was life, and how far off seemed death,-death, that lurks in all pleasant places, and was so near!

The wind had freshened by this, and we found it comfortable to put on the jackets which had been thrown aside in the heat of the day. We strolled along the beach, and gathered large quantities of the fairy-woven Iceland moss, which, at certain seasons, is washed to these shores; then we played at ducks and drakes, and then, the sun being sufficiently low, we went in bathing.

Before our bath was ended, a slight change had come over the sky and sea; fleecy white clouds scudded here and there, and a muffled moan from the breakers caught our ears from time to time. While we were dressing, a few hurried drops of rain came lisping down, and we adjourned to the tent to await the passing of the squall.

"We're all right, anyhow," said Phil Adams. "It won't be much of a blow, and we'll be as snug as a bug in a rug, here in the tent, particularly if we have that lemonade which some of you fellows were going to make."

By an oversight, the lemons had been left in the boat. Binny Wallace volunteered to go for them.

"Put an extra stone on the painter, Binny," said Adams, calling after him; "it would be awkward to have the Dolphin give us the slip, and return to port minus her passengers.

"That it would," answered Binny, scrambling down the rocks.

Binny Wallace had been absent five or six minutes, when we heard him calling our several names in tones that indicated distress or surprise, we could not tell which. Our first thought was, "The boat has broken adrift!"

We sprang to our feet and hastened down to the beach. On turning the bluff which had hidden the mooring-place from view, we found the conjecture correct. Not only was the Dolphin afloat, but poor little Binny Wallace was standing in the bows with his arms stretched helplessly towards us-drifting out to sea!

"Head the boat in shore!" shouted Phil Adams.

Wallace ran to the tiller; but the slight cockle-shell merely swung round and drifted broadside on. Oh, if we had but left a single scull in the Dolphin!

"Can you swim it?" cried Adams desperately, using his hand as a speaking-trumpet, for the distance between the boat and the island widened momently.

Binny Wallace looked down at the sea, which was covered with whitecaps, and made a despairing gesture. He knew, and we knew, that the stoutest swimmer could not live forty seconds in those angry waters.

A wild, insane light came into Phil Adams's eyes, as he stood knee-deep in the boiling surf, and for an instant, I think he meditated plunging into the ocean after the receding boat.

The sky darkened, and an ugly look stole rapidly over the broken surface of the sea.

Binny Wallace half rose from his seat in the stern, and waved his hand to us in token of farewell. In spite of the distance, increasing every instant, we could see his face plainly. The anxious expression it wore at first had passed. It was pale and meek now; and I love to think there was a kind of halo about it, like that which the painters place around the forehead of a saint. So he drifted away.

Poor little Binny Wallace! Always the same to me. The rest of us have grown up into hard, worldly men, fighting the fight of life; but you are for ever young, and gentle, and pure; a part of my own childhood that time can not wither; always a little boy, always poor little Binny Wallace!

From "The Story of A Bad Boy." Abridged.

May I reach

That purest Heaven,―be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion evermore intense!
So shall I join the choir invisible,
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

George Eliot.

LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet! I do not ask to see
The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;

I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

Square thyself for use. A stone that may fit in the wall is not left by the way.

Persian Proverb.

AFTON WATERS

BY ROBERT BURNS

Through a friend of Sir Walter Scott we get an interesting por trait of Burns as he appeared to Scott when the latter was sixteen

years old. The meeting between the

two, one of whom was to become his country's greatest novelist, and the other, who was already known as its most gifted poet, took place at the home of a mutual friend. "Burns's person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish, with a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity. His eye was large, and literally glowed when he spoke with feeling or interest." Yet, not long before this Burns had been plowing ground for the sum of seven pounds a year.

He had come by chance on some of Shakespeare's plays, Pope's poems and other books, and, he tells us, "I pored over them, driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, verse by verse." Later this plowman was welcomed to the friendship of the first men and women of his time. Carlyle has described the songs of Burns as "humble, pensive lark-notes," as of a "skylark, starting from the humble furrow, far overhead into the blue depths, and singing to us so genuinely there!" Burns was peculiarly a poet of his own country's life, especially of her peasant life. In The Cotter's Saturday Night and in Honest Poverty he has shown that this life often has true dignity and beauty. The birthplace of Burns, near Ayr, is one of the pilgrim shrines of Scotland. [Born in 1759-died in 1796]