She fell down on her knees before him, and 
looked at him entreatingly. 
“ Forgive me, papa!—forgive me all the 
wrong I have done,” she said. 
Her tears overpowered her, and she leaned 
her head on his knees and wept. The Pas¬ 
tor took off his spectacles in astonishment. 
He then looked at Agnes. 
“ But, my dear child, what is the matter?” 
he said, attempting to raise her from the 
ground. “ Come and sit down, and tell me 
what you have done.” 
“ No, no, papa ” she sobbed, “ let me be 
here until you say you forgive me. 1 have 
behaved badly towards von ; I have not been 
what I ought, to have been to you, but have 
only thought of myself, instead of making 
you my first thought; I have not been your 
comfort, I have done nothing for you!” 
The Pastor’s eyes glistened; lie raised'her 
and sal her on his knees. lie stroked the 
damp hair back from her forehead and 
kissed the tearful eyes. "God bless you, 
my child,” he said, mildly. “ Have you 
been nothing tome?—You have boou all 
to me.” 
Agnes had laid her head on his breast; 
she looked so happy. 
“ You arc so good to me, papa, more so 
than 1 deserve. But i promise you that I 
will try to do belter, and make everything 
comfortable, as it used to he.” 
He smiled, patted her cheek, and pressed 
her to his heart; she reposed there like a 
child on its mother’s breast. A noise was 
heard upstairs. Trunks were heim: dragged 
about, and a female voice was heard culling, 
“Halvah! Marie! Wills!” Someone 
came down stairs. Then there was a great 
noise outside. 
“ Why, what can be the matter?” asked 
the Pastor. 
“ Oh, it is only Matiiilde,” answered 
Agnes, keeping still nearer to her father. 
Directly after, Mathilde entered in her 
traveling dress. 
“1 am most obliged to you,” she said, 
courtesying mockingly, “ for your excessive 
hospitality!” 
“ What is the meaning of all this?” asked 
the Pastor. He was going to gel up, but 
Agnes put both her arms round his neck 
and held him fast.” 
“Are you going away?” 
“ Yes indeed ! When I am turned out of 
the house, it is quite time to go, 1 think,” she 
answered. " I shall certainly never trouble 
you again.” 
“ But,” began the Pastor. 
“ Aslc your daughter; she can explain to 
you.” 
“ But it is dark outside,” and he again tried 
to rise, but in vain. “Can you not wait until 
to-morrow ?” 
Agnes said not lung, but looked at her fath¬ 
er, its if she meant to say, “ Do not ask her 
to stay!” 
“ No, preserve me from staying here any 
longer,” said Matiiii.de ; “ it would he a pity 
not to hasten back to town to tell them how 
you treat, your visitors.” 
“ Bui. you will at least take my carriage?” 
“ No, thank you, 1 have procured a earl,” 
she said, and again courtesying, she left the 
room. They heard the drivers whip, and 
Matuii.de was gone! 
It was so quiet! You might hear the old 
clock in the kitchen tick quite plainly, and 
that was all. In the dining-room the lamp 
burned brightly, spreading its pleasant light 
over t hose two, the Pastor and his daughter. 
He had put his arms found her, and every 
now and then smoothed her hair, as she lay 
with closed eyes, resting in that place she so 
long had sought. 
And out upon the high road the snow 
storm blew T through the naked trees, and 
Mathii.de, seated in her rickety cart, quar¬ 
reled with her driver. 
CHAPTER IX. 
Victory, 
A few days afterwards Agnes met the 
Student. He looked surprised. Why w T as 
she alone? 
“ What have you done with your friend ?" 
lie asked. 
“ She is not my friend.” 
“ Is she not your Iriend ? 
“ She was once, hut that is, thank God, 
past,” 
The Student looked at her. She stood 
there so calm, so serious, so independent; he 
thought he had never seen her look so wo- 
maniy, 
“But she resided with you,” hecontiuued. 
“ Yes, but she does so no longer.” 
“ But 1 thought she was to remain through 
the whole winter ? 
“ I have sent her away,” answered Agnes, 
in a determined tone. “ l could not bear 
that half life any longer.” 
The Student stood still. He gazed at her, 
but suddenly his face brightened. He 
took bet* hand in Ids. “Is it really true, 
Miss Agnes? Have you done as you 
say ? God bless you, how glad I am. 
And now l have something to say to you— 
no, not now, but to-morrow. Shall you be 
at home to-morrow? Farewell, farewell!” 
The Student, went home, but Agnes re¬ 
mained on the high road. She knew not 
what to think, but yet she almost guessed 
what it was. She went home, and up to 
her room, but she could not sit still. She 
lay awake the whole night thinking. She 
could not close her eyes; towards morning 
she slept a little, but. even in her dreams she 
saw the Student, and thought that he re¬ 
peated continually," I shall come to-iuorrow. 
I have something to say to you.” 
The Student went home like a storm wind, 
and nearly frightened his old housekeeper to 
death, she who had always seen him so se¬ 
date. A moment after lie had come in, he 
began to sing so that she thought the house 
was on fire. She flew in with a porridge 
ladle in one baud and a herring in the other. 
" Where is it?” she exclaimed, looking 
round to see what she should rescue first. 
“ Is Matts at home?” asked the Student, 
hastily. “ Tell him to come to me, directly.” 
“ Here is a coat for you, Matts,” be said, 
as MATT8 entered, cap in hand, and he look 
out the old coat which had so displeased 
Mathilde. “ If you can use this waistcoat 
and these boots, take them! And, do you 
hear, Marianne, to-morrow you must put 
out my new’ black suit, but brush it well.” 
Matts looked at him. “ There is nothing 
more now; I would rather be alone,” lie 
added, as lie saw Marianne preparing to 
make a speech. He seated himself on the 
edge of the bed and passed ids hands over 
bis eyes. Suddenly be got up and paced the 
room; lie perceived a letter lying on the 
table; it was from his old friend. He tore 
open the envelope and scanned its contents. 
It was as follows: 
“ Dear Friend: —You must excuse my not ap¬ 
pearing, this time, the guy thought.lOMj fellow 
you have known me to fie. You told mo si long- 
time ago that my letters did you good, and yet 
ufler swell a long lapse of time, yoll can still 
write the same. Do you not sec what this is 
leading yon to? You wrap yowisejf up in your¬ 
self to Mich a degree, that at last you will stand 
alone against the whole world, and harden into 
a ijoai relsoiiui, drv, tiresome pedant, who cares 
for no one, and for whom no one cares. Hut 
whftt good does ll do to you, and what good does 
It do to ihe world, to pn-aoh against it? Believe 
me I hey only laugh at you! The truth is. you 
regret the world more than It regrets you, Ts 
this i he way to make a proper use ol your talents, 
which (Jon has given ypu?—like the silkworm, 
to wrap yourself up in your eoeuOn and die? If 
it really were so, that you had n wound which 
could not he healed ami that you still felt In¬ 
wardly—then 1 would certainly not add to your 
burden. Hut you yourself write that you cun 
look back both upon horand your youth, as on 
a picture. I think, too, that your disposition Is 
too fresh, too buoyant, to sink Into dreams, like 
an unhappy poet. Hal I will tell you one thing 
as a frlotid. It 1“ no longer your Borrow In hav¬ 
ing lost her which has made you .so misanthropic, 
but your own prUle, which tools wounded, and 
which, therefore, t.n.ils you its a disobedient 
child. You know that your talents were far 
above the ordinary, and yet she preferred an¬ 
other who was fur your Inferior. This was the 
wound, and from that time you declared war 
upon all woman-kind; you would not see their 
ijimd qualities, hut you drew out their weak 
points and rejoiced over them. I cannot believe 
my country women are so bad as you make them 
mil to la-, nr that marriages are so unhappy; I 
have myself experienced the contrary. Hui 11 It 
should he so. whose is i lie fnuli ? It is your (adit, 
and the fault of those husbands who eit inw des¬ 
pise their wives, or else let them make of them a 
plaything lor their caprices. Woman was made 
for man, ami when man will not be a true man, 
how i- woman to lieu true woman? Therefore, 
look to yoursell and see II vou have nothing to 
care. It sounds very modest, certainly to say, 
that, you will go your way through life alone, 
and be forgot,lea, but t do not believe in this 
modesty. Wo wiilnot allow yon to live alone, 
and retired; you must come out from your 
retreat and tight, in the world’s battle. I am not 
at all inclined to write you anything about, my 
travels, for, to tell you the truth, when I 
received your last letter I was so vexed that l 
declared l would write no more. Since then, 
however, I have repented, and now write these 
linos. I await your response, and if you do not 
write in a ditferept tone, then I shall think you 
incurable. Your friend, N. N." 
The Student sal still, with the letter mills 
ham). “ Is it possible that, I might have be¬ 
come such a man? But,- thank God, it is 
soon over I 1 shall no longer be solitary; 
ami to-morrow 1—to-morrow!” 
Matts and Marianne sat, too, talking 
qyer what great event was likely to take 
place to-morrow. 
The next morning the Student went to the 
Parsonage. He knocked at the dining-room 
door. No one answered, so he opened the 
door and went in. Aon its stood in the mid¬ 
dle of the room ; she was on her way to the 
door to open it. She had on a black dress, 
with a plain white collar. She looked rather 
pale, not having slept during the past night, 
but i he Student thought she had never looked 
so pretty. 
I to was also well dressed, and wore a white 
cravat, carefully tied, (a very unusual cir¬ 
cumstance with his cravats.) Agnes had 
never before seen his eyes look so deep and 
mild as to-day. He came forward and took 
her by the band; he felt how it trembled, 
and his own did the same. 
“ I promised to tell you something,” he 
said. “ Will you sit down and hear me pa- 
tienlly ? It is nothiDg more than an account 
of my past, life.” 
Agnes seated herself; he did the same. 
“ You perhaps think, Miss Aqnes, that 1 
have always boon the same gloomy and se¬ 
vere man that I now am, but 1 have been a 
merry, light-hearted student.” 
“ 1 know that,” said Agnes, in a low tone. 
“ You know it?” he said, astonished. 
“ Then perhaps you also know that 1 was 
once engaged to he married.” This the Stu¬ 
dent said with some difficulty. 
“ 1 know that, too,” said Agnes, without 
looking at him. 
“ But there is one thing that you do not 
know,” he said, and the words were uttered 
with some embarrassment, “ that is, how 
hardly I have judged you; but 1 have mis¬ 
understood you; you have much to for¬ 
give me!” 
Agnes looked at him; her eyes were so 
bright and beaming. 
“ Yes, you do not believe me, but I judged 
you as 1 did all the rest of your sex. I thought 
you had no high aspirations, that, you were 
very well for a few moment’s amusement, 
but not hing more.” He looked at her searcli- 
ingly, aud then said calmly, “And so I dis¬ 
covered one day that 1 was mistaken, aud 
was caught in lity own net. You have been 
stronger than I; you have cleared my view 
—have attracted my whole soul to you; 
and now first do I discover that it is of you 
I have dreamed—it is you for whom I have 
waited all my life.” 
Agnes had bowed her head; she was not 
able to say a word; her bund trembled in 
his. He looked at lier lovingly-. 
“ It is you who must answer, Agnes?” he 
said, after a pause. “ You understand me. 
You have seen my home; it is cold and 
desolate, but you will spread sun and warmth 
there. You know 1 am no louger young. I 
cannot offer you a heart, filled with song and 
poetry, but if you will have a hand which 
will always protect you, a man who knows 
no greater pleasure than to work for you, 
and who feels himself competent for any¬ 
thing when by your side—Will you, Agnes? 
Can you love me?" 
Agnes did not answer; her hand pressed 
the Student’s, aud her countenance beamed 
with happiness. Her destination in life was 
no longer duty, but happiness. 
In the evening they all three,—the Pastor, 
the Student and Agnes, —sat together in the 
dining-room. The lamp shone brightly, but 
their facta were still brighter. “Agnes, 
sliull we go to town ?” asked the Student 
Agnes sat a moment. “ It would then be 
only to beg Matihlde’s pardon,” she said, 
“ but we should come home again.” 
-»♦» - 
FOUND, 
.A. DIAJYIONI} RING. 
I saw it. kicked by the careless Balmorals 
of a jaunty nurse; I saw u fat morsel of 
humanity 'make for it with a hey 1—broken 
into divers hay-ey-cya by pudgy trotting— 
and I slopped and secured it, thereby caus¬ 
ing the (at one to pull up short, stare at me 
with two black currants set in a dreary ex¬ 
panse of dough, insert a dumpy thumb in 
an orifice of the same expanse, and trot 
back again with that stolid resignation 
under disappointment, which is the peculiar 
attributes of the London infantile population. 
Having ascertained the nature of my 
prize, I proceeded to meditate on the proper 
course to pursue, which meditation resulted 
in the following advertisement: 
T 70UND, tills evening, Wednesday, in Redout's 
rank, ncnrly oppostU! the New College, a valua¬ 
ble diamond ring. The owuer may recover itby call¬ 
ing at No. l'.i Wlnton Place, ete. 
Before noon on the following day, I was 
making my most conrleous how to a vener¬ 
able looking old gentleman, whose white 
face and benevolent smile added a double 
charm to the grace with which he stepped 
forward, and, waiving ceremony, extended 
his band, saying: — “You have taken a 
weight from my mind, my young friend, and 
must allow me to thank you.” 
The insinuating delicacy of the adjective 
(I am not more Hum forty-five,) was, per¬ 
haps, not without its effect, i accepted the 
offered pledge of amity in respectful silence. 
“A young iiinn" continued the patriarch, 
“ may possibly find it difficult, to understand 
how the loss of a trinket, can be a source of 
positive suffering to an old one, but—1 sim 
alluding to my lost ring—there arc associa¬ 
tions connected with it which— ahem ! This 
is childish, you will excuse my emotion.” 
I bowed profoundly in presence of this 
natural agitation. 
“ I have passed Borne hours of sleeplessness 
and distress^ front which you have been the 
means of relieving me—I feel deeply indebted 
to you. There remains nothing now but to 
reimburse you for—” 
"Excuse me, sir,” I stammered, rather hur¬ 
riedly, “ but if the ring is yours, you can un¬ 
doubtedly describe its armorial hearings.” 
“ Armorial hearings, sir! It was a diamond 
ring 1” 
“ Certainly.” 
“ A plain diamond ring,” repeated the old 
gentleman sternly. “ Do not attempt, to 
play tricks on me, young man. I will point 
out, to you directly—” 
“ I beg your pa rdon,” s aid 1, drawing back 
from the outstretch? u oh nd, “ but as the ring 
in my possession is sfirely engraved with a 
crest and motto, I conclude it cannot be the 
one you arc in search of." 
The old gentleman eyed me for a moment 
keenly. 
“ I am afraid you arc right,” he sighed, in 
a tone of deep dejection, “1 must seek far¬ 
ther. Alas! what a melancholy termination 
of my hopeful journey.” 
“ Speed the parting, welcome the coming 
guest, 1 ’ is a very good mol'.o. I made no at¬ 
tempt to detain my venerable friend ; but as 
he turned toward the door, 1 am certain I 
saw beneath the silver hairs, a lock of dark 
and shining brown. 
My next visitor was a lady, extensively 
got up, of imposing bight and carriage, 
rouged, scented, spectacled. 
“ We meet under singular circumstances,” 
began this lady, with condescending haugh¬ 
tiness. “ I am the principal of a college for 
young ladies.” 
Willi a deferential bow at the honor done 
me, I begged to know what had procured it 
“ In the hours of recreation we are accus¬ 
tomed to promenade in the park—a delight¬ 
ful spot, so suggestive of the blushing coun¬ 
try. During our ramble of yesterday a 
young lady under my charge was so unfor¬ 
tunate as to lose her ring. You, sir, are the 
fortunate finder.” 
“ I certainly did, madam, pick up a ring, 
bill—" 
“ Ah ! how grateful my pupil will be at 
beholding it again !” exclaimed the teacher 
of youth, clasping her hands ecslatically. 
“ May I trouble you to describe the ring?” 
“ Describe it! A diamond ring, handsome 
and massive, but plain.” 
“ And the crest?” 
“ The crest; Ah ! that my young charge 
wore with me. Stupid to have forgotten. 
The crest of the Deloraines. Is it a lion 
pa&mnl or? No, I am wrong. Unfortunate 
that she should be too unwell to accompany 
me ! But it is immaterial; I will take it for 
her inspection ; she will recognize it imme¬ 
diately.” 
“ I fear, madam, that 1 should scarcely be 
justified—” 
“ Sir!” 
“ I feel it my duty,” I said firmly, “ under 
the circumstances, to take every precaution 
against mistakes. 1 trust the young lady is 
not too seriously indisposed to give you the 
necessary i n formal ion.” 
“Very well, sir! Exceedingly well, sir! 
I fancied—yes, actually fancied—that I was 
speaking to a gentleman. You will find, 
sir, that the lady principal of a female col¬ 
lege is not to lie insulted with impunity. 
Good morning.” 
Very harrowing this. I am scarcely re¬ 
covered from my lady governess when there 
is a dash of wheels to the door, and a young 
fellow, flinging the rein to a groom in livery, 
springs up the steps to the door hell. 
“ Oh, dash it!” he begins, breathing out a 
volume of stale tobacco, " 1 beg your par¬ 
don, and that, but the old woman—dash it! 
that’s my mother—told me I should find my 
ring here, and so I ordered out the vessel 
and the cats, and spun along like ninepence 
for it.” 
“ I shall he very glad lo restore the ring I 
was so unfortunate as to find when lean dis¬ 
cover its owner.” 
"Discover? dash il ! didn’t I tell you it’s 
mine? I say, I wish you wouldn’t be so 
precious slow—I don’t want the cats to catch 
cold, I’ve just had ’em shumpooned, y’know, 
napthaed, and that." 
“ What sort of a ring w’as yours?” 
“ What sort ? Oh, come, as if you didn’t 
know—that’s good!” 
I intimated that 1 should beglacl to find out 
if lie knew. 
“ Not know my own ring, eh! I know it’s 
worth a couple of ponies. Come, let’s bear 
the damage, and I’ll stump up.” 
“ I cannot give up the ring unless you de¬ 
scribe it.” 
“Oh, dash it! don’t chaff a fellow, now. 
I shouldn’t care a rap about the thing, only 
it belonged to some defunct party, and the 
governor would cut up so deuced rough. 
I’ve got heaps of ’em. Come, I’ll swap you 
any one of these for it , because of governor.” 
j respectfully declined the proposal. 
“ Well, dash it,” explained the young fel¬ 
low, as though struck with a sudden idea, 
“ what a couple ofmufi's we are! Why don’t 
you turf the thing? I could tell you iuarnin- 
ule if it’s mine, dash it!" 
1 replied that I was very sorry I could not 
oblige him, and adding that lie had belter ob¬ 
tain an exact description of the "thing” from 
bis governor, 1 recommended him not to keep 
the cuts longer in the cold. 
Mem.—1 am getting exceedingly tired of 
my treasure-trove. I retire to rny room with 
a view of dressing to go out. 1 am informed 
that a lady wishes to see me, and I am afraid 
my mental calculation was not complimen¬ 
tary to the lady in question. 
A tall, graceful figure, draped in heavy 
mourning, rises at my entrance. She opens 
the negotiation in some confusion, turning 
away Her face. She lias come lo me in the 
hope of regaining a ring, carelessly lost, the 
parting gill of a fond father, to her brother 
and herself. 
My eye rests on the crape about her dress, 
on her pale, beautiful face, from which the 
blush of confusion and timidity has faded. 
Deferentially I request her to describe it. 
“ A large diamond, handsome,” she be¬ 
lieved, “ but valuable to her for far other 
reasons.” 
“ But,” 1 said gently, “ chased on the gold 
inside the ring there is—" 
“ A crest, 1 am aware of it,” she answered 
sadly, “ but 1 know nothing of heraldry, and 
have never given it more than a casual 
glace. My brother is dying, sir,” she said, 
lifting up her pale face to mine. “ Only this 
morning he missed the ring from my finger, 
uneasily; we are aloue in the world; il is 
the only relie left of one so lately taken from 
us: how can 1 tell him it is lost V” 
“ 1 am sorry to pain you,” I said, striving 
to be firm ; “ but. it. would be more satislac- 
tory for nil parties, and cause but little de¬ 
lay, if you could obtain the description from 
your brother,” 
Without a word she turned away; the 
mournful resignation of her air and attitude 
touched me, and as she turned 1 saw a tear 
roll silently down and fall upon the hand 
stretched to the door handle. I couldn’t 
stand that. 
“Stop,” I exclaimed, “one moment. 1 
am sure—I feel certain—1 may trust you. 
You will tell me—” 
I take the ring from its security, 1 hold it 
out timidly for the blue eyes to examine. 
i see yet the look of delight overspread 
her fine features—I see the expression of al¬ 
most childish pleasure in her eyes as she 
looked up at. me and clasped her hands, and 
cried out, “ The ring, the ring! Oh, Alfred, 
my dear brother!” 
Her hand was upon it; such a tremulous, 
happy eagerness in her glance; such a caress¬ 
ing fondness in her way of fingering it. How 
pretty she was! 
“ My dear child,” (I am forty-five,) “ it 
gives ine sincere pleasure—” Then 1 stam¬ 
mered, then I sprang after her. “ At least 
you will leave your address with me.” 
What a look shades her face now! Wound¬ 
ed integrity, mingled with pity for me. 
“ All, sir,” she says, sadly, handing me the 
cavd on which she has been penciling, “some 
day you will be sorry for this. You do not 
trust me,” 
Certainly I am a brute. The accent of re- # 
proach in her voieu haunts me; the sorrow¬ 
ful glance of her eye—how pretty she is! 1 
sit down to my breakfast in the morning, half 
inclined to call at the address given, and apol¬ 
ogize for my heutbenish distrust. 
' How delightful to see her in her own pe¬ 
culiar atmosphere, ministering to the sick 
brother, who is all she has in the world, to 
look upon, if one cannot enjoy, the beautiful 
tenderness of a gentle sister to an afflicted 
brother. 
But my letters wait, aud I toy with them. 
This is a hand I know. Wlmt does Fred 
want, I wonder? 1 tear it open; I read: 
“DE.tn Jack. -What a queer chance if you 
have stumbled upon my nrm. I was obliged to 
run down to Romford late last evening, and 
never missed it till we slackened at. lll'ord. A 
pretty taking I've been in. It' it’s mine, the 
erest is niHide. You know it—a mailed hand 
holding a lance, and the motto, ‘Armed at alt 
points.’ Verily truth is stranger than lie tied. 
Keep it for me. Fuku V yning.” 
Idiot! Gull! It is quite useless to call 
myself names. It is almost superfluous to 
add, that when I called at. a certain address 
in Easton square, to inquire for Miss Lucy 
Hamilton, the lady was not to he found. 
Probably the “ dear Alfred ” had required 
speedy change of air ; probably brother and 
sister were even embracing, in rapturous 
gratitude, over the precious relic of one lost 
to them so lately. Was that dear one not 
lost, but transformed? Hud the silver-haired 
patriarch of the first visit changed to the 
dashing buck of the third ? And was the 
virtuous teacher of youth only the tender 
sister in masquerade? On my word, I 
believe so. I dare say they are enjoying the 
joke. Possibly it is a dodge often repeated. 
But what am I to say to Fred ? 
§>;tbbafl) 11 cab in a. 
eg, - 35 
THE CHRISTIAN'S HOME. 
BY WM. K0BERT30N. 
Across n silent, silent river 
1» the Christian's happy home; 
Where the weary, weary pilgrim, 
Shall forever cease to roam. 
In that distant, distant haven. 
They're unknown to sin nnd strife, 
They hare left tills world so dreary, 
And they have '• eternal life.” 
There the lonesome, way-worn trav’ler 
Will find all his troubles o’er; 
When the happy, happy angels 
Greet him cm that distant shore. 
Ah ! yes, the Christian Journeys from 
A world that's dark, where sin Is rife 
To far otTclimes, whore ho will bask 
In streams of everlasting life. 
Then, sinner, turn, turn and retrace 
Thy stops and eeaso to roam; 
Go thou and seek thy Father’s face 
And the Christian’s happy home. 
Weston, Texas, 1871. 
-♦♦♦- 
A STRING OF PEARLS. 
The true disciple never abides in willful 
sins. 
When we find Him in our hearts, we shall 
find Him in everything. 
It is a good thing to obey the law of God, 
but it is a better thing to love it. 
“The path of the just is as the shining 
light, which shineth more and more unto the 
perfect day.” 
Coleridge says: — Intense study of the 
Bible will keep any writer from being vulgar 
in point of style. 
Every heart has its secret sorrows, which 
the world knows not, and oftentimes we call 
a man cold when lie is only sad. 
An ill-spent, or a well-spent Sabbath, lias 
a direct bearing lbr evil or good, on the week 
following, and on the entire after life. 
God has manifested himself through Jesus 
Christ, for the sake of producing a higher, 
sweeter, purer, better life among men. 
Many a child goes astray, not because 
there is want, of prayer or virtue at home, 
but simply because home lacks sunshine. 
The man who is nearest to God and most 
used by llim, must be the most successful. 
" O glorious Cross! Faith trusts the day to see 
When Hope shall turn all eyes, Love draw all hearts 
to thee.” 
Goethe says:—“ ‘ 1 believe in a God.’ 
This is a good and worthy thing to say; but 
to acknowledge God just how and where lie 
reveals himself—this is the one rare bli>s of 
earth.” 
Many people think themselves friendly 
when they are only officious. They counsel 
not so much that you may become wise, as 
that they may be recognized as teachers of 
wisdom. 
Christian assurance does not become a 
person who is cherishing some darling sin. 
The indulgence of wickedness grieves away 
the Holy Ghost, from whom alone assurance 
can come. 
Just as a mother loves all her children, 
even those that are weak and sickly, so Christ 
cares for those wiio are weak in the faith— 
who have many doubts and fears—who have 
heavy burdens aud temptations. 
When God comes to take possession of 
men, He takes possession of their hearts, 
their zeal, their enthusiasm. It is manhood 
that does the work on men ; and that man¬ 
hood has to be thoroughly aroused from the 
foundation. 
Cecil once wrote:—“ ‘ Enter into thy clos¬ 
et, and shut tliy door.’ ‘ Shut thy door’ 
meaus much; it means, shut out, not only 
nonsense, but business; not only tbe com¬ 
pany abroad, but the company at home; it 
means let thy poor soul have a little rest and 
refreshment, and God have opportunity to 
speak to thee in a still, small voice, or He will 
speak to thee in thunder.” 
-♦♦♦-- 
RELIGION AND REASON. 
A writer in the Interior says:—It is as 
absurd to apply the rules of human logic to 
the question, how mau's free agency can co¬ 
exist with the absolute rule of God, as to 
this other question, how the sun and the 
moon could stand still at Joshua's command, 
whereas science demonstrates that no such 
thing could happen without causing the des¬ 
truction of all things terrestrial. Paul under¬ 
stood this, and therefore indicated the wrong- 
fulness of asking such questions at all. Iluve 
not the defenders of divine revelation made a 
fatal mistake in descending from this high 
‘vantage ground, to encounter rationalism on 
its own field ? It cannot be disguised that 
human pride revolts against the idea of hav¬ 
ing no other method to meet the sneering 
assertion, that Divine revelation cannot 
stand the tests of reason; but there is no 
other, and cousolation may he found in these 
sublime words, which fell from the Saviour’s 
lips:—“I thank Thee, O Father, Lord of 
heaven and earth, because Thou has hid 
these things from the wise and prudent, and 
hast revealed them unto babes.” 
