to be always on the watch. But, dearest Alice, you had better not think whether those about you are doing right or wrong; but rather, darling, look to the patterns set you in the Bible; there you may read, above all, of our Blessed SAVIOUR Himself, Who is to be in all things our example, and also of His Apostles, and many holy men." "But, aunt Clara, it is quite impossible for me ever to be like any one in the Bible." "Do not think so, dearest, and at least we must try to be." After some time of silence, Alice said, “Aunt Clara, may I say some of that epistle to you; I learnt it this morning, after I left you." And she repeated the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh verses, and they talked a little longer about it. Then Miss Mellanby, fetching something from another part of the room, said, "Look, Alice dear, here are the words which you have just repeated, which a dear friend painted for me long ago." "O how beautiful!" said Alice, running to where her aunt stood, "and what odd letters; but I can read them easily, for I know the words. What bright beautiful colours! and there is gold, aunt, real gold on some!" Miss Mellanby laughed at her raptures, and said, “Would you like it, Alice, to hang up in your little bedroom?" "O yes! so much! aunt Clara, if you can spare it." "Yes, Alice, you may have it; and it will serve to remind you of to-day, and of our conversations, and help you to recollect all that charity means." Alice thanked her aunt again and again, and was never tired of admiring the beautiful letters. "I think I should like you, my dear, to make this a rule of life to yourself; I mean that you should think over it well every morning, and try to act up to it all the day long, and at night read it again, and remember how many times you have been uncharitable either towards those about you, or in the secret feelings of your heart. And the reason why I think it a good rule of life for you, is that it is a practical one; I mean, something to Do, and also something which you have continual opportunities of doing. And besides, it is easy and plain to understand; you cannot doubt whether you have done any one of these things or not, because they are real. It is, all through, either doing or not doing real plain things. And the more you think of them and try to do them, the better you will understand them. Do you understand me now, my love?" "Yes, aunt," answered Alice, earnestly," and I will try to make it, as you say, a rule of life always." "Dearest Alice, and you will always pray -and in the daytime, if you feel impatient, or angry, or proud, or vain, go and shut yourself in your room, and read these words through, and then kneel down and say this collect with all your heart. Will you try to remember, Alice?" "Yes, dearest aunt,' she whispered. "And I too," added Miss Mellanby, "shall think of my darling Alice, when I am far away, and pray that GOD will help her, and teach her ever." They were both silent for a long time. Miss Mellanby left them that week, and even before she went, she rejoiced to see her little niece's thoughtfulness: she noticed her more than once giving up to her sisters, or bearing teasing patiently and cheerfully. It is true that Alice also forgot herself sometimes, even often, and these faults were followed by bitter tears; but on the whole, Miss Mellanby saw enough to make her feel deeply glad and thankful. They had several more long talks together, and sometimes poor little Alice was quite cast down; especially when she thought of her aunt's coming departure. "Each parting seems worse than the last, dear aunt Clara," she said; but her aunt cheered and comforted her with words of hope and trust: "You will be left more entirely to the guidance of GOD, Who is a most loving FATHER to His obedient children, dear Alice, when you have no one here on earth to help and teach you." So they parted; and each year Miss Mellanby found her Alice growing in grace, becoming richer "in that most excellent gift of charity," and training up and influencing by her example her younger sisters. We will now pass over many many years. We find Alice alone living with her father, who has grown prematurely old; his faculties have decayed before their time, and he is in what is termed second childhood, and very infirm. Her sisters and brothers are all settled in the world, and now for some years she has tended alone her feeble, decrepit father. Her aunt still comes to see her, but not often, or for long, for she is married. The old love which subsisted between them has strengthened constantly, and now there is between them a deep true friendship, as equal as true friendship can be, where each will still consider her friend as so much better than herself. Alice still retained her childish reverence for her aunt, while she, in turn, looked with something of the same feeling on Alice, so patient, cheerful, humble, at all times. Assiduous attendance during a long sickness is sometimes called devotedness, but it is pleasure, real joy, even amidst weariness and grief, to tend those we love, if they are conscious of our love and care. It is deep gladness to meet the loving eyes full of thankfulness for each little service. But how dreary a task to watch by those who no longer recognise our love, to bear reproach, fretfulness, and much more, without a single hope of change till death. And this had now been Alice's lot for years, varied only by occasional short visits from her aunt and sisters; to sit by her father's side, trying to amuse him, listening to and answering the same trivial question twenty times in an hour, to hear the same tales of his younger life recounted day by day; to be unable to read, to walk, never to know the blessedness of solitude save at night (none know how blessed a thing solitude is, save those who have longed for it and found it not). In a word, to give every minute and thought during each day to one who seemed, nay, who was, unconscious of her love, and careless of her care. But amid all this long and wearing discipline had the hidden graces of Alice's character grown and ripened. Unable even to hope for reward on earth in her father's love, she fixed her eyes more steadfastly on heaven; and of her might it truly be said that her life was "hid with CHRIST in GOD." "Come, Alice love, one turn round the garden this lovely night," said her aunt, one August night after Mr. Selford had retired to rest, "how gloriously bright this harvest moon is: it will do you good, my poor child, and cool that flushed cheek." "You must not pity me, dear aunt," she returned gaily, "this room has been very hot and close, that is all, and I am accustomed to that; it is worse for you, my own auntie; so we will go out to do you good, you please." if Alice was thin, and looked worn and generally pale; but her face beamed with that deep peaceful happiness given to His faithful ones by Him Who said, "Peace I leave with you; My peace I give unto you ;" and now as they walked, Alice's light-hearted laugh might have been heard ringing more than once through the still air. But none can long indulge in even pure mirth in the solemn night time, when the moonbeams make this earth spectral, and give to all things something unearthly-so motionless, so pale, yet so wonderfully beautiful. The night is full of awe too, and, amidst the sleep of all inanimate things, the living soul thrills to the presence of its GOD. So these two dear friends walked in silence for many minutes, and it was with a subdued voice that Alice at length said: "I have been thinking of old times, dear aunt, as I always do when I have you by me, and of how very, very much, under GOD, I have to thank you for. Our long conversations come back so vividly before me at times. Do you remember them, dear aunt, and how despairing I used to be because I could not be entirely good in a minute; and how you encouraged me, by reminding me of the strength given to me in baptism; I remember even your very words sometimes, 'You have strength, Alice, only you must use it, or it will decay and leave you. And particularly I recollect about charity; I think our talk about that exercised most influence over my whole life. I remember once you said it was a good rule of life for me, because it was a practical one: and I understand that now fully. I have proved its truth by experience. I know, too, now how true it was that you said, in doing right we learn to understand. I think you said it specially of S. Paul's definition of charity; and truly I have A A ever gone on finding more and more in it; I seem even now to be only beginning to understand it." They were both silent again for a long time: then Alice resumed, speaking in a low dreamy tone, as if putting her thoughts unconsciously into words; "for years I used to think charity only a social grace, that it referred only to our conduct among and towards others, but I now see that there is as much in it for the most solitary. I have learned to know how in complete solitude the heart may be proud, envious, impatient, faithless, unloving, and more than all, selfish; I do think that selfishness is one of the most deadly of sins, and most hard to be overcome, it is so subtle, and so conceals itself beneath our best and holiest affections." Her voice faltered, and her heart throbbed with emotion at the thoughts which thronged upon her, full of self-reproach, but she had learned to control herself, and sternly to repress that "grief which only grieves the spirit of loving trust and faith was strong also within her; she quickly regained her usual peaceful expression, and went on: "I have learned to know that charity means love to GOD as well as to man; that it is indeed the bond of all virtues,' for in it all are included. O that one day I may not only know but do !" "Dearest Alice," answered her aunt, 66 once I used to teach you, but I think now you might do the same by me, for God Himself has been teaching you, Forgive me, dearest, if I pain you. I too, dear Alice, am sure that S. Paul's description of charity is a very good rule of life, especially for a beginner. It is so simple, so comprehensive, so plain, yet so deep; there are things in it which the most ignorant can understand and try to do; and yet the wisest may go on day by day learning more and more of its deep meanings.' Long they walked, now silently, now uttering the deep thoughts of their hearts. Alice was as sensitive, as full of quick and excitable feelings as in her childhood, but the discipline and prayer of many years had done their work, and now her sorrows were hidden deeply in her heart only to be poured forth before Him Who "loves us, though He read us true;" she had trusted in human love and sympathy, and found it unsatisfying, found too, that it hid from her the only perfect love and sympathy, and for many months she had trained herself by invarying reserve to resign what she most loved, most prized, the sympathy and pity of her dearest friend. Now she had learned to look to the right source alone for all comfort, and could feel deeply happy, deeply peaceful and thankful, in looking back on the past, marked as it was with many sharp trials, much sorrow, and in all many mercies. Now, again, she could allow herself the delight of earthly love and sympathy, for now it was secondary. And how true, and deep, and gladsome happiness she could know, all would feel who could gaze on her with her aunt, and see the loving smile in those soulful eyes, speaking of untold depths of heavenly peace. How few are like her, perhaps but one here and there. Dear friends, whom yet I know not face to face, I have described a pattern for your and my own imitation. Alas, for me, that it is so far above and beyond me! Would you do a loving service to one who needs it much? When next you kneel in prayer, ask that the writer of this little tale, no longer resting in beautiful imaginations and an ideal religion, may learn in very deed and truth, in the "common round and trivial task" of every-day life, to "follow after Charity." WILD FLOWERS. If the sweet May blossoms were the most abundant and the most beautiful productions of the last month, so may the fragrant dog-rose be regarded as the most characteristic flower of June. While our gardens are blushing in the pride of their summer attire, of which the rose, in all its splendid varieties, forms the most conspicuous feature, the hedges are more simply but not less gracefully adorned with the Wild or Dog-rose. This sweet flower, with its delicate pink and white petals, is more prized by the botanist, owing to the pure simplicity of its form, than all the double roses of the garden. The dog-rose is very common in our hedges and thickets, and when the roses have disappeared, the bush is scarcely less attractive to village children; for the blossoms are succeeded by the large scarlet berries, called heps or hips, just as the May blossom is succeeded by the lesser crimson berries called haws. These berries, which remain long on the branches, and furnish a supply of food to numerous birds as winter comes on, are also eaten by children without any injurious effect. Many a hungry truant no doubt has been content to do as Cowper did in his school-days, who says: "For I have loved the rural walk through lanes Of grassy swarth, close cropp'd by nibbling sheep, Of thorny boughs; have loved the rural walk O'er hills, through valleys, and by river's brink, |