joy of that household stood, as we have seen, upon the borders of the awful river. Then was it that Helen began to understand her own position, and, with the natural impetuosity of her nature, to hurry headlong towards desperation.

No more was said that evening, for he of whom Helen had spoken, he whose bright hopes of earthly happiness were shadowed evermore, came now to minister unselfishly to the ennobling of the spirit that was departing; and Helen left them to the hallowed intercourse which only such minds can know. But the next morning saw her early at Edith's side; and the first words that met her cousin's ear were such as only God can fully understand.

"Dear Edith, 'We have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have now received the atonement." "

"Is it so, Helen ?" enquired Edith joyfully.

"Yes, yes. We shall not long be parted, Edith," cried Helen, with her head on the same pillow; "for I, too, have 'an inheritance, incorruptible and undefiled, and that fadeth not away,' reserved in heaven for me!"

And from that hour the life of Helen Lester was a noble Christ-like thing. No higher praise can mortal life receive; no words of loftier import can the angels sing.

And Edith? Flowers grow now upon her grave; but in the place where bloom unfading flowers, she shall be called ere long to welcome her beloved ones, ransomed, even as she was, by the blood of Calvary.

Is there no study here for thee, my reader? Art thou already a disciple of the Master ? See to it that thy lamp be trimmed in preparation for his quick appearing; and be thou faithful to the loving hearts around thee. Art thou in danger of eternal separation from the redeemed who have already entered heaven? Fly to the only hope, and fly even now. For such as thou art, Christ, the friend of sinners, bowed his head and died. Only believe!

"What new project now ?" said her sister Marion, looking up from her Sabbathschool lesson, which she was busily preparing. "I've just been reading in here," she said, laying her hand on the Bible, "that riches bring a snare, that those who will be rich, fall into divers temptations."

"I guess you couldn't have stopped to think twice, before you spoke, this time, Addie."

"Yes, I have been thinking it over for a long time, and the more I think, the more I wish," she said, with a very positive motion of her head.

"What excuse can you possibly plead, Addie, for so earnestly desiring that which God has expressly declared to be a curse, rather than a blessing?" "You seem to be taking the matter quite in earnest, sister," said Addie, with a smile. "But since you wish it, I will tell you what particularly called forth that expression just now. Just listen," she said taking up the paper again, "Somebody here says, 'I propose to be one of fifty, to raise five thousand pounds for Burman and African missions immediately.' And then the editor says, 'Who will respond ?" Now I was wishing, Marion, that I was rich, so I could be one of those fifty."

"According to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not, will it be required of him," said Marion. "The God who knoweth all things, knows that for you and me, poverty is better than riches. If you have but one talent, and improve that faithfully, it is all God requires. If you give all you can possibly spare,-"

But here her sentence was interrupted by the door-bell. Addie sprang to the door, to welcome her "dear pastor," as, in her enthusiastic way, she always called him.

After returning their cordial salutations, he immediately told them he had come ona little business. He was very sure he should find sympathy, so he came.

"Perhaps you have heard already, of our plan to establish a Sabbath school, at West village," he said.

Addie assented.

"I heard of it only this morning," said Marion; " and I must say I was much pleased. I should like to know more about it. Who started the enterprise ?"

"Mr. Sawyer and his daughter Helen, are the originators of it. They hope they have secured the attention of something like thirty children; and should they succeed in

creating sufficient interest to keep them together, a great amount of good, without doubt, can be accomplished. It is to be held at the time of our afternoon service." "That is quite an objection," said Addie. "True," rejoined the pastor; but it is a much better hour for the children, than one later."

"The good of a few should, certainly, be cheerfully sacrificed, for the many," said Marion. "For myself, I think the reward would come in the sacrifice; and if my services would be of any assistance, I should be most happy to render them."

"That is just what I called for; to secure you, and your sister, also, if possible, for teachers."

"Indeed," said Addie, "I should like to go very much; but it's so far to walk, and as I am not accustomed to it, I don't think I could go. And then," said she, smilingly, "I really am hardly self-sacrificing enough, to be willing to give up our afternoon service."

"The Lord loveth a cheerful giver," said the pastor, and without urging the matter left, thankful that there was one Marion Grey in his parish, and wishing there was more.

"I always felt that West Village should

be made a sort of mission field," said Marion. "But until now, I never have had strength to do anything myself. Now, while I am well and strong, I must be diligent; and God only knows, how long the blessing may be granted."

"I suppose it is so," said Addie, evidently dwelling on the first part of the sentence, "but just the thought of that long walk, a mile and a half, down and back; and then to sit an hour, with those little, dirty, ragged children; couldn't think of it, for anything."

why, I

"Not to save souls ?" said Marion, reproachfully. "When you asked for riches an hour since, did you ask for a disposition and for grace, to be a faithful almoner? Already has God given you, if not riches, that which might be made a great blessing, health, strength, sufficient talent, and a heart, I trust, in the main rightly directed. 'According to that a man hath,' Addie."

Two o'clock Sabbath afternoon found Addie, side by side with Marion, among the "little, dirty, ragged children," with pleasure in her heart, and pleasure beaming in every feature. A true missionary spirit had gained a complete victory over indolence, and she was there, a "cheerful giver," such as the Lord loveth.

THE THREE HANDFULS OF

GRAIN.

It was one day in the early spring of the year, that Gerard Steimer called his three sons, Adolphus, Henry, and the little Bernard, to his side. In his hand he held an open letter. The tears shone in his eyes, and his voice was very sad, as he addressed them:

"You have often heard me speak, my children, of my brother Bernard, who left home many years ago to go into business in a distant country."

"Yes," they replied, and they gazed wonderingly at their parent.

"Well, my sons," he continued, "your uncle Bernard, having at last amassed a considerable fortune, had determined to return to his native village, and take up his abode with for we are the only two that remain of a happy family of seven brothers and five sisters," he added, as he drew his hand hastily across his eyes.

me;

"And is uncle coming soon ?" enquired Henry, in an animated tone.

"He should have been here by this time, my son," replied his father, "but an Allwise Providence has ordered it otherwise; and now," he added, "I fear that you will never see him, for this letter informs me that he is lying very ill in a distant city, and he desires me to come to him, that he may see me once more, and that I may assist him in arranging his affairs."

"And you will go, father ?" said Bernard anxiously.

"Certainly, my child. And during my absence, cousin Jacob Reimmer and his wife will come and take care of the house, for I shall probably not return until the fall, as I shall have to travel some distance; and in case of your uncle's death, there may be a great deal for me to attend to." "Perhaps he will get well, and then you will bring him home with you."

"I fear, Bernard, that that may not be,

for he writes me word that the doctors say his case is hopeless. Listen now attentively, my children, to what I am going to tell you, for it is a message to each of you from your dying uncle. He says, Give a handful of grain to each of your three children when you leave them to come to me, and tell them to do with it what they think best during your absence, and when you return you will decide who has made the best use of it, and will reward that one according as I shall tell you.'"

It is autumn. The little Bernard stood watching at the open window, when a carriage drove hastily up to the door, and the aged Gerard stepped from it, holding in his hand a small tin box.

"Oh, there is papa! there is papa !" he exclaimed.

Then the three children rushed from the room and threw their arms around him, saying,

"Oh, we are so glad to see you papa, you have been so long away!"

"And I am glad to see you, too, my children, and all looking so well," replied the aged man, as he bent forward and gave each of them a kiss.

Cousin Jacob Reimmer and his wife now approached to welcome him, and he inquired of each of them how the children had behaved during his absence.

"Oh, they have been very good boys," he replied.

Ger

They all now entered the house. ard Steimer then placed the tin box that he held in his hand upon the table, and taking a small key from his pocket, opened it, and drew from thence the last will and testament of his brother Bernard Steimer.

All gazed sadly upon the old man, as with trembling hands he unrolled it, and said,

"I had the sad pleasure, my children, of closing my brother's eyes in peace, and of laying his remains in their last restingplace. In this will he bequeaths the whole of his property to the one I shall decide has made the best use of the handful of grain that I gave each of you before I left home. Let me now hear, my children," he added, "what you have done with it." "I," said Adolphus, "have saved mine. I put it in a small wooden box, in a dry place, and it is just as fresh as the day that you gave it to me."

"My son," said his father, in a stern

voice, "you have laid by the grain, and what hath it profited thee? Nothing! So is it with wealth. Hoard it, and it yieldeth neither profit nor comfort. And you, Henry," he continued, "what have you done with your handful ?"

"I ground it to flour, papa, and had a nice sweet cake made of it, which I have eaten.'

"Foolish boy !" he replied, "and it is gone, having given thee but a moment's comfort and support. So is it with money. Spend it upon thy pleasures, they also are but for a moment." The aged Gerard now turned toward his youngest son, and drawing him toward him, said,

"What use has my little Bernard made of the handful of grain that I gave him?" The child smiled, and clasping his father's hand between his own, said,"Come with me, papa, and I will show you."

They all followed the boy as he led the way toward a field that belonged to his father, but which was situated at some distance from the house.

"See, papa !" exclaimed the happy child; "see what has become of my handful of grain!" and he pointed in delight toward a corner of the field where grew the tall, slender corn, which, laden with its golden ears, waved and rustled beneath the gentle breezes.

The aged Gerard smiled, and resting his hand upon Bernard's head, said, "You have done well, my son. You sowed the grain in the earth, and it has brought thee forth a bountiful harvest; to you must I award my brother's fortune. Use it as wisely as you have the handful of grain. Neither hoard it up nor spend it merely upon thine own pleasures, but bestow it upon the poor, upon the fatherless and widow, upon the little ones of Christ, and He shall remember it with a plenteous reward."

THE QUAKER'S CORN CRIB.

A man had been in the habit of stealing corn from his neighbour, who was a Quaker. Every night he would go softly to the crib and fill his bag with the ears which the good old Quaker's toil had placed there. Every morning the old gentleman observed a diminution of his corn pile. This was very annoying, and must be stopped-but how? Many a one would have said, " "Take a gun, conceal yourself, wait

till he comes, and fire." Others would have said, "Catch the villain, and have him sent to gaol."

But the Quaker was not prepared to enter into any such severe measures. He wanted to punish the offender, and, at the same time, bring about his reformation, if possible. So he fixed a sort of trap close to the hole through which the man would thrust his arm in getting the

corn.

The wicked neighbour proceeded on his unholy errand at the hour of midnight, with bag in hand. Unsuspectingly, he thrust his hand into the crib, but found himself unable to withdraw it! In vain he tugged, and pulled, and sweated, and alternately cried and cursed. His hand was fast, and every effort to release it only made it more secure. After a time, he gave over his useless struggles, and began to look around him. All was silence. Good men were sleeping comfortably in their beds, while he was compelled to keep a dreary, disgraceful watch through the remainder of that long and tedious night, his hand in constant pain from the pressure of the clamp which held it. His tired limbs, compelled to sustain his weary body, would fain have sunk beneath him, and his heavy eyes would have closed in slumber, but there was no rest, no sleep for him. There he must stand and watch the progress of the night, and at once desire and dread the return of the morning. Morning came at last, and the Quaker looked out of his window, and found he had" caught his man."

What was to be done? Some would say," Go out and give him a cow-hiding just as he stands, and then release him; that'll cure him." But not so said the Quaker; such a course would have sent the man away embittered, and muttering curses of revenge. The good old man hurried on his clothes, and started at once to the relief and punishment of his pri

soner.

"Good morning, friend," said he, as he came in speaking distance. "How does thee do ?"

The poor culprit made no answer, but burst into tears.

"O fie!" said the Quaker as he proceeded to release him. "I'm sorry that

Thee put it

thee has got thy hand fast. in the wrong place, or it would not have been so."

The man looked crestfallen, and begging forgiveness, hastily turned to make his retreat. "Stay," said his persecutor,-for he was now becoming such to the offender, who would have received a blow with much better grace than the kind words that were falling from the Quaker's lips,-" stay, friend, thy bag is not filled. Thee needs corn, or thee would not have taken so much pains to get it. Come, let us fill it." (And the poor fellow was obliged to stand and hold the bag while the old man filled it, interspersing the exercises with the pleasantest conversation imaginable,-all of which were like daggers in the heart of his chagrined and mortified victim.) The bag was filled, the string tied, and the sufferer hoped soon to be out of the presence of his tormentor, but again his purpose was thwarted.

"Stay!" said the Quaker as the man was about to hurry off, having muttered once more his apologies and thanks. "Stay! Ruth has breakfast ere this; thee must not think of going without breakfast. Come, Ruth is calling!"

This was almost unendurable! This was "heaping coals" with a vengeance! In vain the mortified neighbour begged to be excused; in vain he pleaded to be released from what would be to him a punishment ten times more severe than stripes and imprisonment. The Quaker was inexorable, and he was obliged to yield.

Breakfast over, "Now," said the old farmer, as he helped the victim to shoulder the bag, "if thee needs any more corn, come in the day-time, and thee shall have it."

With what shame and remorse did that guilty man turn from the dwelling of the pious Quaker! Everybody is ready to say that he never again troubled the Quaker's corn crib. I have something still better than that to tell you. He at once repented and reformed, and my informant tells me that he afterwards heard him relate, in an experience meeting, the substance of the story I have related, and he attributed his conversion, under God's blessing, to the course the Quaker had pursued, to arrest him in his downward course.

CHILD.

(Translated from the German.)

I.

About seven miles from Dresden, and in full sight of the monstrous cliffs upon which stands the old castle of Holpen, lies the little village of Seligstadt. It is a quiet little place, with scarcely any business. The inhabitants are industrious, plodding folks, content to live on as did their worthy forefathers-working hard, knowing little, and at last lying down peacefully to die. The quiet of this rural community was not often disturbed; and little Minnie's adventure formed quite an era in its history.

One sunny day in the early part of spring, the girls of the village were gathered together in the house of one of the most wealthy of the peasants, for the purpose of assorting feathers. Geese were plentiful in Seligstadt, and picking and assorting their feathers was an important part of the industry of the little town. It was customary for the girls to get together for the latter work, and make a merry time of it, like our old pairing bees, only at Seligstadt the merriment came after the work was over, not in company with it. It was necessary to keep still, lest the feathers should get blown about and the different kinds mixed all together. But when the task was done, and the tables and chairs put away, they let out their suppressed glee and frolicsome spirits in a boisterous dance.

So it happened on that early spring day. No sooner were the feathers put up, and the room cleared, than the lively tones of a fiddle sent forth notes of invitation to the eager ears of the gallant youths who lingered about the dwelling. Earlier than this they were not permitted to enter. But now they flocked in, with pleasure beaming in their honest faces.

Herman, the son of the village magistrate, heard the alluring strains as he stood on the piazza at home, and immediately started for the scene of pleasure, His little sister, Minnie, a slight, pale child, about four years old, tripped after him unperceived. She, too, like the rest of them, wanted to dance in the bright and joyous room.

Just as they reached the house, Herman happened to look round, and saw little Minnie trotting after him. She met his look with a sweet smile and merry twinkling eyes. But the thoughtless boy harshly hade her go home, and not be tagging him everywhere.

Poor Minnie! The smile vanished, and with tears starting in her meek, blue eyes, she turned sadly away towards home. Herman went into the dancing room, without looking to see whether she took the right direction. He soon forgot her in the merry throng of lads and lasses. But let us leave him to his selfish enjoyment and follow the little sister, so harshly repulsed from the pleasant, warm dancing room.

With a heavy, heavy heart, and eyes fixed on the ground, she walked slowly on and on, thinking not of the way, till suddenly she found herself out of the village, on the open heath. It was growing dark, the wind had risen, and the snow began to fall. Bewildered and frightened, little Minnie ran as fast as she could over the uneven heath; but, alas, not towards home! All her poor little brain could think of was, that her mother was a way off, and she must run fast to find her. The cold wind and the snow chilled her through. She had no hood or tippet, but drawing her apron over her head, she still ran on— farther, farther away from home. Right bravely, at first, the poor child breasted the storm, hoping soon to sit by the warm hearth at home. But when it grew darker, and more wild, and no moon nor stars came out, her brave little heart gave way, and she cried, and sobbed, and called her mother, through the storm. Nothing but the rude wind made reply. She took no heed of losing one shoe, and soon the other, in the mud. Without rest or stay she ran on barefooted. Her head seemed ready to burst, and she felt so sad, and weary, and cold, and not a dry stone or sheltering tree for rest and safety. last, very weariness compelled her to lie down; but she was afraid to lie still there, and springing up again, she ran on and on in the pitiless storm. The cruel night shuts her at last from our view.

II.

At

It is often said that there is only a thin partition between joy and sorrow. While