"Dost thou know," asked Miriam, her voice low and awed, "dost thou how whither He has gone?" "It is said He goeth up into the ant to pray there,” replied Elizabeth. And Miriam pondered this in her beart. The shadows grew long, at last, upon the mountain slope; and the ohve reared their princely heads against a darkening sky; the sheep upon the pastures were gathering to their folds; the birds chirped drowsily in Lidden nests; and the winds were cod and sweet along the valleybeyond, the towers of the city had caught the last gleam of the sunsetting. pre Miriam had helped her mother to pare the evening meal, and hushed the baby's fretful cries into dreams; and now, stealing out across the fields-the touch of the western glow like a crown pon her forehead, and the hush of the twilight in her eyes-she waited and lingered alone. For whom? Fer whom should Miriam wait? Not for Him-not for the King? Surely, she might not dare-it as not for her to be the disciple of her Lord. But she had seen Him, and seeing, she had loved Him. He had looked into her eyes. He had turned upon her His brow of pain and Peace. Deep in her heart she had felt His blessing. What though it was little, girlish heart, filled with its foolish dreams and wayward fancies, ignorant of life as it was of the laws of science that ruled the sunbeam on the cottage floor, and as pleased with it-poor little heart! What of that? It was wise enough to believe in Him; it was great enough love Him. Would He ask for more? Would He turn away from the simple trust and love, or would He take it and be pleased with it, and keep it as His own? Miriam did not know. She only knew that, somehow or other, she dared to tell Him; that He had smiled upon her when she stood out in the afternoon sunlight; that the smile was tender-O, far more tender than her mother's, or Ben-oni's; that His eyes were still and kind; she only knew that she longed to be His disciple. But what should Miriam do? What should poor Miriam do? She could not follow Him in His wanderings; bear with Him the burden of His weary days; share with Him His scanty fare; and pray with Him upon the cold, damp hillsides, when the world had left Him friendless and alone. She thought she would be so glad to do it; but she could not. For who, then, would help the mother, and quiet Rachel, and teach Ben-oni the songs of the prophets? Who would sweep the floor, and tidy the house, and care for the little garden? Who would love and kiss her mother, when she went down into her widowed old age? No; Miriam could not follow the King. But she should like to tell Him. Perhaps He would not listen; and how could He understand? He would know nothing of Ben-oni, and the baby, and the garden. But, then, He had looked upon her; and His smile was kind. Perhaps He would just listen to her story-she would tell it very quickly, in a few, little, timid words. She should like to have Him know that she loved Him -just to know that. And she hoped He would not pass her by. So, stealing along beneath the shadows, her heart-the poor foolish heart that was only wise enough to trust its Lord-beating fast and warm against her clasping hands, she came at last to a little still place beneath the trees. It was very still. The folded flocks were quiet; not a bird chirped in the branches; a little path worn bare of grass wound past her, and threaded its lonely way up, far up, where the hilltop lay in shadow, and a crown of struggling stars hung faint and fair beyond. There she stopped, and waited for His coming; the colour flushing and fading on her face; her heart still beating fast and warm against her clasping hands. M She knew His voice when it came at last-far through the still twilight she heard its first low cadence, and His step across the meadows, which the ripples of Kedron silvered. The throng had broken, but the people had not left Him yet alone. Wearied and faint, He had turned away from those to whom He had ministered since the sunrise, to seek, upon the hill-top, the silence and the rest of prayer-poor earth, that never gave Him any other rest! But even now, they had not left Him quite alone. An old man, his hair white with threescore years of sin, had followed Him to be forgiven; a mourner sobbed beside Him; and a woman, with her face hidden in her hair, crouched trembling at His feet. Beyond, a cripple, crawling on the grass, cried feebly to Him. Called so, to be the comforter of pain, should He care to give His wearied moments to bless earth's joyous things? Himself a man of sorrows, would He turn aside to the happy child waiting for Him there in the twilight? Perhaps He loved to see the happy faces-perhaps He loved to bless them -indeed, I think He did. For you remember the old story of the little children. The world's one great Mourner-I do not think He ever refused or forgot to rejoice with them that did rejoice. Miriam did not fear it. Like other happy creatures, she did not know that she was happy, nor dream of the sharp contrasts she might bring into aching-hearts. She only knew that He had healed the cripple, and cheered the mourner, and bade the sinning go in peace. She only thought that He was coming now to her; and all her fear was gone. So, Miriam, standing breathless, waited, and He came. Turning up her eyes, in which the rest of the twilight had deepened and darkened, she saw His face; and she saw nothing in all the world besides. And then she told him her faltering tory. He heard the timid words, and t little stifled sob. He knew all s would have told Him. And beholdin Miriam, He loved her. What He said to her she never to -then, or at any other time. S took it into her heart, down deep int the holy of holies, where no hums words had ever entered, and drew th veil upon it. There she kept it as be treasure, long after He had ascende to His Father. There she kept it hushing all discords of her life to har mony, and turning all her pains to peace. There she kept it, until she sought the place He had prepared fo her, and found Him in His glory face to face. me down. Nobody ever thinks ime, or ever knows that I live. I a poor, useless thing. I can't municate with any one-can't do d to any one. I might as well not The snow covered the earth and had the forest, and the ice covered lake, and there lay the little root, caled up in its loneliness. But when he spring had returned, and the nows were gone, and the ice had nelted, and the birds had come, and he forest had put on its mantle of green, the little root felt that the rater was warmer, and she peeped up th one eye, and then she nestled and its strong desire to see the light. No she shot up a long, smooth, beautiful stem, till it reached the top of the lake. But when she attempted to draw it in again she found it would not me. But instead of that a little bud rew on the end of the stem. She led, but the bud gave no answer; only swelled, and grew larger and arger; and the rains fell on it, and he sun and the moon seemed to smile ait and cheer it, till at last it burst full of joy, and found itself the , sweet, pure water-lily. Its es were of the purest white; while aits centre was a golden spot, covered ith down. It lay upon the top of he water and basked in the sun-a st beautiful object. The root fed and felt that it was really herself, ugh in a new form. The hummingbird paused over it, and thrust in its ttle bill to suck its sweetness. The ir all around was made sweet by its agrance. Still it felt that it was of te in the world, and wished it ould do something to make others uppy. At length the splashing of oars was heard the voice of a little boy in the bost, aying: father, what a beautiful lily! Do let me get it!" Then the boat turned slowly toward and seized it. The long stem broke off near the root, and the child held it in his hand. It seemed the fairest, sweetest thing he ever saw. "Now, what will you do with it?" asked the father. I'll look at it and smell it." "Is there nobody else that would like to see it and smell it?" "I don't know, sir. Oh, yes; now I think. Would not Jane Irving like to have it?" 46 'I think she would." That afternoon poor Jane Irving, who lived in the cottage just under the maple tree, lay on her sickbed alone. She was a poor, motherless child. She knew she had the consumption, and must die. She was thinking about the dark, cold grave, and wondering how Christ could ever open it and make her come out. A tear stood in each eye just as the little boy came to her bedside with the white water-lily. "See here, Jane; I got that away out in the lake, and brought it for you. I thought you would like it." "Thank you, thank you! It is indeed very beautiful and very sweet. What a long stem! Where did it grow?" 66 It grew out of the mud in the bottom of the lake; and this long stem, as long as a man, shows how far down it grew. It was all alone; not another one to be seen. I am glad you like it; but I must go." And away ran the little boy. Jane held the pure white flower in her hand; and the good Spirit seemed to whisper in her heart, Jane, Jane, don't you see what God can do? Don't you see that out of dark, foul mud He can bring out a thing more beautiful than the garments of a queen, and as pure as an angel's wing? and can't He also from the dark grave raise up your body pure and beautiful and glorious? Can you doubt it?" And then a voice seemed to say, "I am the Resurrection and the Life;" and the heart of the poor child was filled with A, faith, and the angel of hope wiped away her tears, and the little lily preached of peace and mercy. When it withered, she thanked God that nothing need be useless! THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. FOR THE YOUNG. LITTLE Johnny was the only boy in a large family, the pet and darling of his kind parents and his seven sisters, who all tried hard to make him happy ; but yet, strange as it may appear, Johnny never seemed to be a really happy boy. How was that? With everything he could possibly want-plenty of playthings, plenty of pocket-money, kind sisters, and little friends for playfellows-how was it that Johnny's rosy face often looked cross and sulky, his voice was so often peevish and grumbling, and every day he grew more discontented and miserable? I will tell you how it was. Johnny was a very naughty, selfish boy, who never thought of any one's wishes but his own, who never minded how much sorrow he might cause his mother if he could but get his own way. Now, it happened that when he was very young his father died, and his mother and her eight children went to live in a beautiful country village. She was a very good woman, who loved and served God; and it was her great desire and prayer that all her little ones, whom she loved so dearly, might learn to love Him too. And now little Johnny might have been a great comfort to his poor mother in her very great sorrow, if he had tried; but, instead of doing so, he grew wilder and more disobedient than ever. He had set his heart on being a sailor, and going to see distant lands; for, like most naughty boys, he hated lessons, and thought school the most miserable place in the world. I dare say he thought that on board a ship he should have nothing to do but to amuse himself, and that it would be a fine thing to begin life for himself an be his own master; but, if so, he wa much mistaken, and soon found ou that by disobeying his mother's wishe he had only brought on himself miser and sorrow. So it was with a hear full of fears that she at last consente to let him go to sea; and with man prayers and many tears she said good bye to him as he started on his fir journey alone. Yes, this was his fir journey quite alone; he must go wit out his mother; and now his fathe with whom before his journeys had been made, was gone; but there w One who would willingly have gor with that orphan child, would willing! have comforted him in his loneliness and helped him in all the troubl which so soon overtook him, had only gone to Him and asked Him be with Him. But he would not d So. So all alone he set out; and e first the remembrance of his mother tears, her gentle words of lovin advice, and her earnest entreaty th he would read the Testament whic was her parting gift to him, all th saddened him, and made him ha regret his past undutiful conduct. But these thoughts soon pass away; he was going to be a sailor that beautiful ship his mother h taken him to see; he was going to a man, and begin life for himself; 1 had said good-bye to his hated lesso for ever; and was not all that d lightful? It was with such bright dreams happiness that he sat on his lit trunk at the railway station, waitin for the train which was to carry hi away from home and all who love him; and as it was rather a long tim coming, he fancied he was gettin very hungry, so out came a lar parcel of cake, which the loving ca of his eldest sister had provided f his long journey; and with a litt help from a very lean hungry d which was wandering about t station, he soon made the parcel good deal smaller. And now, having seen Johnny the train full of bright hopes and nny expectations, we will go back the house he has just left; and what all we see there? His little room mpty, the floor strewn with pieces of per, and all in disorder just as he tit; the loving sisters with sorrowfaces, yet trying to look bright nd hopeful; and his mother, where she? Kneeling by the window in own room, trying hard to leave her darling to the care of her heavenly Father, asking Him to take pity on her fatherless boy, to watch over him in all the dangers of the life he had chosen and most of all did she pray that He would at last bring him to that land where there is no more Sorrow or parting, because there is no The ship had been wrecked, and he d not know whether her son was drowned or not; but he told her, what she had all along feared, that of all the wicked lads he had ever known he was the worst, and that it would be well for the rest of the crew if he had been drowned, that he might not lead other young men into sin. This almost broke the mother's heart; she went home to weep; and many a time she thought to herself, "My prayer has not been answered; God did not hear my earnest cry." And so it seemed; but God never does Freak His word, and the poor widow Fund His promise true at last. "Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye all find; knock, and it shall be ened." One day, some time after she had bard the captain's bad account of her *, a poor sailor, almost naked, and oking half starved, knocked at her dor, and begged for a few pennies to buy bread. The sight of a sailor always interested her, and, coming to the door, she began to inquire about his history. The poor fellow was very grateful for her kindness; he told her of many troubles he had gone through-how he had been wrecked several times, and especially at one time, when he and one young lad were the only ones who were not drowned with the ship. "We were cast on a desert island,' said the sailor, "and he was very ill. I could find very little to eat, but I nursed him for seven days, and then he died. Poor fellow! I shall never forget him-he was so grateful for everything I did for him, and so gentle and kind. He read all day long out of a little book which he told me his mother gave him. It was the only thing he saved from the wreck; and oh, how he loved it! He talked of nothing else but of his book and his dear mother; and just before he died he gave it to me with many thanks for my poor services, and died so peacefully.' This was the sailor's story. You know, I am sure, what the mother was thinking about; she was wondering could this have been her son; it might be, but how could she find out? "Is this all true?" she asked the sailor. "Yes, madam, every word of it," he answered; "and here's the very book, too." She seized the book; it was a New Testament; she opened it, and there she saw her own writing and her son's name on the first leaf. Oh, what delight! The book seemed to bring her Johnny before her, but not as he was when she gave it to him-wild, wilful, and passionate-but, as she might now think of him, a humble, penitent sinner, washed in the Saviour's blood; nay, not a sinner, but a beautiful saint clothed in white robes, casting his golden crown at the feet of the now much-beloved Saviour, who had sought him when wandering far from his Father's fold, and had brought him home at last. |