daughter, who, working at a flax-mill in the neighbourhood, toiled hard, and contented herself with plain dress and simple fare, that she might help to maintain her mother. Before leaving the cottage for her work, she was in the habit of heaping up the refuse of the mill in the grate and kindling it. She placed her helpless mother in a chair right before the fire, and, as this fuel burned slowly away, the old woman was kept comfortable till her return. It happened one day that I left my manse, and skirting the walls of the old churchyard, and passing the corn mill with its busy sound and flashing wheel, I took my way down the dell to the cottage of the old woman, which stood in its garden embowered among trees. But having met a parishioner, with whom I had some subject of interest to talk about, I called a halt; and, sitting down on a bank of thyme, we entered into conversation. Ere the subject was half exhausted the widow rose to my recollection. I felt somehow that I must cut short and hasten away on my visit. But the idea was dismissed, and the conversation went on. However, it occurred again and again, till, with a feeling that I was neglecting a call of duty, as by an uncontrollable impulse, I rose to my feet, and made all haste to the cottage. Opening the door, a sight met my eyes that, for a moment, nailed me to the spot.

The pile of mill-refuse, which had been built from the hearth some feet up the wide open chimney, having its foundation eaten away, had fallen, and, precipitating itself forward, had surrounded the helpless paralytic with a circle of fire. The accident took place some minutes before I entered.

She had cried out, but no ear was there to hear, nor hand to help. Catching the loose refuse around her, on and on, nearer and nearer, the flames crept. It was a terrible sight for the two Wigtown women martyrs, staked far out in the sands of the Solway Frith, to mark the sea-foam crawl nearer and nearer to them; it was more terrible

still for this lone woman in her 1 cottage, without any great cause to for, to sit there and see the fire cr ing closer, drawing nearer and ne to her feet. By the time I entere had almost reached her where she motionless, speechless, pale as des looking down on the fire as it about to seize her clothes and burn to a cinder. Ere it caught I had ti and no more, to make one bound f the door to the hearthstone, i seizing her, chair and all, in my a to pluck her from the jaws of a cr fiery death.

Here we recognize the ordinary 1 of nature: those of fire, which, 1 alive by the oxygen of the atmosph consumed the refuse; that of gr tation, which, when the fire had es away the foundation and left it heavy, tumbled it on the floor; 1 of impulse, by which, when it fel was projected beyond the hearthst to surround the paralytic with flaming circle.

By what law of nature was I mo1 that day, instead of visiting other si to turn my steps to the cottage of 1 poor woman? By what law of nati when I lingered on the road, wa moved, without the remotest idea her danger, to cut short, against my inclinations, an interesting c versation, and hurry on to the hot which I reached just at the very n of time? One or two minutes lat the flames had caught her clothes, a I had found her in a blaze of fire. look on this as a case of special pro dence some may regard as superstitio and denounce as inconsistent with spirit and philosophy of the age, a mere relic of the days of ignorar and darkness. I leave them their cold philosophy and scie falsely so called.” Be it mine to l and die in the belief of a present a presiding as well as personal God; the faith which inspired my as friend to thank him for the wond ful deliverance, and the boy to € plain his calm courage on 1 roaring deep in those simple 1

ad words, "My Father is at the

dinburgh was the scene of another which-a matter, not of life or but of dying peace I also at providential. A lady belonging By congregation, a very lovely stian-whom I knew to be ill, but in danger-was dying on a day I was dragging myself home, and worn out with long hours It occurred to me, on finding near the street where she lived, I should go and see her; but, more fit for a sofa than further ce, I dismissed the idea and walked thinking of the poet's line,

plougman homeward plods his weary way. Jut the idea occurred again, only to dismissed. I said to myself, there nothing very serious in her case. tit came back again and again; yet esolved to shake off this feeling, and king over it, made my way home; I had actually passed the opening the street when the impression rened with irresistible force, and, prised by the circumstance, I reged my steps and turned them to

house. Low was I astonished to be met at door with the news that she was ng, and how great was my astonishand grief also to find this best brightest of saintly women in deep pendency! A dark cloud hung ir that blessed soul; it was like the Acuration over the Saviour's cross; Iseemed to hear that awful cry, fy God, my God, why hast thou saken me?" There we were, she ggling with death, and I with her yar. It pleased God so to bless truth I was sent, as I believe, to before her, so to bless the prayers acted and astonished mother and

ered
up, that, ere her sun sank in
t, it came forth from the cloud

at, and to all appearance larger

rer. Death in the dark had de no eventual difference to this and loving follower of the Lamb, the lifting of the cloud, turning

her latter end into peace, made a mighty difference to the mourners around her bed, and especially to her eminently devoted and pious mother. She who had been left like: many other ministers' widows, to struggle with poverty, had been borne up as few have been by the remarkable faith in a presiding Providence. That venerable woman saw God's hand in everything. Her Father had done this, and her Father had sent that; and for myself I wish I had the same ever-present, magnanimous, holy trust in God's providence as bore her through a sea of troubles, and made her regard me that day as sent to do an angel's office; to smooth her Jennie's entrance into that better world-ministering to an heir of salvation.

To

It is not always easy, I admit, to distinguish the merely marvellous from the providential, nor the providential from the miraculous; and many things which sincere and pious Christians have fondly considered as special interpositions of Providence, may, I grant, admit of much controversy. But to regard all events as but the results of the common laws of nature is, in effect, to shut God out of the government of His own world. represent God as standing by, a mere spectator, with His hands tied, so to speak, so that He can neither interpose to confer blessings nor inflict judgments, is to mock Him with the shadow of a kingly crown, and clip the wings by which-lifting above the cloudy regions of care and doubt-prayer raises us to the skies. It may be in a way unknown to, and inscrutable by, us; but unless God, interposing, takes an actual and active part in our fate and fortunes, I see no sense in prayer.

THE OLD COLLIER.

IN the beautiful picturesque county of Somerset lived an old collier, eminent for his deep-toned piety, and the fervent attachment that he manifested The to the missionary enterprise. providence of God had cast his lot in the coal-mining district of Radstock,

in the vicinity of Frome, where, with the sweat of his brow, he obtained his bread, by spending a considerable portion of his time in one of those dark and deep pits, where the rays of the sun never penetrate. We should almost as easily expect to find examples of godliness in the pit of perdition, as in one of those coal-pits, where so many imprecations are heard, did we not occasionally meet with a precious jewel, that assures us it is not all blackness and darkness, but that in the most depraved places there are sometimes happy exceptions of persons who call upon the name of the Lord. The Lord has his hidden ones in circumstances and local situations where we least expect them. Sometimes he shows us an old weather-beaten mariner, grown grey in the midst of a fierce and ungovernable crew, steering his course towards the New Jerusalem, and guided by the Star of Bethlehem; at other times, we are greeted by the Christian smile of an old miner, betraying an intimate acquaintance with the despised Galilean, and such a richness of Christian experience as serves to shame our timidity and enlarge our hearts. We feel, in company with him, as though we were travelling through the shaft of a mine, where one stroke of the mattock, to the right or to the left, may possibly discover to us a new view of precious ore. On the very spot where we expect to find only thorns and briers, we find a cultivation like the garden of the Lord, and sweeter flowers than are wont to bloom in the more frequented parts of Christendom. In the midst of the desert we often find the loveliest roses, and from the rudest copse we often hear the sweetest notes of the nightingale. There are children born to the Lord, as the dew of the morning, silently and secretly, before daybreak; and there are Christians so circumstanced, as to illustrate the poet's beautiful comparison:

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

Yet this was not altogether the collier. His religion had, indeed pened in comparative seclusion, bu life was useful. As a professed folk of Christ, he was constant in atte ance on all the ordinary meeting the church, and strenuous in his deavours to provoke others to love good works. There was a noble of soul within him that could n circumscribed by the narrow limi his daily avocation, and throug rude exterior glistened the pure br ness of a genuine Christian chara In the cause of missions he was d interested; the tenor of his ac showed that it lay near his heart. that he was anxious, in some wa be instrumental in carrying for the benevolent operations. Whe anniversary meetings of the di were being held, in the several p of worship in the neighbourhood was generally present at them allowing no trivial matter to dep him of the luxury of the feast he there accustomed to enjoy. As officiating minister was going to of these meetings, he overtook the collier on the road, who put inte hands a brown paper parcel, securely packed, and tied and se with an injunction not to open it after the chairman had delivered introductory speech. The meetin usual, commenced with prayer was a very good prayer, bu seemed very long, as the min was considerably exercised with jectures about the brown paper pa Next followed the chairman's spe it was a very good speech, well ada to the occasion, but to the ministe appeared very long, for he was wish to open the brown paper parcel.1 sently the time came; the chair finished his speech and introd another speaker to the meeting; v the minister, sitting by his side. solved to satisfy his curiosity by le ing the contents of the brown p parcel. Out came the penknife, went the string, and lo! on ope it, the brown paper parcel bec

nged into a white paper parcel, ring on it the inscription, in bold lers, "WE ARE ALL INSIDE, SIR." inside! thought he. And pray are all you inside? To work in went the penknife, prepared to ke a valiant assault upon these terious" all insides." The reader imagine his surprise on discoverthem to be eight silver coins, alent to a sovereign, offering elves for missionary work, acpanied with the following letter:

Dear Sir,-We have been in many rent places, and in many very rent companies and conditions, falways the most respectable.

At

one by one, we have come into possession of our present owner, has put us aside for a while, and offers us to the Lord of Missions, you will accept of us for His service. We are yours faithfully, from

AN OLD COLLIER." "N.B. We have no objection to go road, as any country or climate will

at us."

In a corner of the church sat the collier, studiously observant of the motions of the audience, to ascertain it were probable that many others ould be disposed to engage inside aces on an embarkation to the hea

A day or two afterwards the last eeting in the district was held, and appropriate sermon was preached on the words, "The end." The old olher, returning home, under a deep pression produced by the subject, d to a young friend, with much mphasis and solemnity, as though he ada presentiment of his own apoaching dissolution, "Who can tell? be the end to some

may

erhaps this fus. And so it proved. The next morn

as he was descending the pit, large stone fell upon his head, and the accident terminated fatally. He was numbered with the dead, and his Py spirit took its flight to the ons of purity and bliss, where he

that soweth and he that reapeth rejoice together.

THE VIOLETS' LESSON.

FOR THE YOUNG.

ONE bright day early in springtime a cluster of timid violets, which had pushed their way up through the damp mould, opened their eyes and looked out on the world around them. They found themselves just within the edge of a large wood, with noble old forest-trees lifting their heads in stately grace on every side, and vigorous young saplings shooting up here and there between. The whole wood was filled with the music of the birds, which had flown north from some sunny clime to herald the approach of summer. And close beside the timid violets, so near that they could lean over and look down into its clear waters, a bright stream went hurrying by, out into the meadows and fields beyond, and on, on, as far as the violets could see; how much farther they did not know. Everything about them was so grand or so beautiful, and so full of life, that the poor little violets felt themselves very insignificant beings indeed in this strange, glad world, into which they had entered. And they shrank closer together, as if each would shelter itself behind the other, when the golden April sunshine, glancing through the budding boughs above them, spied them out, and sent a stray beam to cheer them and brighten up their delicate blue petals. Presently a bird perched himself on one of the branches of a graceful elm close by, and warbled as if he would pour out his very heart in music-such a song of life and gladness and love!

"Oh!" sighed one of the violets, when the strain paused for a moment, "if we could have voices like that, to rejoice every living thing within hearing, it would indeed be something to live for. Would it not be a grand thing, sisters, if we could be of some use in this beautiful world?"

Low as the whisper was, the bird, who was just poising himself on the bough above, preparatory to another outburst of melody, heard it, and, looking down, said, " Why, you are of use, little ones! It is your business here to grow up just as fresh and lovely as you can, and help to make the world more beautiful. Every one cannot sing, to be sure; but every one can do what is in his own power." And so, having answered the violet, he launched out into his song again exultingly, joining the chorus of woodland minstrels who were rejoicing on every side.

But the violet whispered to her sisters lower than before: "Ah, but I wish we could do something! It is all very well to be beautiful, although I doubt if such poor little tiny things as we are anything very wonderful in that way."

66

The April wind swept across them, and bent their heads over the clear stream. "Look at yourselves in the water, and see if you have not been made beautiful enough to help to gladden the world, and do not sigh for more than has been given you. Live your own life to the utmost; be fragrant and blooming, and you do your part." And the stream looked up to them, and sang also in its low, murmurous ripple, Everything has its own work to do in the world! Mine is to freshen the grass and flowers, that, like yourselves, grow near my green margin, and the lofty trees that mirror themselves in my waters; and after a while, when I have expanded into a broad river, to bear on my bosom noble ships that carry men whither they wish to go. Rejoice in the sunshine and soft air, and be as lovely as you can-as lovely as you were designed to be-and in time you will know for what use you are destined. Be content till then." So the April wind swept on to visit other flowers, and the brook flowed along its pebbly bed, singing low to itself as before.

And the violets still looked up

timidly, but they welcomed the w bright sun-rays, when they shor upon them, bringing to them fresh and colour; they breathed out delicate fragrance lovingly on the spring airs, which gently care them. And so they bloomed in pe beauty, unseen for a while by hu eyes. But on one sunny day young girls came wandering thr the wood, searching for wild flo and listening to the birds. Pres one of them paused above the cl of violets. 66 Oh, Laura, see lovely violets! I am going to them for mamma. If I should g them, they would wither long be could take them to her; but if I them as faithfully as I can, they be the loveliest reminder of the S that I can send to her in the close b up city." So she sat down on a fallen near by, and sketched and painted delicate wee things in the book carried with her, while the vie stood in an ecstasy of delight at n ing how much joy they could give their beauty. Then the young went on, and left the wood to solitude.

All things went on as before. birds sang their love-songs, flittin and fro; the trees put forth f leaves, and grew greener every and gave deeper shade; the str rippled merrily on its way. Occasi ally some careless woodsinan strol whistling, along a faintly-trod path that led through the heart of wood; or a troop of merry child let loose for holiday, came see wild flowers; but none of them for the violets, until one golden morn there came a little pale-faced, bl eyed girl, drawn by her brothers light basket carriage. The little had been sick for weeks, but with opening spring she had revived, now on soft, sunny days, she was to go out in this way to take the As her brothers drew her along the margin of the stream, she the violets, and the blue eyes bright with pleasure. "O