empered and impulsive, struck his rother an awful blow with the stock f his gun, which felled him to the arth.

"I stood over him," he said, in a arse, husky whisper, "and I saw

I

lying there, his face white and rful in the moonlight. I put my and on his heart and felt no throb. had no thought but that he was dead, rent home and took all the money and find in the house and fled. I ver meant to come back again, but solitude grew too terrible. For this time I have believed myself a be a murderer, nor can I see now bat my guilt is any less."

Strange, strange," Squire GranFr murmured. "No one ever knew this. I remember, now, that your other was ill and confined to his room for awhile after you went away; but he gave out that it was owing to heary fall he got in going through the woods. He has kept your secret well I will be equally faithful to it, Fere it only for the sake of your dead ather. I think you've learned a lesan you won't have to learn over again; ou may be a better man for it all our life through. I advise you to ake your peace with your brother, ad settle down here among your id friends and kindred."

John Grierson bowed his head upon is hands, and his voice shook as he aswered,

"I could not make my peace with James. He has been noble enough to eep my secret, for the sake of the old Ame we both bear; but it never would be possible for him to forgive me, or forget that I had tried to murder him. This old town where the Griersons have lived so many years, good men and true, is no place for me. I will stay to-night in the inn yonder, ad go away in the morning, out of ight and out of mind. You have kind, Squire Granger, and I thank you for it, in my father's name and my own.

John Grierson was glad that the boy who met him at the inn door was a

stranger-glad to be shown to his room and hide himself away. He wanted no supper, he only wanted to think. So, after all, the stain of blood-guiltiness was not upon his hands; but could any waters ever wash his heart clean? He had thought that his confession once made he should be at rest; but still the Presence haunted him, and still a voice seemed to urge him, against his will, to go to his brother.

At last he could bear it no longer. He got up, and went downstairs, and out into the still evening. No moon shone, only the stars looked down from the deep blue sky of the summer night. The air was heavy with odorous dew, and no breeze stirred it; no sound but his own steps broke the stillness. On he went, over the familiar ways. He had not said to himself that he would go in, only that he must see the old place once more. pushed open the gate softly, and went up the well-known walk. The curtains had not been put down, and he saw his brother sitting there at the table, reading, and all alone. She was not there, kindling the place with her dark eyes, her beguiling smile, her fatal beauty. He had not dared to ask Squire Granger whether they were married; but, at least, here was James, and alone.

He

He opened, with trembling fingers, the old, hospitable, never-fastened door. He went in, and his brother heard his footsteps, and rose to his feet as he entered.

John Grierson looked into the face he had seen last so white, so awfully still in the moonlight-the face from the sight of which he had never been able to get away-and dared not speak. When he entered the door he had meant to utter a prayer for pardon so full of passionate pleading that not even the man he had tried to murder could refuse to hear it; and instead, he stood there dumb. Perhaps no words could have been more prevailing than just the sight of his silent shame. James Grierson understood all that the sealed

lips could not utter. He only said three words; but those three were enough:

Brother, welcome home."

John fell upon his knees before him and lifted up piteous hands.

"Until to-day I thought I had killed you, and I came back to die for it. I was ready to give up my life in expiation. You are alive, but my guilt is just the same. What can I do to expiate it now? By what sacrifice can I win your forgiveness?"

66

You had it, John, from the very first. I knew what you had done was but the act of a momentary madness; for which your suffering would be incomparably deeper than mine. I might have done the same, had I not been by nature cooler-headed than you. I have kept your secret; and all the time I have held you as my brother, nearer to me than any one else in the world. I have felt always that you would come home some day, and we should live together again in peace.

66 And Olive?"

A power beyond John Grierson's resistance seemed to force that name from his lips.

"She never was worth a sharp word or a hard thought from either of us to the other, John. She is married

now; and she was pledged to the man before ever she came here, and used all her artful wiles to beguile us of our hearts. Let the old past with which she had to do rest in its grave, and remember only that you and I are brothers."

But still John Grierson could not answer his brother's smile. A torturing, suffocating sense of unworthiness choked him.

"How dare I ask your forgiveness!" he cried; "or be happy in your love? My crime was just as real as if God's mercy had not turned its consequences Before Heaven I am away. demned-what right have I to go forth a free man among my fellows?"

con

His brother answered with solemn tenderness:

"Because Christ's love shall mal you free indeed-because the Fath pities us, and is ready to save eve unto the uttermost; more ready i forgive than we to ask-patient wit our infirmities-waiting always to gi us his blessing."

And once more the Presence seemi to John Grierson to fill all the root but no longer a Presence of accus and upbraiding. He felt him drawing near to a great heart of lo and was content with all his sin his sorrow, just as he was, to layi burden down and rest on that love

FROM heavy sleep little Paul C ford suddenly awoke, and staring wi great wondering eyes upon unfamilia walls, started impetuously up in bed but sank back with a quick, sharp er of pain. A gentle face bent over hin "What is it, dear?"

"Where am I?" said Paul, faintly "and what is the matter?"

"Ah, you can't remember, po little child! You have had a terrib fall, and it hurt you very much, b we hope to make you all right in little while. Don't think any me about it now, but try to go to sle again."

Paul shuddered. "Oh, I remembe now-those cruel, cruel doctors-ho they screwed my leg, and put fire a my back. Father wouldn't have them do it if he had been here," the child's breast heaved painfully.

"They tried to be kind," said nurse, with a tear in her eye; "but know it was very hard to bear. B now see, darling, the worst is ove they have set your leg, and tried to something for your poor little ba and now you have only to lie v still, and get well as fast as you en Come," said she, as his face gre

mer, we will have a very nice e together. Shall I read till you to sleep ?"

I can't sleep any more now, ise," said little Paul, wearily. Then I will shake up your pillows hat you can look around and see the pleasant little children." Tery tenderly she raised his head, not so carefully but that he felt strange sensation of fire on his and groaned, although he bit proud, young lips, and tried to his thanks to the sweet-faced . Very languidly at first did he his heavy lids; but he soon ne more interested, for this was at he saw. A long, cheerful room, ed on two sides with little cots with wy coverlids, and soft white pil

and in a pretty sacque of pink blue, like a bird in each fair little est, was sitting or lying a patient the child. They were all very young. de was not more than two years old, d the greatest veteran in the comny had not counted more than eight nine birthdays. But every one alady knew what it was to suffer pain, d around some of the small mouths ere were sweet patient lines, very thing to see in such baby faces. Paul looked earnestly from one face the other. He noticed the little girl posite, singing softly and content

r to her wooden doll, pressed close her white, thin cheek; he saw the var-eyed little boy next to her, peergeagerly into the mechanism of a toy am-engine, entirely unmindful of the pless arm tied up in a sling; and anher child, a little further on, turning er a picture-book, and almost forting his poor paralyzed feet, upon ich he would never walk again. "Yes," sighed Paul to himself, they seem happy enough; but they st have been here a great while, forgotten how splendid everything out in the sunshine; but I-only sterday I could run faster than any y in the street, and nowcars gathered in his eyes.

the

"I am very sorry for you, little

boy," said a sweet voice; and turning, he found it came from his next neighbour, whose cot was only a few feet from his own.

The speaker was a little girl, with very fair hair, and a skin so transparent that he could trace the delicate blue veins on her temples; and as he looked at her innocent face he wondered to find himself thinking of the fair white lilies he had once seen when he peered through the fence of some rare city garden.

Paul felt himself greatly comforted (he scarcely knew why) by the look and words of sympathy, and a quick impulsive friendship sprang up between the little fellow-sufferers. It was not long before Paul was telling her all his story-how "mother died, and father and he went to live with Aunt Margaret, who was poor, and had ever so many children, and was sometimes very cross. Then fatherdear father-went off to be a soldier, and told him that as soon as he was old enough he should be a soldier too. Ever since father had sailed he had been longing for him; and whenever any soldiers went that way, he always wanted to see them, and so one day when he climbed a tree to see a regiment go past, poor Ben Butler, who was half foolish, would creep on to the same limb. It began to crack, and he thought poor Benny wouldn't know enough to save himself, so he tried to jump to another branch, but missed, and fell down-down on the hard pavement, and didn't know any more till the doctors- ." his voice quivered.

"Never mind," said Susy, "don't tell any more," ," and they mingled

their tears.

Then Susy, in her turn, told him "she had already been there two years, and never expected to be well, but knew that she should live in that little cot till she died."

"But you don't seem to care at all," said Paul, looking wonderingly at her smiling face.

"No," said Susy, "I am very happy.

Very few sick children have such nice clean beds, and such pleasant nurses to take care of them. Do you know this is S- Hospital, and the nurses are ladies-some of them very richwho come here just because they love God, and want to do something to please Him."

"I should think God would love them very much," said Paul, looking affectionately after the nurse flitting noiselessly, in her soft, dark dress, from one little cot to another. "But, Susy," he began, after a long pause, "I suppose girls can keep still easier, but I'm sure I could never smile again if I thought I must stay here all my life. O Susy, have you forgotten how splendid it is to run and jump? It would just break my heart if I didn't think I should get well very soon, and go to be a soldier with father. How can you smile so, Susy?"

"I'm waiting for Jesus," said Susy, softly.

"What can you mean?"

"Why," said Susy, the nurse reads to us every day from the Bible, and once she told us about Jesus passing amidst all the sick people, and making them well, and I said "O nurse, if He only would pass by here, and touch every little cot;' and then she told me that Jesus would come to every little child that asked for Him, and if it was best He would make us well, and leave us on earth, or perhaps, if He loved us very much, He would take us with Him to heaven. So," said Susy, with a strange, sweet smile, "I'm waiting for Him every day.'

"And you really think He'll come?" "I know it," said Susy, simply. Paul looked doubtful, and sinking back upon his pillow wearily closed his great sad eyes.

The days passed on, and little Paul grew no better, although he had learned from Susy to be patient for Christ's sake. One bright May morning he woke, hearing the doctors talking around his bed. They had decided that perhaps one more operation might save his life. "Will you bear it like a

hero, my dear little fellow?" said one, kindly.

I'll try, sir," said Paul, steadily, for you know I'm to be a soldier one of these days."

"To be sure," said the doctor kindly. "To-morrow, then," sa they passed on.

Susy, with her violet eyes full tears, said again and again, “Des Paul, poor dear Paul;" but he wanted be brave, and was afraid he should cr if he looked at her. So he lay ver still, with closed eyes, while the swee Sabbath music stole in from the chape where some of the poor sick men sn women were worshipping God. Wit all his bravery he could not help shui dering to think of the cruel suffer. on the morrow, and thinking hơ sweet it would be for Jesus to come, a Susy had said. With a piteous littl prayer trembling on his lips, he fel into a half slumber, and dreamed that he did indeed see the beautiful Savion coming down between the long lines of little cots, straight towards his ow bed. Paul hid his face from the bright ness, but he knew when Jesus touche him, for the pain slipped away softly and with a glad cry he opened his eyes Alas! the old pain came leaping bac -ran over his poor back, and shivere down his tired little limbs. With heavy sigh he looked around the roo It was flooded with glad sunshine, an one bright beam rested on the swee picture of Jesus blessing little childrer and saying, "Suffer them to com unto me.' Paul grew calmer whil

he looked at it. He wanted to te Susy that he was almost sure Jes would come some time, but he was s very tired, his eyes again clos wearily, nor did they open till in th twilight he heard the children sing ing,

tied to bolster up his little thin hand that it would stay up in the air. "What are you doing?" said Susy. "You see," said Paul, in a drowsy, andering voice, "I am afraid Jesus ight pass by in the night, when I was deep, and I want to keep my hand so He can find me, and know I'm boy who has been waitingHis voice died away.

Dear Paul, he is gone to sleep,"
Susy.

Paul slept late the next morning.
"I cannot bear to wake him," said
kind nurse to another. "Poor

ttle fellow! he must suffer so much -day, and it will break his heart when he finds he can never be a soler, for they say he will always be lame."

But Susy, looking eagerly to the bed, and seeing the hand lying quietly by his side, said, with a glad, hopeful smile,

"I shouldn't wonder if Jesus put it there."

And Susy was right, for Jesus had indeed passed by, and finding little Paul waiting for Him, and loving Him very much, had lifted the tired lamb to his bosom.

THE LITTLE SAND VENDOR.

FOR THE YOUNG.

Is a certain street in Berlin there sat a boy who counted his twenty-six pence. He dropped them from one hand to the other, and they appeared to him as so much shining gold. Near by his little sister stood; her head was bowed down, and her hair unkempt. Not far from where they were there was a large house with high windows. Many people entered the house, and it seemed as if there were to be a public meeting there. The ladies and gentlemen who entered were observed attentively by little Snell and his sister. He had made that day twenty-six pence by selling sand, and as he had a little still left in his bag, he thought

he might be able to dispose of that in the large house where the people went.

So he said to his little sister, "You stay here while I go with the sand to that house."

He went up the large marble steps and saw a man standing at the door, who had a good many slips of paper in his hand. They were tickets of admission to the meeting that afternoon. Snell was a frank boy, and said to the 'I don't belong to the meeting, but I have some beautiful white sand I would like to sell you. There is no better sand to be found than mine."

man:

.

Then Snell mustered up a little more courage, and said: My sister is out of doors near by, and I know she would like very much to hear the missionaries too. Please let me go and call her. We will sit anywhere in the room, and nobody shall see our rags but you."

The man had a kind heart, and consented to his request. In a little while, Snell and his sister were seated on a low stool behind the parlour door. The little bag of sand was brought to the front gate and put down just inside of it. The meeting was opened with singing and prayer, after which a missionary arose and spoke thus: "I have seen with my own eyes that wicked mothers bury their living children in the earth, or burn them in the fire, or drown them in the water, or give them to crocodiles. In the large cities I have seen little babies lying in the streets, left there by their parents. The case is not much better with the

old people, for when they get weak