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she would be anxious about him unless he did so. widow thanked her son for his thoughtfulness, and putting up for him in a paper some refreshments, he departed. The sky was clear, the air fresh, the road well frozen over, and Carl soon proved, as Herr Terburg had said, that he was a quick messenger. In three hours he had arrived at Beverwyk, which was a considerable distance from Haarlem. He soon found the gentleman to whom the letter was addressed, and obtained from him the receipt. Carl had hoped that the merchant would have. offered him a cup of coffee, a cheap and usual refreshment in Holland; but he received nothing after his long walk, except the receipt and the "good-day" of the rich man.

"All well," said the contented Carl, as he set off on his return home. "It is a good thing my dear mother gave me the bread and butter, or I should have been very hungry." When he had reached the open country, he looked around for some place where he could rest for a short time, and take the refreshment he had brought with him. Soon he approached the stump of an old tree, which offered a dry resting-place by the side of the road; Carl seated himself upon it, first filling a tin cup he always carried with water from a neighbouring stream. His walk had given him a good appetite; and while thus engaged in taking his meal, casting his eye on the ground, he saw a round thing which he concluded was an onion.

"Ah!" said Carl, "here will be a good relish to my bread and butter," taking out his knife to cut it in two; "little did the labourers who left this, think that their carelessness would be furnishing me with a meal; an onion after all is not a bad thing."

He was about to cut it, when it suddenly struck him that the onion was of an uncommon kind, different to anything he had before seen. "This is no ordinary species, I am sure," said Carl to himself; "who knows if it might not turn out something worth having? I will, at any rate, make the experiment."

He accordingly closed his knife, wrapped up the root in paper, and put it into his pocket; and feeling himself to be sufficiently rested and refreshed, Carl set out homewards.

The shades of evening were descending when he found himself in Haarlem. He knew too well where Herr

Terburg lived, for was it not in the dear old house where his happy childhood had been spent? When Carl passed its threshold, a crowd of remembrances rushed into his mind, and it was with difficulty he could suppress his emotion. He could not bear, however, that the proud and hard merchant should see the pain he experienced. "Courage," said he to himself; "let no one, and least of all this bad man, know the sorrow I feel; let me hasten to do my errand, for surely no blessing remains for me in this dear old dwelling.”

Well did he know each passage and apartment of the spacious mansion, and rightly concluding that he should find the merchant in his counting-house, he knocked at the door. A surly voice bade him enter; and there, seated at the same desk where his beloved father had transacted business, sat the man who had robbed his mother and himself of their property. Carl remembered how often, when a happy, playful child, he had found his way to this spot, sure of a fond caress, or a merry game of play. But his recollections were arrested by being roughly asked if he had brought back the answer to the letter.

"Yes, Mynheer," replied Carl, giving it to Herr Terburg. "Here is your recompence," said the merchant, throwing down one guilden.

Carl did not take it, but looked up with an astonished air.

"Do not stand there like an idiot," said Terburg; "take your money, and be off."

"Mynheer," replied Carl, with a calm voice, though his heart throbbed with indignation at this treatment, "you promised me two guilden; pay them to me, and I will no longer detain you."

"Two guilden," said the unscrupulous man, with a flush on his countenance; "it is a shame to ask so much for such a short day's work."

"I did not ask such a recompence; you offered it yourself. Only please to recollect," said Carl.

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"There is nothing to recollect," exclaimed Terburg; never did I pay so much money for such an errand; take your guilden, and depart."

"Pardon me," said Carl, quietly," you promised me two, and you will pay me two, if you are an honourable man. "Insolent boy! say another word, and I will have you

turned out of the house. Have you witnesses? Can you prove that I promised you two guilden ?" exclaimed Terburg, with anger and bitterness.

"No, I cannot," answered Carl, "because, as you well know, my only witness is now at Amsterdam; but think, Mynheer, before you rob a poor boy of his wages."

"Take the one guilden, and leave the house immediately," vociferated the merchant.

"No," said Carl, "I will not take your money. There is One above who will help me. In God I confide; He will judge between us. Had I been told you would act in this manner, Herr Terburg, I should not have believed it, although you know I have little enough reason to think well of you."

With these words, Carl turned to go away. The merchant followed him with angry abuse and wicked oaths. Carl looked back and said: "There will come a day, Mynheer, when you will be called upon to give an account, not only for withholding from me this guilden, but for all that has occurred in past times to my poor mother and myself. I warn you of it from the word of God, who is 'the helper of the fatherless." "

As the widow's son pursued his way silently towards his home, a tempest, for some moments, raged within his breast. Indignation against the oppressor and tender recollections of his departed father mingled with deep regret at his wasted day's labour. But suddenly the words of Holy Scripture came vividly to his remembrance, and calmed his agitation, "A father of the fatherless, and a judge of the widows, is God in his holy habitation."

"With what confidence," thought he, "did I say to that wicked man that I put my trust in God. Surely, it is when we are in trouble, that God tries our faith I will cast my

care upon him. I do not doubt his love to me, and though I have now suffered a severe disappointment, it is doubtless for my good. I am not called to show my faith, as my ancestors were, by giving up my life, but I am called to show it by trusting God in these troubles. Our pastor has often said to me, Carl, take this text for your comfort, 'I have been young, and now am old, yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, or his seed begging bread;' and truly there is consolation in those words."

With these thoughts, Carl arrived at his home.

"Here I am, dear mother," said he, as he entered, "tired and hungry."

"And very late," said the widow, as she tenderly took hold of her son's hand. "Sit down, Carl; the table is ready set, and the hot soup I have prepared will warm you; but what has happened? You look pale and ill."

Thus appealed to, the weary youth explained the occurrence which has just been narrated.

His mother shook her head. "Dear Carl," said she, "you should at least have taken the one guilden; do you know money is very scarce with us, and we are just now poorer than ever?"

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Mother, I could not take that bad man's money, offered in such a way," said Carl. "If I had done so, it would have given him something to say towards proving he was right. Do not trouble, dear mother; to-morrow I will be doubly industrious, and I shall work with so much pleasure for my other employers. After all, Herr Terburg cannot take away our happiness."

He led his mother to the little table, and as he sat beside her, taking his comfortable but frugal meal, while she looked on him, with her loving eyes, gradually his own cheerful expression returned to his countenance.

When the meal was over, Carl said, “Well, after all, I have not taken my journey for nothing. What do you think I found near the old stump where I took my dinner ?"

He took the bulb out of his pocket, and held it up laughingly before his mother.

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"An onion, silly boy; I was wondering what had got." 'Well, is it not a very fine one?" asked Carl; "who knows what may come of it? I have never seen such a large and firm one. Early to-morrow morning, I shall carefully prepare some soil for it, and, perhaps, it may turn out a beautiful flower."

"Silly fellow, I think you will never be happy till you spend all your life among flowers. What good can you hope for, from an onion left upon the road ?"

"Wait a little while, dear mother," replied Carl, with a satisfied smile. "If it turns out to be nothing more than a common onion, I shall, at least, have had the pleasure of hoping, and that is worth something."

"Well, then, I will also hope," said Frau Lievenhock, as she tenderly kissed his forehead, "that you will be wiser

another year. Dear boy, your contented heart is, indeed, worth gold. God's blessing will rest upon you, for you are the comfort of your poor mother."

The old family Bible was now brought out, and Carl read the 103rd Psalm; then, both kneeling down, the widow offered up a simple but heartfelt prayer. She prayed for the guilty man who had been the source of so much pain and sorrow to them; she entreated that he might not be suffered to die in his sins, but might be led to seek for the pardon of his offences through the blood of his Saviour. Carl gave a hearty "Amen" to the petition of his beloved mother; and thus at peace with their heavenly Father and with all mankind, they separated for the night.

M. F.

THE PENITENT'S TALE.

THE solemn act of dedication o'er,
Too soon my vow was broken, or forgot;
Still, still I followed what I had forswore;
The foe I had denounced, I dreaded not.

Not that an open rebel I appeared,
Not that I cast Religion's form away,
But that no secret enemy I feared,

And rusting in its sheath my weapon lay.

The trumpet-call of Conscience sometimes stirred
My careless soul, and told of danger near;
A mother's anxious sigh with pain I heard,
My heart still melted at a mother'e tear.

But fainter, feebler fell the warning call
Upon an ear attuned alone to mirth;
And absence freed me from the gentle thrall
Of filial love-the purest tie on earth.

Less holy comrades now around me came,

Who mocked at scruples-from all scruples free; I could not triumph o'er a coward shame;

Oh, Christ, my Lord! was I ashamed of Thee?

I joined the laugh my inmost soul condemned,
Sinned 'gainst my conscience, almost 'gainst my will;
I saw by firmer souls the torrent stemmed;

Felt, spurned my weakness, and plunged deeper still.