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"Dost thou know," asked Miriam, | tender-0, far more tender than her her voice low and awed, “dost thou mother's, or Ben-oni's; that His eyes ktow whither He has gone?”
were still and kind; she only knew "It is said He goeth up into the that she longed to be His disciple. Dount to pray there,' replied Elizabeth. But what should Miriam do? What And Miriam pondered this in her should poor Miriam do? She could
not follow Him in His wanderings; The shadows grew long, at last, bear with Him the burden of His upon the mountain slope; and the weary days; share with Him His ohrug reared their princely heads scanty fare ; and pray with Him upon against a darkening sky; the sheep the cold, damp hillsides, when the upon the pastures were gathering to world had left Him friendless and their folds; the birds chirped drowsily | alone. She thought she would be so in hidden nests; and the winds were glad to do it; but she could not. For cool and sweet along the valley who, then, would help the mother, beyond, the towers of the city had and quiet Rachel, and teach Ben-oni caught the last gleam of the sun the songs of the prophets? Who would Betting,
sweep the floor, and tidy the house, Miriam had helped her mother to pre and care for the little garden ? Who pare the evening meal, and hushed the would love and kiss her mother, when baby's fretful cries into dreams; and she went down into her widowed old age? DOW, stealing out across the fields—the | No; Miriam could not follow the touch of the western glow like a crown King. But she should like to tell upon her forehead, and the hush of Him. Perhaps He would not listen; the twilight in her eyes-she waited and how could He understand ? He and lingered alone. For whom ? would know nothing of Ben-oni, and Por whom should Miriam wait ? the baby, and the garden. , Not for Him-not for the King ? But, then, He had looked upon her ; Surely, she might not dare-it and His smile was kind. Perhaps He was not for her to be the disciple | would just listen to her story-she cher Lord. But she had seen Him, would tell it very quickly, in a few, and seeing, she had loved Him. He little, timid words. She should like flåd looked into her eyes. He had to have Him know that she loved Him furned upon her His brow of pain and -just to know that. And she hoped peace. Deep in her heart she had felt He would not pass her by. His blessing. What though it was So, stealing along beneath the shaa little, girlish heart, filled with its dows, her heart—the poor foolish heart foolish dreams and wayward fancies, that was only wise enough to trust its as ignorant of life as it was of the Lord-beating fast and warm against luwa of science that ruled the sunbeam her clasping hands, she came at last on the cottage floor, and as pleased to a little still place beneath the trees. with it-poor little heart!
It was very still. The folded flocks What of that? It was wise enough were quiet; not a bird chirped in the to believe in Him; itwas great enough branches; a little path worn bare of o love Him. Would He ask for more ? grass wound past her, and threaded its Would He turn away from the simple lonely way up, far up, where the hilltrust and love, or would He take it top lay in shadow, and a crown of and be pleased with it, and keep it as struggling stars hung faint and fair this own?
beyond. Miriam did not know. She only There she stopped, and waited for der that, somehow or other, she | His coming; the colour flushing and ared to tell Him; that He had smiled | fading on her face; her heart still beatupon her when she stood out in the ing fast and warm against her clasping afternoon sunlight; that the smile was l hands.
She knew His voice when it came “Master, it is Miriam. I am a po at last-far through the still twilight little girl-a very foolish little girl. she heard its first low cadence, and know nothing but how to help His step across the meadows, which mother. I saw thy disciples in t the ripples of Kedron silvered.
crowd to-day, and I wanted to follo The throng had broken, but the thee. But, Master, I cannot go; 1 people had not left Him yet alone. I must sweep the floor, and wash t Wearied and faint, He had turned cups, and care for Rachel. There away from those to whom He had no one but me to do it; and so-a ministered since the sunrise, to seek, upon the hill-top, the silence and the He heard the timid words, and rest of prayer-poor earth, that never little stifled sob. He knew all gave Him any other rest! But even would have told Him. And behold now, they had not left Him quite alone. | Miriam, He loved her.
An old man, his hair white with What He said to her she never t threescore years of sin, had followed -then, or at any other time. S Him to be forgiven; a mourner sobbed took it into her heart, down deep ir beside Him; and a woman, with her the holy of holies, where no hum face hidden in her hair, crouched words had ever endered, and drew trembling at His feet. Beyond, a veil upon it. There she kept it as cripple, crawling on the grass, cried treasure, long after He had ascent feebly to Him. Called so, to be the to His Father. There she kept comforter of pain, should He care to hushing all discords of her life to ha giye His wearied moments to bless mony, and turning all her pains earth's joyous things ? Himself a peace. There she kept it, untils man of sorrows, would He turn aside | sought the place He had prepared to the happy child waiting for Him | her, and found Him in His glo there in the twilight?
face to face. Perhaps He loved to see the happy | What it was, I do not know.. faces—perhaps He loved to bless them | this I know-that when the next di -indeed, I think He did. For you sunlight woke her, to sweep the flo remember the old story of the little and draw the water; to get the bre children. The world's one great fast, and mend Rachel's tiny garme Mourner-I do not think He ever re | and follow Elizabeth, soft-eyed fused or forgot to rejoice with them gentle-voiced, about the morning that did rejoice.
-she knew that she was His disci Miriam did not fear it. Like other and she was content. happy creatures, she did not know that she was happy, nor dream of the sharp contrasts she might bring into
THE WHITE WATER-LILY aching-hearts. She only knew that He had healed the cripple, and At the botton of a wild, di cheered the mourner, and bade the muddy lake there lay a very su sinning go in peace. She only thought root. "The mud covered it, the that He was coming now to her; and swam over it, the frogs hid under all her fear was gone.
and once a great moose actually! So, Miriam, standing breathless, on it. waited, and He came. Turning up her “Oh, dear,” said the little ! eyes, in which the rest of the Twilight | talking to itself, “how dark and la had deepened and darkened, she saw some it is down here! Hardly & His face; and she saw nothing in all of light comes to me. They tell the world besides.
it is light and beautiful up at And then she told him her faltering me, and there is a lovely sky th
| but the heavy waters lie on me
rias me down. Nobody ever thinks and seized it. The long stem broke I me, or ever knows that I live. Il off near the root, and the child hold it 1 & poor, useless thing. I can't in his hand. It seemed the fairest, mmunicate with any one-can't do sweetest thing he ever saw. and to any one. I might as well not | “Now, what will you do with it?”
asked the father. The spot covered the earth and “I'll look at it and smell it." 'ind the forest, and the ice covered “Is there nobody else that would Calate, and there lay the little root, like to see it and smell it?”
cap in its loneliness. But when “I don't know, sir. Oh, yes ; now de peing had returned, and the I think. Would not Jane Irving like we were gone, and the ice had to have it?". ulted, and the birds had come, and I
“I think she would.” Le forest had put on its mantle of That afternoon poor Jane Irving, ure, the little root felt that the who lived in the cottage just under ater was warmer, and she peeped up the maple tree, lay on her sickth one eye, and then she nestled and bed alone. She was a poor, motherless 4 strong desire to see the light. child. She knew she had the conto the shot up a long, smooth, beau sumption, and must die. She was
al stem, till it reached the top of thinking about the dark, cold grave, be lake. But when she attempted to and wondering how Christ could ever awit in again she found it would not open it and make her come out. A me. But instead of that a little bud tear stood in each eye just as the little E on the end of the stem. She boy came to her bedside with the white wd, but the bud gave no answer; | water-lily.
only swelled, and grew larger and “ See here, Jane; I got that away uwer; and the rains fell on it; and out in the lake, and brought it for you. as sun and the moon seemed to smile I thought you would like it."
it and cheer it, till at last it burst “ Thank you, thank you! It is sex full of joy, and found itself the indeed very beautiful and very sweet.
s, sweet, pure water-lily. Its What a long stem! Where did it Tes were of the purest white; while grow?" * 2 centre was a golden spot, covered “It grew out of the mud in the * down. It lay upon the top of | bottom of the lake; and this long stem, te water and basked in the sun-a as long as a man, shows how far down Sost beautiful object. The root fed it grew. It was all alone; not another 2d felt that it was really herself, one to be seen. I am glad you like so ga in a new form. The humming-| it; but I must go.” And away ran the 2. parzsed over it, and thrust in its little boy. the hill to suck its sweetness. The Jane held the pure white flower in wall around was made sweet by its | her hand ; and the good Spirit seemed sagrance. Still it felt that it was of to whisper in her heart, “Jane, Jane, 5 tage in the world, and wished it don't you see what God can do? Don't vod do something to make others
you see that out of dark, foul mud He
can bring out a thing more beautiful At length the splashing of oars was than the garments of a queen, and as sed, and the little lily turned round pure as an angel's wing ? and can't what it meant. 'Just then she
He also from the dark grave raise up sed the voice of a little boy in the
your body pure and beautiful and
glorious ? Can you doubt it?” And , father, what a beautiful lily! then a voice seemed to say, “I am the
Resurrection and the Life;" and the the boat turned slowly toward heart of the poor child was filled with
attle boy put out his hand | faith, and the angel of hope wiped
to let me get it!
away her tears, and the little lily fine thing to begin life for himself and preached of peace and mercy. When be his own master ; but, if so, he was it withered, she thanked God that much mistaken, and soon found out nothing need be useless!
that by disobeying his mother's wishes he had only brought on himself misery
and sorrow. So it was with a heart THE MOTHER'S PRAYER. full of fears that she at last consented
to let him go to sea; and with many FOR THE YOUNG.
prayers and many tears she said good. LITTLE Johnny was the only boy in bye to him as he started on his firs a large family, the pet and darling of journey alone. Yes, this was his firs his kind parents and his seven sisters, journey quite alone; he must go with who all tried hard to make him happy; out his mother; and now his father but yet, strange as it may appear, with whom before his journeys had al Johnny never seemed to be a really been made, was gone; but there wil happy boy.
One who would willingly have gone How was that? With everything | with that orphan child, would willingly he could possibly want--plenty of have comforted him in his loneliness, playthings, plenty of pocket-money, and helped him in all the troubles kind sisters, and little friends for which so soon overtook him, had he playfellows-how was it that Johnny's | only gone to Him and asked Him to rosy face often looked cross and sulky, be with Him. But he would not do his voice was so often peevish and so. So all alone he set out; and at grumbling, and every day he grew | first the remembrance of his mother's more discontented and miserable? I tears, her gentle words of loving will tell you how it was. Johnny was | advice, and her earnest entreaty tha a very naughty, selfish boy, who he would read the Testament which never thought of any one's wishes was her parting gift to him, all this but his own, who never minded how | saddened him, and made him hal much sorrow he might cause his regret his past undutiful conduct. mother if he could but get his own But these thoughts soon passe way.
away; he was going to be a sailor i Now, it happened that when he was that beautiful ship his mother ha very young his father died, and his taken him to see; he was going to t mother and her eight children went to a man, and begin life for himself; h live in a beautiful country village. She had said good-bye to his hated lessut was a very good woman, who loved and for ever; and was not all that de served God; and it was her great desire | lightful ? and prayer that all her little ones, It was with such bright dreams! whom she loved so dearly, might happiness that he sat on his lift learn to love Him too. And now little trunk at the railway station, waitis Johnny might have been a great com- | for the train which was to carry hi fort to his poor mother in her very away from home and all who love great sorrow, if he had tried; but, him; and as it was rather a long tin instead of doing so, he grew wilder coming, he fancied he was gettin and more disobedient than ever.
very hungry, so out came a lati He had set his heart on being a parcel of cake, which the loving con sailor, and going to see distant lands; | of his eldest sister had provided 1 for, like most naughty boys, he hated his long journey; and with a litt lessons, and thought school the most help from a very lean hungry de miserable place in the world. I dare which was wandering about u say he thought that on board a ship station, he soon made the parcel he should have nothing to do but to good deal smaller. amuse himself, and that it would be a | And now, having seen Johnny Ol
by the train full of bright hopes and | buy bread. The sight of a sailor sinny expectations, we will go back | always interested her, and, coming to te the house he has just left; and what the door, she began to inquire about Hall we see there? His little room his history. impty, the floor strewn with pieces of The poor fellow was very grateful neper, and all in disorder just as he for her kindness; he told her of many but it; the loving sisters with sorrow troubles he had gone through-how ral faces, yet trying to look bright he had been wrecked several times, and hopeful; and his mother, where and especially at one time, when he is she? Kneeling by the window in and one young lad were the only ones
** Own room, trying hard to leave who were not drowned with the ship. ter darling to the care of her heavenly “We were cast on a desert island,"
ather, asking Him to take pity on said the sailor, “and he was very ill. her fatherless boy, to watch over him I could find very little to eat, but I in all the dangers of the life he had | nursed him for seven days, and then
sen; and most of all did she pray he died. Poor fellow! I shall never forthat He would at last bring him to get him-he was so grateful for everythat land where there is no more thing I did for him, and so gentle and ROITOW or parting, because there is no kind. He read all day long out of a more sin.
little book which he told me his mother Years passed away, and nothing | gave him. It was the only thing he was heard of Johnny. His mother saved from the wreck; and oh, how *s growing old, and 0 how she he loved it! He talked of nothing
aged for some tidings of the lost else but of his book and his dear de! But still no letters came. At mother ; and just before he died he lngth one day she met with a captain gave it to me with many thanks for who knew the ship in which her boy i my poor services, and died so peacehad sailed, and from him she heard ad news.
This was the sailor's story. You The ship had been wrecked, and he know, I am sure, what the mother did not know whether her son was was thinking about; she was wonder
owned or not; but he told her, what ing could this have been her son; it me had all along feared, that of all might be, but how could she find out? the wicked lads he had ever known he “Is this all true ?" she asked the was the worst, and that it would be sailor. “Yes, madam, every word of sell for the rest of the crew if he had it,” he answered; "and here's the been drowned, that he might not lead very book, too." ther young men into sin.
She seized the book; it was a New This almost broke the mother's Testament; she opened it, and there Leart; she went home to weep; and she saw her own writing and her son's any a time she thought to herself, name on the first leaf. Oh, what Vy prayer has not been answered ; delight! The book seemed to bring 101 did not hear my earnest cry." her Johnny before her, but not as he Lad so it seemed; but God never does was when she gave it to him-wild, Teak His word, and the poor widow wilful, and passionate—but, as she and His promise true at last. “Ask, might now think of him, a humble, ad ye shall receive; seek, and ye penitent sinner, washed in the Saviour's will find; knock, and it shall be blood ; nay, not a sinner, but a beaupened."
tiful saint clothed in white robes, castOne day, some time after she had ing his golden crown at the feet of the and the captain's bad account of her now much-beloved Saviour, who had a, a poor sailor, almost naked, and sought him when wandering far from hoking half starved, knocked at her | his Father's fold, and had brought oor, and begged for a few pennies to him home at last.