up until "papa" came home, that the young mother had not found it in her heart to refuse his request. So to occupy him during the earlier part of the evening, she had narrated an attractive Bible story, to which he had listened attentively, and with much pleasure. Freddy always liked his mother's stories, because they were invested with so much interest, and were so lucidly explained, indeed, it could almost have been imagined that Mrs. Aubrey, when relating them, had for the time become herself a child, so readily did she adapt herself to the intellectual capacities of her infantine auditor. Certainly her resources were sometimes sorely tried to answer the various original comments and curious questions in which Freddy on these occasions appeared to take especial delight, but the difficulties were generally got over satisfactorily, and his appreciation of her talent as a story-teller was unbounded. This particular story was at length, to his great regret, brought to a close, and Mrs. Aubrey being at this moment called away to attend to some household duty, could not, as he wished, commence another. After a short absence she returned, but he was then deep in the study of a new picture-book, which had been papa's last present, so instead of disturbing him, she took up the first volume that came to her hand, and sat down by his side, intending to read. It happens not unfrequently that incidents trivial in themselves will suffice to divert the thoughts into a totally different channel to that in which they had previously run. It was so in this instance. volume which Mrs. Aubrey had taken up at random was a richly-bound copy of one of her favourite author's works, and had been the gift of her husband before marriage. On opening it, the first thing she saw was her own maiden name, written in his bold legible characters-"Edith Florence Percy, Leighcote, May, 18-." Memories of a time that had long gone by came rushing back at the sight, and instead of adhering

The

to her original intention of reading, she began to muse on the events of past years. Old familiar scenes again rose up before her in all their vividness, and her thoughts went back to a picturesque country home, with thatched roof, and old-fashioned windows, nestling in rural beauty at Leighcote, where as child, girl, and woman she had lived until Vincent Aubrey, having stolen away her heart, had persuaded her to become the light of another home. There, at the open window of the little sitting room one lovely evening, with the perfume of May flowers rising from the gay parterre, and the voices of the feathered tribe making melody around, she had stood-her golden hair glistening in the rays of the setting sun—and listened shyly, but with the thrill of a great joy, to the words of deep tenderness, uttered by an earnest pleader at her side. That was a momentous time to Edith Percy, for it was then she was asked to become a wife. She could not distinctly remember what her reply had been, but he who was most interested in it assured her afterwards that it was eminently satisfactory; and as she dated from that evening the existence of a new happiness, she was not disposed to doubt him. Now she was sitting in his home, surrounded by the tokens of his love, and upwards of five years had passedyears of blissful wedded life—during which she had never once regretted her choice, for all happiness that could spring from the possession of a true heart's devotion had been hers, and the budding hopes with which she had set out on her new career had blossomed, and borne rich fruit. The all-important step had not been taken without having first been made the subject of much prayer and grave consideration, and when she gave her heart and hand to Vincent Aubrey, it was in the sure faith that her life's happiness was entrusted to safe keeping. Her love for him had not been the result of a hastily-formed attachment, but was the growth of years, and had its foundation on

the deep respect she entertained for his many honourable qualities which a long acquaintanceship had afforded her ample opportunities of testing. Yes, the years of her married life had passed away happily, and no wonder, seeing that it had commenced with a pure love on either side, and a thorough perception of each other's temperament and character. Trusting in the same Lord as they did, and looking to Christ for a blessing on their union, it would have been strange indeed had these two faithful hearts not found a large share of earthly bliss.

While Mrs. Aubrey's thoughts were far away, as we have seen, Freddy had been bravely struggling against the drowsiness which was creeping over him. But it was of no avail-tired nature would have its way, and the weary little head sank down at last. And then mentally reproaching herself for having permitted him to sit so late, she took him up and cradled him in her loving arms. Papa would surely come soon, and then he would have the usual good-night kiss, and be laid contentedly in his little crib; but the time-piece on the mantel-shelf struck out the hour of eight, and Vincent did not make his appearance. She began to grow anxious. No message had been received from him, and she knew it was his invariable custom to send her word when it was likely he would be detained at the office or elsewhere. Could it be, that her dimly-defined suspicion that something was preying upon his mind, which had not been confided to her, was correct? The idea had half formed itself within the last day or two, that he was ill at ease; there was no change in his manner towards herself, that was tender and loving as ever; but he had not been quite so communicative of late, and more than once when she had addressed some remarks to him, had appeared not to hear it, as though his thoughts were far away. He had certainly looked very pale and worn when he left home in the morning, but he had excused that by saying

it was the effect of a headache, brought on by a close application to business. This had quieted her former fears for the time, though it had left her anxious about his health, but to-night they recurred again with increased force. With gentle hands she began to prepare Freddy for rest, but no sooner had she fairly commenced her task than he became wide awake, and not having forgotten the promise incautiously given early in the evening, that he should "sit up for papa," at once entered a protest against the breach of faith. "You know, mamma, you promised me," he said, fixing his eyes beseechingly on hers, and Mrs. Aubrey could not repress a smile at the confident manner in which the plea was urged, for Freddy knew that she had never yet made him a promise which she had intentionally unfulfilled. "I thought you were too tired to remain up, my darling," she said. But Freddy avowed, in all seriousness, "that he was not the least bit tired now;" and, going to the piano, asked her to play; and thus it came about that Vincent Aubrey, standing outside the door of his home, heard what he did.

(To be continued.)

"ALL WILL BE WELL."

Yote her only child is laid;

ON mother sits by the couch of pain,

How shall she cherish hope again,
When it hath so oft decayed?
"Never," she whispers, "never more
Shall that cheek in health grow bright;
Never again shall aught restore

To those eyes their beaming light." Yet the whisper of hope she cannot quell: Patience, patience, all will be well." A youthful student with fair, pale brow, By the midnight lamp is seen, Bright and high is his courage now, And his look is all serene; But when he turns to life's duil way, And disappointments rise, There's but one voice can keep away Despair from those young eyes. Still it breathes like a fairy spell: "Patience, patience,- all will be well."

A fair form stands by the wide, blue sea,
With a fixed and mournful eye;

She sees not how bright the waves may be,
Nor the sea-bird skimming by;
She watches every distant sail,

As it passes o'er the main ;

And she sighs, "To morrow he will come,
Though to-day I watch in vain.”
Still the voice to her heartdoth tell:
"Patience, patience,-all will be well."

All will be well though the hope deferred,
No time should realize;

All will be well, though the only child
In health no more should rise;
Though the youth should toil and struggle on,
Nor ever be repaid;

Though the watcher wait till life be gone,
And the grave her home is made,
Stern, sweet faith will ever tell:
"Patience, patience,-all will be well."

PREPARATION FOR HEAVEN.

Na couch of softest down lay little

O`Harry Russell. Everything which the

wealth of his parents could purchase was around him. The most costly playthings, the most beautiful pictures, and the most luscious fruits. But one after another was laid aside, and still he moaned and cried. "I wish I was well! I do not want to lie down here; I am afraid I will die!" His nurse tried to soothe him, for she was afraid he would die, and she wished to get him to think of Christ. So she said, gently, “Harry, wouldn't you like to go to heaven?" "No," said Harry; "it is too far, and I do not know the way; and when I would get there I shouldn't know anybody, and I would cry to come home to mamma." Poor Harry! he spoke the truth. He did not know anybody there; for his mamma had never taught him about Christ, and if it had been possible for him to get there without Christ, he would have been very unhappy. Perhaps some of my little friends think if they only get to heaven, it is no difference

how they live while here; but they must remember that unless they are prepared for heaven, they would be very uncomfortable if they were taken there just as they are. Suppose you had been playing in the street, and had fallen in the mud, and your mother, to punish you, had taken you to the parlour, where a number of guests were assembled, and compelled you to remain there in your soiled garments, wouldn't you feel very much ashamed as you compared yourself with those around ? It would be just so if you were you taken to heaven without a change of heart. Everyone there would be so pure and holy that you would be ashamed to look up. Angels who never sinned would be tuning their golden harps to the praise of the Saviour. Redeemed saints would join the song with still sweeter melody-to tell something of wondrous love, but you, you alone, would be silent. You could not tell how He had changed your heart, and given you a heart that could love Him; for your heart would be unchanged. Think of little Harry, and do not close your eyes without asking your Heavenly Father to give you a new heart, that you may love Him more and serve Him better than you have ever done before.

HINTS ON HEALTH FOR HUMBLE HOMES.

NO. VII.

THOSE who have given attention to the st study of health, have drawn up lists of articles of food, arranged according to their supposed qualities, whether digestible or not. To most persons such lists are of little value, as in almost every case each must judge for himself or herself; the stomach of one will take food which causes distress or discomfort to another. In certain things commonly supposed to be particularly unwholesome, we find that it is rather the