It was a happy day for me when I decided to take you, my boy," said the Captain. "As soon as we reach St. Petersburg, you shall have a day on shore; for your prayers have saved the ship." He kept his promise, and the boy employed his holiday in going all over that large and beautiful city. He stopped in front of the Emperor's palace, and stood still, admiring all the magnificent carriages which were passing to and fro. While thus employed, he saw something fall out of one of them. He picked it up: it was a beautiful diamond bracelet. He ran after the carriage, and called out to the coachman to stop; but it was useless. The carriage was soon quite out of sight. John went back directly to the Captain, and showed him what he had found. "You're a lucky fellow, John: these are very valuable diamonds." "But they are not mine," answered John. "Where did you find them?" "They fell out close to me. I picked them up, and ran after the carriage; but the coachman drove on, and neither saw nor heard me." "Well, John, you did all you could to give them back to their owners: now they are yours. You can sell them in London, and get a great deal of money for them." But John was much too honest to be caught by the bait. "No, no Captain: the diamonds are not mine. If we had a storm in returning to England, I could not pray to God with such a dishonest intention in my heart; and what would become of us then ?" “Ah, I had not thought of that," said the Captain: "come, we'll try and find the owner.' She was soon discovered, and John received £50 as a reward for his honesty. An immense sum for him. By the Captain's advice, he laid it out in furs, which he afterwards sold in England for double the price they had cost him. With this little fortune, and a light joyous heart, he began his journey home. He soon saw the cottage where he had left his poor mother; but the path was all grown over with grass, the windows were shut up, the house was empty. Poor John was almost broken-hearted. "Doubtless" he thought, "my poor mother has died for want and misery." But he just then recognised one of the neighbours, who ran up to

him, and told him his mother still lived, and was well, though in the almshouses. With what delight they met; and how happy and grateful did John feel, when he brought his mother back to their own cottage again; It is his greatest delight to take every care of her, and to support her, with his own labour.

Now dear children, God's word was the cause of all this. This it was which changed the child's heart, and taught him to be an honest boy, full of trust in God, and made him a tender dutiful son. This it was which by the Spirit of God instructed and directed him. This it was which spoke to him of Christ, the sinner's Friend, and made him desire to be with Jesus in heaven, so that he could say, with David, "Thy word giveth wisdom and understanding to the simple." Remember, dear children, that if you pray for God's Spirit to bless the reading, hearing, and learning of it to your hearts, it can do all this for you too.— C. M. P. M.

A TRUE HERO.

A FEW years ago, a young man belonging to Philadelphia, was returning by railroad to that city, from the town of Reading, Pennsylvania. By an accident which happened to the train, as it was approaching town, and while he was standing upon the platform, he was thrown off, and fell partly under the wheel of the succeeding car, and his right arm, "marrow, bones, and all," was crushed to a jelly, and dropped uselessly at his side. This, however, was providentially his only injury. He was a young man of determined nerve and of the noblest spirit. He uttered no complaint—nor even a groan. When the train arrived at the depot, a carriage was immediately called, when attended by his friend, he said to the coachman, "Drive at once to Dr. M- -'s, in Walnut street."

"Hadn't you better go immediately home?" asked his friend.

"No," said he, "I don't want them to know anything about me until it is all over."

"Our hero," for he was a hero, was deaf to all the counter-remonstrances of his friend, and they drove rapidly to the house of the eminent surgeon alluded to. They were shown into the parlor, and the doctor was summoned. After an examination, "Well, my dear fellow," said the surgeon, for he was well acquainted with his patient, "you know, I suppose what must be done ?" "I do," he replied, "and it is for the purpose of having it done that I am here." "My surgical table," said the Doctor, "is below." "Can it not be done without that?" asked the sufferer. 66 Amputate my arm here, doctor," he continued, holding out his dangling arm over the back of the sofa. "Do it here, doctor; I shall not flinch; I shall not interfere with your operations."

The limb was bared, two attendants, medical students in the house, were summoned; the arm was taken off, above the elbow, while the patient sat as he had requested, uttering no groan, nor speaking a single word, while the operation was being performed. The dressings were applied, and, attended by his friend, the patient had reached the door, on his way to his own house, which was very near by, when he turned round to the surgeon and said, "Doctor, I should like to look at my arm once more; pray let me see it." The surgeon raised the mangled limb; the patient glanced at the bloodless hand and said, "Doctor, there is a ring upon the middle finger of that hand; won't you take it off for me? My MOTHER gave me that ring when she was on her death-bed. I can part with my arm, but while I live I can't part with that ring.” The ring was slipped from the cold, white finger. "Put it on that finger," said he, holding out the same finger on his left hand. As he was leaving the door, with his attendant, to enter the carriage, he said, "How shall I break this thing to my poor sister?" Was he not a true "hero," reader.

THE BROKEN ROSE.

I WAS visiting my Aunt Mary. I was named after her, and as she took a great interest in me, was anxious to do all I could to please her. She was a great favourite among the children. One day Kate Ray, who lived at the next door, came in to see me. The little puss was in the parlour, and we had a great frolic with her. By and by, I held her up to catch a fly on the window; and it was quite funny to see her try to pounce on it. On the sill was a new-blown tea-rose, which Aunt Mary thought a great deal of. "Take care," said Kate, or puss may jump on it; and then!" But I thought more of the fun, when suddenly she made a spring at the fly, and she snapped the stem of the beautiful rose. "What will your Aunt Mary say?" cried Kate. "Oh dear!" We raised it up and tried to make it stand, but it kept toppling down; at last we made it lean against a branch, and it looked almost as well as before. "I must go now," said Kate, for there was no more fun for us.

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"Had I better tell Aunt Mary, or let her find it out?" I asked myself. "Tell her certainly," said a voice within: "when an accident happens, always make it known to those who ought to know it; why not?" But I was afraid, and kept delaying, and went off to grandmother's room; and she told me how to fix my patch-work, and so the time passed on until afternoon, when a lady and her little daughter came to see Aunt Mary, and I was called into the parlour also.

"Ah! that rose!" thought I; but go I must. I had not been in long, when the flowers were talked about, and Aunt Mary got up to show them her tea-rose. "Why, it is faded, broken!" she said. "How did this happen? Mary, do you know anything about it?" I felt frightened, and answered quickly, "No, ma'am." No sooner were the words out, than I began to feel bad indeed. "Worse and worse," I said to myself. "Why did I not say puss and I did it? Why didn't I tell the truth about it ?" Now I knew perfectly well that Aunt Mary would neither have scolded nor

fretted, for I did not mean to do it. I had not been as careful as I ought to have been, but she would have forgiven me; my sin was that I had told the lie. Aunt Mary liked to have things accounted for, so she asked every one in the house about the broken rose, but nobody could tell how it was done. Pussy could not tell, and I was afraid to, and now doubly afraid lest she should ever find it out. The idea of being caught in an untruth, and by Aunt Mary too, who was so truthful herself, and so very kind to me, was dreadful. "What shall I do?" I cried; "where shall I go? I wish I had not come here; and I thought I was going to have such a beautiful visit!" I had no appetite for supper; my head ached and my heart beat hard. When Aunt Mary kissed me for the night, and said in her sweet way, "Good-night, my dear child," I felt as if I wanted to fall down and die.

Two days passed away. On the third I went up stairs to put on my things to take a walk with grandma; it was in the forenoon. While I was dressing, the front door opened, and Kate Ray's voice sounded in the entry. All my fears came back fresh upon me. "She'll tell! she'll tell!" What a tumult I was in! Presently my name was called. "I'm found out!" I cried; and without knowing exactly what I did, I ran and hid in the closet. "Mary! Mary!" they called; no Mary answered. After a while there were footsteps in the entry. "Oh, my mother! my mother!" I cried; "I wish my mother was here: will not God help me?" Somebody came into my room and walked straight to the closet door; the door opened, and there stood Aunt Mary herself.

anxiously, "what is the Then for the first time I

"My dear child," she said matter? how came you here?" burst into tears; and what a relief it was. She placed me on the bed and sat down beside me, and talked to me so kindly, just like my mother. As well as I could, I told her all. Oh how sorry she looked! After a while she spoke, and then only said, "How true what the Scripture says,' The fear of man bringeth a snare; but whoso putteth his trust in the Lord, shall be safe."" I shall never forget