! MOTHER, mother, where are you? I'm so miserable. I can't bear it. O mother, mother!' and the girl's sobs shook her slender frame as she crouched down among the rocks.

Before her lay the glorious sea; close by her feet, among the rocks, the beautiful sea-pools waited for the incoming of the tide; on either side of her, a narrow strip of yellow sand gleamed in and out among the rock-strewn shore; behind her stood the steep cliffs, hiding from view the quiet village-town where the hard-working fisherfolk had built their small dwelling-places.

The day was bright and cloudless, and a thousand delights lay open to the eye and ear, but poor little Mary Peart could neither see nor hear any gladness. She was bearing about in her own small person the remembrance and effect of grievous wrongs, and she had wandered down to the quiet beach to fight out the terrible questioning that her sad life called up: whether the great God cared for her. Eating out the love of her nature, there was a burning sense of injustice. It was a hard, doubtful battle for a little maiden twelve years old.

Little Mary was almost alone in the world; her nearest relative was her father's stepsister, to whose care the child was entrusted after the death of her mother, who died when Mary was seven years old. Whilst her father lived, the arrangement worked pretty well, but since he was lost at sea, the girl had been entirely dependent on this half-aunt, who was a woman of violent temper, and greatly resented the child's poverty and helplessness. She felt herself entitled to all praise for the scanty support she gave her, and Mary had to work hard for her begrudged fare.

She had borne all this patiently, until an incident happened which had miserably changed her life. Her aunt's only child, little Ben, a curly-headed, bright, unmanageable boy of six years of age, the darling of

his mother's heart, had been sent out under Mary's charge. She had gone with him to the quay, and as he would persist in walking dangerously near the edge, she had taken hold of his hand to draw him away from the water: the boy gave an angry, impatient jerk, freed himself from her clasp, but in doing so, lost his footing and fell into the harbour. Mary's cries attracted the attention of a fisherman, who jumped into the water and brought Ben safely on shore again, not at all hurt, but very much frightened.

On reaching home, the boy, with woebegone face, detailed to his mother how Mary had pushed him into the harbour, and immediately the hot-tempered woman accepted his statement, and gave poor, innocent Mary a severe beating; and then spread the report of her ill-feeling and bad behaviour through the village. From that time the girl's life had been one of hard blows, cruel words, and coarse and meagre fare. In vain she had tried to explain the true state of the case to Mrs. Mitchell: her aunt would not even listen to her account, and any little love that she had once had for her niece gave place to active dislike. Once or twice, neighbours had tried to save Mary from ill-treatment, but this well-meant interference served only as a fresh grievance.

On this summer afternoon Mrs. Mitchell, taking Ben with her, had gone to a small inland village, to see some friends, and Mary, left to her own devices, wandered along the shore, feeling very desolate and miserable, and crying piteously for her mother, the memory of whose loving words and ways was the one relief in her dreary life. From her mother's lips she had heard the story of Jesus and His love, and in all her miseries had had some dim understanding that there was a Friend Who could and would help her; but now her faith in God was sorely tried. If God knew everything, and could do what He would, why did He let her aunt treat her so? Could it be that He bad forgotten all about her?

She would kneel down there and ask Him

to help her. So Mary knelt down, and sent up her simple prayer. Somehow, she felt a new, faint thrill of courage, and she climbed, with almost pleasure, over the rocks, and sauntered on much further than she was aware of. The unusual ramble tired her, and she thought she would rest in the shade of the high rocks: she chose a cool place in among a rock-formed grotto, and soon her eyes closed and she was fast asleep.

Then she had a wonderful dream: she thought that she was wandering in a dark wood all alone, and she felt frightened, and was crying bitterly. She knew that her mother was in a beautiful town just outside the wood, and she wanted to find the town, but she was quite lost in the thick forest, and so tired that she must soon lie down and die; and just as she thought this, she turned and saw, quite close to her, a shining angel; and she was not at all afraid, but said 'O! I am glad; but when did you come? I did not hear you; and now you

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will show me the way to the beautiful town where mother lives;' and the bright angel answered: Little Mary, I have been here close to you, walking with you all the time, but you did not see me before. I will stay with you till I bring you to your mother in the beautiful town just outside the forest ;' and she felt so happy, as they walked on and talked together.

Then she dreamt again. She was in a boat on a stormy sea, and the night was black and fearful, and just before them gleamed the lights of a sheltered village, where the winds seemed to cease as they touched the cliffs, and she saw her mother standing at the window of a pretty little house, holding a bright light, and Mary longed to reach the shore, and just then a big wave flung the boat on the beach; and she saw her mother hastening to meet her, and she felt the splashing of the spray as she sprang from the boat; and—just then she awoke !

FORTH two merry maids are bounding,
Uncle is to be their guide;

Seized anon, anon forsaken,
Distant now, now by his side.
Soon the shady lane is entered,
Glad they leave the dusty street;
Flowerets fill the air with perfume,
Songsters chant their music sweet.
Pleasant hawthorn, oaks and beeches
Form a shelter from the sun;
Verdure carpets all the landscape,
Squirrels leap and scream in fun.
Mossy banks, and flowery hedgerows,
Bound us in on either side;
Soon we reach the meadow gateway,
And the bridge the brook astride.
By the merry waters wandering,
Treading still the velvet sward;
'Rosy,' 'Daisy,' both delighted,
Gather nosegays, toiling hard.
Rosy nears me, now I seize her,
Lift her-tiny little mite!

Reach her forth right o'er the water;
O! how dreadful is her fright!
Her sweet face is now distorted,
Shrieks she out her silly fears,

Drops her flowerets in the water,
Floods her pretty cheeks with tears.
Clutches Uncle's beard and collar,
Love her deeply as he may,
Cannot trust him, so, forgiving,
Kisses he her gloom away.

Daisy now approaches, so he

Seizes her with ruthless hand;
Stern of brow, and roughly speaking,
Hurries to the ledge of land.
Lifts her o'er the merry waters,

Holds her without word of love;
Casts she just one glance upon him,
Folds her arms, then does not move.
Shuts her eyes, the sun excluding,
On the living hammock rests.
'Ar'n't you frightened, Daisy?' asks he
(She can bear his hardest tests).
Gaily now she smiles responsive,
Horror hath no place at all;
Now the child replies so sweetly,
'Uncle, you won't let me fall."
Daisy, thou hast taught a lesson
Uncle's kisses don't requite,
He has not, when danger threatened,
Trusted God with all his might.

'TEDDY,' asked Mrs. Armstrong, anxiously, are you quite well this morning? I think you had better not go to school.'

'Oyes! mother,' said Ted, who was rather languidly eating his bread and milk. 'I wouldn't like to miss school on any account.' Mrs. Armstrong smiled across the table to her husband, and he said, Rather unusual, isn't it, Ted, to care so much about lessons; what's the reason?'

6

'O, father, you can't have forgotten; it's the fifth of November to-day!'

'Well, my boy, there was a time when I suppose I couldn't have forgotten the day; what are you going to do this fifth?'

'Mr. Hurley is giving us half-holiday this afternoon, and a lot of us are going to collect sticks and leaves for the bonfire; and then to-night at half-past seven we are going to begin.'

Teddy was talking so earnestly that his breakfast was quite forgotten, and when his mother called his attention to it, he declared he had finished.

At noon the little boy came home, but not with his usual light, quick step. He seemed no better, could not eat his dinner, and at last, with evident reluctance, confessed to having a bit of a headache.'

He

'You had better lie down for an hour or two,' suggested Mrs. Armstrong; and Teddy's head was really aching so badly that he was glad to comply with the suggestion. went up to his own room, and his mother, after covering him up warmly and drawing. down the blind, left him to be quiet.

A loud knock at the door! such a knock as surely only a schoolboy could give, startled the household, and Mrs. Armstrong herself opened the door.

'O, if you please, Mrs. Armstrong, where's Ted? he was to have been at the old Church corner by two o'clock, and it's nearly a quarter-past now.'

'Ernest, Ted is very poorly and obliged to go to bed.'

'To bed!' and the bright young face lengthened considerably. You don't mean to say that Ted Armstrong's gone to bed in the middle of the day on Bonfire-night!'

'My dear,' said Mrs. Armstrong, 'you know no one can help being ill, and no one can be sorrier than poor Ted is himself; it is a great disappointment to him.'

'Poor old Ted,' said Ernest in a much lower tone, it must be dreadful for him.'

So Ernest went away sadly disappointed, and Mrs. Armstrong closed the door softly,

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'Well, mother dear,' said Ted, putting his arms round her neck, you know I feel as if I ought to go to the bonfire to-night. I've got a lot of sticks and things the other boys don't know about.'

'My dear boy,' said Mrs. Armstrong, 'I am very sorry, but you really cannot go tonight. Instead of that, you must get undressed and keep warm, or I'm afraid you'll be worse.'

Ted said no more, and Mrs. Armstrong helped him to undress, smoothed his rough bed, and after tucking him up comfortably, went down to her own tea with her husband.

Some time after she went softly up again, and Mr. Armstrong with her. Ted was to all appearance sleeping quietly.

'He is better,' she whispered to her husband.

'Yes, he looks nearly all right now,' said Mr. Armstrong, 'I think you fancied a good deal, Bessie. Poor little chap, I am sorry for him.'

Ted had been roused by their voices, and heard what his father said.

'Yes, I believe it's all mother's fancy,' he said to himself. I'm all right now;' and certainly he did feel better for his long sleep. He got up, went to the window and drew the blind aside, and saw the red glow of the bonfire.

'I must go,' murmured Ted; and then, without giving himself time to think, he dressed himself hurriedly, and stole softly downstairs. Ted could hear his father and mother talking together in the cosy little. dining-room. He had never deceived them before, and his heart beat loudly as he tried with trembling fingers to undo the door quietly. It was with a strange mixture of pleasure and regret that he found himself outside in the cold November air. When he at last made his appearance in the circle of boys, there was quite a shout of welcome. Mr. Hurley, his schoolmaster, said, 'I am glad you are better Armstrong, we quite missed you.'

Trying to stifle his guilty conscience, Ted hurried backwards and forwards, helping to carry the sticks, leaves and rubbish which

the boys were bringing from all parts. But his head was aching worse than ever, and he felt so weak and strange that several times he was afraid of falling, and yet his excitement seemed to keep him up. The boys were shouting and dancing round the fire, but when poor Ted tried to shout, it was such a failure that Ernest Dale said,

'Ted, I don't believe you're well now; and how hot you look! Come with me away from the fire, and fetch some more wood.'

The two boys came back in a few minutes, each with a large bundle of sticks. Ernest threw his on with a merry shout, and Ted, feeling strange and dizzy, was about to do the same, when a voice, seeming to his confused senses afar off, called, 'Ted, Ted,' and his father came up just as Ted and his bundle of sticks fell forward on to the fire.

When Ted came to himself, there was such a bright glow of fire-light that he thought at first he must still be in Farmer Bonser's field. But all was quiet, and he raised his head and found himself in his own little room, with a bright fire burning in the grate.

'That's funny,' thought Ted, and gradually, as memory became clearer, he remembered his fall in the field. 'I've been ill,' he said softly; and his mother, roused by his slight movement, came to his side, and kissing him tenderly, she said, 'Yes, but you are better now, dear.'

He put his hand to his head wearily. 'What was it? I can't remember it all. How long is it ago?'

'Nearly a week, dear. thankful you are better. must not talk; drink this, sleep.'

Teddy, I am so But, darling, you and then go to

Yes, Teddy had been very ill, and for some days was unable to bear any conversation. But he had plenty of time to think, and his mother often wondered, as she sat watching him, what his thoughts were running on. When he was able to sit up for a little while, he suddenly asked,