At that moment the boy appeared again, dragging Mary by her frock to the bank; he had stemmed the water, he had got footing in the mud, and presently he and Mary were on the bank. What I have taken some time to tell took but a few moments to happen. A crowd quickly gathered round the little girl; she seemed quite dead; they chafed her hands and feet, and blankets were brought to wrap her in. In the bustle for a moment her gallant deliverer was forgotten. Margaret had seen him leaning against the tree with his wet clothes striving to recover breath; when she looked again he was gone: they called but no one answered: many was the voice loud in his praise, and all were anxious to reward him; but he was gone, and they looked for him in vain.

Mary was carried home and laid on her bed; it was some minutes before she shewed signs of life; at last a faint breath on the glass, and the moving of a feather when put to her lips, shewed she was alive.

JOHN HENRY PARKER, OXFORD AND LONDON.

Tracts for the Christian Seasons.

ST. BARNABAS' DAY.

MANY days Mary lay ill, and the doctor thought she could not recover; she was never strong, and the shock had been too much for her. Margaret nursed her night and day; her face was always very pale, and her weakness extreme; a continual cough wore her out, and though the weather was lovely, and the sun shone gaily and brightly into her window, there could be no doubt at last that Mary was in a decline. Many were the visits her school-fellows paid the little May queen; and the question, "How's Mary this morning?" was heard from many a voice outside her cottage door. But the answer was usually the same, "But little better." All the village loved Mary, and they all knew her; her merry happy voice and manner, her kindness and simplicity, made her the favourite both at school and

in the lane, and a blank seemed to have sunk on the school now that she was ill. Margaret watched her, and nursed her nearly night and day, as Mary's mother was ill and in poor health herself. It was some days before she was allowed to talk much; and when she did it was very plain how exhausted her strength was, and how weak she had grown.

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Margaret, is that you ?"

"Yes," said her kind nurse, when one day she had come and placed herself beside her pillow very quietly, not to disturb her.

"Margaret, do you think I am dying?" Margaret was so taken back she scarcely knew what to say.

"I hope not, Mary."

"That means I am, I know it does. Now, Margaret, hear me, do listen to me," said the little girl very earnestly, and laying hold of Margaret's hand, she lifted her head from the pillow and looked in Margaret's face. "You know mother won't think I am dying, and if the doctor says so she is angry, and says she won't have him again, and if I say so she's quite vexed; so you see she won't send for the Minister: but Margaret, dear, I can't rest happy, for I do want to see the Minister, for I would so like to ask

him if I may not receive the Holy Communion before I die."

Mary was wearied with the exertion of speaking, and waited for her friend's reply.

"What shall I do?" said Margaret.

"Oh do, do something," said the little girl, "for you know how he used to speak about the first Communion, and I have always longed so to take it; do think if you cannot see him."

"I'll go and see him myself," said Margaret, "and tell him all you say, and I am sure he will come directly; and I'll speak to your mother myself about it."

Little Mary was all eagerness to hear what would be the result of her friend's work for her; her soul was fixed on receiving her first Communion, and many and many an hour Mary had lain since she had been ill gazing out of window on the bright gay sunny lane, thinking of what was coming, and of how before the leaves were yellow she would most likely have gone through death: and then she thought of the past, and all her faults, and begged God to forgive them over and over again; and she felt it would be so great a blessing if she might receive her first Communion. So she lay thinking while Margaret went

in search of her mother, whom she found sitting at work in the lower room.

She stood about for some time seeming not to know how to begin what she had to say; she looked out of the window and out of the door, and then thought she would put it off till next day. Mrs. Johnson looked at her in surprise more than once.

"Mrs. Johnson," said Margaret, "what do you think of Mary ?"

"What do I think! Oh, I don't know; she'll be better soon, when the warm weather comes." "Well, but the warm weather has come, and she is no better," said Margaret.

"There is a cold creeping air-east wind, I think," said Mrs. Johnson, "which prevents it's being warm.'

"I think she's very ill," said Margaret, greatly perplexed.

'Do you?" said the mother, without looking off her work.

"Would you mind her seeing the Minister ?" said Margaret.

"The Minister," said Mrs. Johnson, dropping her work, and staring with astonishment at Margaret, "the Minister, oh dear no! not for the world! that would make her be dying!"