cottage." "It is well with the righteous." "Death is swallowed up in victory."

To the believer, every providence is but another stroke of the chisel upon the marble block, shaping it for its position in the heavenly temple.

LOOK UPWARD.

How often do Christians depressed in spirits, and mourning over past hopes and joys, seek to regain the evidences of their good estate by looking backward to the period of conversion, and inward upon their own weary, sinsick hearts. Without depreciating the duty of self-examination, or the profit to be derived from a recollection of past experiences, I would say to such, Look upward. Come to Jesus now, just as if you had never come before, and cast yourself, a helpless sinner, at his feet. There renew your Vows of consecration to him, resolving, by his grace, to live more for his glory than ever before. Then will you be able to rejoice, and joy in the God of your salvation.

Ir was a bitter night in winter, snow lay heavy on the ground, and there was no moon in all the dark sky. Along a lonely high road came a poor woman footsore and weary, her scanty dress tightly held by a little girl, who cried at every step for tiredness and pain.

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Mother, are we nearly there?" said the child.

No, child, we have a goodish piece to walk yet, but mother will carry you a bit," and the poor woman raised the child in her weak arms.

"Mother, I'm so hungry!"

MARCH, 1868.

To this there was no

D

answer, for the mother had no food to give. At length they saw before them the scattered lights of the village, and soon the steep road led down among a few houses, a church, and village inn. As they came to the inn the flapping sign of "The Cock" showed in the ruddy light from the windows, and mother and child stopped at the door, which was open for some one to pass out. In the kitchen sat a group of sturdy labourers talking, over their ale, of the last harvest and the promise of the next, of prices, and the new parson, and all the items of village news; they looked warm and comfortable to the poor travellers outside, and yet the woman lingered on the step. At last she came a little forward, so that the landlord's quick eye saw her. Only a tramp," he said to himself," she don't stop here;" then aloud, "What's your business, good woman ?"

Oh, sir, for pity's sake take us in and give us shelter and food; we have no money, but

"No money," broke in the landlord, "then what do you do here? The workhouse is the place for you. Better be off at once I tell you."

"The work"She looks dead

There was a murmur among the men. house, poor soul, that's many a mile off." beat," said another; and one of the more kindly looking turned to the landlord and said, "You let her sit down a bit and rest, Mr. Brown, and I'll pay for a cup of beer for her."

The hearty voice brought tears to the poor woman's eyes. "Nay, no beer, thank you kindly," she said, "but if the child might have a sup of bread and milk.” "Child! ay. I didn't see as you had one. Mr. Brown, you let your missis give them both some food, and I'll see you paid."

"My missis," growled the landlord," she'll do it fast enough; there's nought pleases her but throwing away good food and money on folks not worth a farthing. Wife, d'ye hear, get some porridge or gruel, or some of that sort of stuff, and be quick about it."

The kind landlady soon brought a basin of steaming bread and milk, but the poor mother tried in vain to feed her hungry child; the warmth and the sight of food were too much for her exhausted frame, and she fell from her chair in a faint.

"Dear heart, how young she looks," said Mrs. Brown,

leaning over her. "George, we can't turn her away; will you let me carry her up stairs?"

Mr. Brown gave a surly assent, as there seemed nothing else to be done; "but mind," he said, " she goes away the first thing to-morrow."

But when the morning came, she was in no state to be moved, and soon the parish doctor, hastily summoned, pronounced her case hopeless.

"There has been more than mere exhaustion and fatigue here, some heavy sorrow crushing out youth and life," and so it was. Left alone in the world, and quite penniless, she was seeking, with her child, to walk the long distance to the home of her childhood, where she faintly hoped to find help; but the merciful God had called her to a better home. "God help my child!" were her last words, as the little thing was lifted on the bed, wondering with wide eyes at the strange scene. "He has never forsaken me, and I trust my darling to the orphan's God." A smile of peace lit up her face; she fell back and died.

Long that night did the landlord of the "Cock" and his wife talk before they could decide what was to become of the little child, only three years old, thus left alone in the world. "She must go to the parish," said Mr. Brown, "and the best place too;" but the wife pleaded hard to be allowed to keep her. "She is like our little Alice, and I want her for Alice's sake," she said. "Sure, George, when you think of the little one that's gone, you'll be willing I should keep this child." The landlord had loved his only child, and still grieved for its loss; and, touched by the remembrance, he at last yielded to his wife's wish. But Mrs. Brown had another reason for her kindness besides her love for her dead child; she had been greatly touched by the submission and Christian trust of the poor woman, and she longed to teach the little one the same lessons of faith and hope, to nurse the child for God and its mother. That night, kneeling by the cold form, Mrs. Brown took the child for her own, and prayed for help to train it in the right way. Then she cut a long tress of hair for the child, and took from the pocket of the poor dress the one treasure it contained-a small handsomely bound but wellread Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written, "Mary Mitchell, from her loving husband." The hair was laid between the leaves of the book, and, with the wedding-ring, was put by till the child should be old enough to prize