vine, and my Father is the husbandman. In my Father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you.”

One Sunday evening, when Lucy paid her usual visit, she was shocked to see the change in her countenance, and, contrary to her usual custom, determined to stay with her that evening. She accordingly sat down by the bedside, and told Ursula her intention. The aged face lighted up with pleasure, and she thanked her in a feeble voice.

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Miss Lucy, what kind of evening is it?”

"It is a lovely evening, Ursula, though we have had such a cloudy day. I can just see the setting sun through the window, and it is so splendid; there are some clouds round it, beautifully lighted up. They are very dark, but their edges are all gold and crimson."

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Miss Lucy, I think -"

"What, Ursula ? "

"That I must be something like that; my heart has just been like those ugly black clouds in the middle of the day; but now, Miss Lucy, I feel the Sun of Righteousness is shining on me. Oh! Miss Lucy, if it ha'nt been for you! Oh, hush, dear Ursula! You must not say so; you know I can do nothing unless God strengthens me. Wait till to-morrow."

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"Miss Lucy, I shall not be here to-morrow. What bells are those?

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They are the church bells, and the people are now flocking in at the doors."

"Oh dear, Miss Lucy, on what a blessed day to die!— just when God is listening to the prayers of his good people! Don't cry so, my dear! Put your arm under my head-so! There, now! Oh! how happy I feel! Kiss me just once more, Miss Lucy, and then let me lie down and rest."

Her voice died faintly away; but as Lucy bent down her head, she caught the words, "I go to prepare a place for you."

A light sigh passed her lips, her head sunk back heavily, and her spirit passed away, like a child going to sleep!

"Oh, mother! mother!" sobbed Lucy; "I know I ought not to cry so, but it is not all sorrow; I feel so grateful to God for letting me do something for Him!

MOST truly is it said, that "all who will live godly in Christ Jesus must suffer persecution." Men of the world hate the light of the gospel, and feel condemned by the spirit and temper of its professors, and, therefore, they combine against them to destroy them. The description Bunyan gives of the trial of Christian and Faithful reminds us of many of the notorious proceedings which were carried on against saints and confessors in the days of Queen Mary and her successors. In our own beloved country, we are not now exposed to such fearful and open sufferings in the cause of Jesus; but there is the same rancour. Envy, superstition, and treachery still live, and never fail to show themselves when opportunity is given them, though, for shame's sake, they are generally masked.

If you are a real Christian, many such charges will be preferred against you. You will be called a hypocrite, a psalm-singer, and righteous overmuch. Many may seek to find occasion to misrepresent and do you wrong—so that your very good may be evil spoken of. But true magnanimity will bear all these things patiently, remembering that “if we confess Christ before men, he also will confess us before his Father who is in heaven." The day of trial, sooner or later, comes to each of us, if we love the Saviour. To some it comes very early in life. They may have to show their attachment to Christ amongst ungodly relatives and schoolfellows, in business or on the exchange. But if they act the part of Faithful, and are not ashamed of Christ, these trials only serve to confirm their goings, and to ennoble their characters. We do not value that which costs us nothing. Accustom yourselves, therefore, to "endure hardship as good soldiers of Jesus Christ." Cultivate the fear of God, and that will support you against the fear of man. Never play the coward. You recollect what Peter endured for doing this; what bitter tears it cost him afterwards!

In our own day there have been noble examples of courage and fidelity. We have all read of the Madiai in Tuscany, and the same determination to tyrannize over conscience will probably exhibit itself still more decidedly as the end of the present dispensation approaches. Seek, therefore, to have a martyr's spirit, though you should not be required to lay down your lives for the gospel. Pray for grace to sit loosely by human censure or applause; and remember, for your encouragement, that "greater is He who is with you, and for you, than all who are against you." It was this thought which gave to Luther a dignity and composure almost superhuman. After many days of trial, when required to give a short, plain answer, he said, "Unless I am convinced by Scripture I neither can nor will retract anything. Here I stand. I cannot do otherwise. May God help me! Amen."

A LITTLE HERO OF HAARLEM.

Ar an early period in the history of Holland, a boy was born at Haarlem, a town remarkable for its variety of fortune in war, but, happily, still more so for its manufactures and inventions of peace. His father was a sluicer-that is, one whose employment it was to open and shut the sluices or large oak gates, which, placed at certain distances, close the entrances of canals, and secure Holland from the danger to which it seems exposed-of finding itself under water, rather than above it. When water is wanted, the sluicer raises the sluices more or less as required, and closes them carefully at night, otherwise the water would flow into the canals, then overflow them, and inundate the whole country; so that even the little children of Holland are fully aware of the importance of a punctual discharge of the sluicer's duties. The boy was scarcely eight years old when one day he asked permission to take some cakes to a poor blind man who lived at the other side of the dyke. His father gave him leave, but charged him not to stay too late. The child promised, and set off on his little journey. The blind man thankfully partook of his young friend's cakes; and the boy, mindful of his father's orders, did not wait as usual to hear one of the old man's stories, but, as soon as he had seen him eat one muffin, took leave of him to return home.

As he went along by the canals, then quite full, for it was in October, and the autumn rains had swelled the waters, the boy now stopped to pull the little blue flowers which his mother loved so well; now, in the child's gaiety, he hummed some merry song. The road gradually became more solitary, and soon neither the joyous shout of the villager returning to his cottage home, nor the rough voice of the carter grumbling at his lazy horses, was any longer to be heard. The little fellow now perceived that the blue flowers in his hand were scarcely distinguishable from the green of the surrounding herbage, and he looked up in sore dismay.

The night was falling; not, however, a dark winter night, but one of those beautiful clear moonlight nights, in which every object is perceptible, though not so distinctly as by day. The child thought of his father—of his in

junction-and was preparing to quit the ravine in which he was almost buried, and to regain the beach, when suddenly a slight noise, like the trickling of water upon the pebbles, attracted his attention. He was near one of the large sluices, and he now carefully examined it, and soon discovered a hole in the wood, through which the water was flowing. With the instant perception which every child in Holland would have, the boy saw that the water must soon enlarge the hole through which it was now only dropping, and that utter and general ruin would be the consequence of the inundation that must follow. To see, to throw away the flowers, to climb from stone to stone till he reached the hole, and to put his finger into it, was the work of a moment, and to his delight he found that he succeeded in stopping the flow of the water.

This was all very well for a little while, and the child only thought of the success of his device. But the night was closing in, and with the night came the cold.

The little boy looked around in vain; no one came. He shouted, he cried loudly-no one answered; he resolved to stay there all night; but, alas! the cold was becoming every moment more biting, and the poor finger fixed in the hole began to feel benumbed, and the numbness soon extended to the hand, and thence through the whole arm; the pain became greater, still harder to bear, but the boy moved not. Tears rolled down his cheeks, as he thought of his father, of his mother, of his little bed, where he might now be sleeping so soundly; but still the little fellow stirred not, for he knew that did he remove the small slender finger which he had opposed to the escape of the water, not only would he himself be drowned, but his father, his brother, his neighbours-nay, the whole village. We know not what faltering of purpose, what momentary failure of courage, there might have been during that long and terrible night; but certain it is, that at daybreak he was found in the same painful position by a clergyman returning from attendance at a death-bed, who, as he advanced, thought he heard groans, and bending over the dyke, discovered a child sitting on a stone, writhing with pain, and with pale face, but tearful eyes. "In the name of wonder, boy," he exclaimed, "what are you trying to do there ?" "I am hindering the water from running out," was the answer, in perfect simplicity, of the child, who,