heavy tread was heard, and at the same time the hurried muttering of a hoarse and angry voice, and the door opening violently, confronted her with her step-father. Instead of shrinking back at the burst of cruel wrath which greeted her, she looked up into his face with a faint smile and said, "I hope it is not late, dear father? I have not kept you at home? I have not disturbed you? I only stayed a little while

Her meek appeal was cut short by a grasp of his heavy hand upon her shoulder. "How dared you," he said, "leave this house without first coming to me? How dared you go to the very place from which I ordered you to stay away? Was not the punishment of yesterday enough? Am I to order, and scold, and beat day after day to no purpose? Well, you must have the same again, I suppose. Come in," he cried, at the same time dragging her into the passage, and setting his teeth with great fury, he struck the poor child so violently upon the face that she was thrown down upon her knees, seizing the step-rails for support.

"Oh father! father!" she cried so bitterly that any heart of common human feeling must have been melted by it. "Why do you beat me? Why do you look so fiercely at me? Pray forgive me; forgive your poor little girl who has none but you to love her, and to care for her now that dear mother is in heaven. Indeed, indeed, I only went to Church as she wished me; you know just before she shut her eyes, and died, I thought of you, father, and prayed for you, and asked GOD'S grace and blessing for both of us! Oh do not beat me for going to Church: do not try to keep me away from GOD, and dear mother's spirit, which comes down to worship in Church with us

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Church, Church; what nothing but Church again? don't talk to me. I hate It, and all about It. What said I yesterday? Will you forget it? Will you provoke me? Now listen to me," he thundered, stamping his foot on the ground, and pressing his clenched fist upon her neck at every word, "If you dare go again without my leave, I will beat you till your body shall have no strength to take you there, I will. Now go to your room quick; not another word, and when you are there hungry, thirsty, and in the dark, you will, perhaps, think over what I have said, and learn to choose, like a wise little girl, between going to Church, with a supperless evening in a dark room, and staying at home with my favour.”

What a relief it was to find herself in her own little room, with two closed doors between herself and that wicked man. Still trembling from her fear of his words, hungry indeed, and damp as to her little feet, from her hasty walk over the

dewy green, it was nevertheless a luxury to enter what was intended to be her prison. So indeed it was, being so utterly devoid of all comfort, as far as its appearance went, that one on entering might be tempted to suppose none could be happy there.

But what was the darkness to Annie herself, a child of light, upon whom the Sun of Righteousness in every hour and place was shining? What were cold, and hunger, and thirst, and solitude to her who knew she was enduring it all for conscience' sake? She sat down with no heavy heart upon the little seat beside the narrow window where she so often watched at early morning when the sun was rising, and at solemn night when the countless stars drew up her reverent gaze to heaven. Yes; she would think over the words of her step-father; she would learn to make the wise choice he recommended, and still she would morning and evening, so long as bodily strength would bear her, be at her place in the house of GOD; she would bear any loss, any pain, for the privilege of going. Had not her dear mother before her last kiss, bidden her never keep away? Had she not even yet fresh in her memory those strange but comforting words, “I shall be with you, my child, in your hours of prayer, though not in the body, still in the spirit; come to meet me there, and think of me whenever tempted to stay away; think of me, whenever you are sad, whenever ill treated by any." Yes; the beloved spirit was in that lonely room, and the little child who sat so stilly there was holding communion with it. Every trace of grief now departed -every bodily pain was forgotten, the world, its trials, and its sins, faded away like a mist from her vision; the voice of prayer burst from her lips, and she was only a child in bodily form.

And now her mind went back to the old Abbey cloisters, -in imagination she stood before the monument of the martyred lady; the venerable look of the old door-keeper was upon her, and like a sweet strain of distant music his words seemed to echo in her ears, "Fear not, the eye of the ALMIGHTY is upon thee; His holy angels by thy side. Fear nothing; be at every hour a martyr for thy LORD." "And can

I be a martyr? Can I?" she said, as she rose to look forth upon the rising moon.

If it be certain that men must die, and if it be no less uncertain when they will die, the most prudent use we can make of these reflections is to have our lights burning and our lamps trimmed without the least hesitation or delay.-BELLARMINE.

Fear, and care, and watchfulness, are not to be neglected to the last hour of life. According to our growth in the grace assigned us will be the reward of glory, though it be a reward unmerited, and conferred on a pardoned sinner.-PINDER.

HAPPINESS.

IMAGINE, honest friends, that, instead of a little book, I am a good-natured neighbour, come to spend an hour with you in cheerful chat. Do not look upon me as one that is come to read you grave lectures of religion and good behaviour, but give me the welcome of an agreeable companion. Is it in a summer's holiday you take me up? Come, let us go out into the fields, sit down under some shady tree, and, while the sun shines and the birds sing round us, let us talk over all we have to say. Or is it a winter's evening? Draw your seats about the chimney, throw on another faggot, make a cheerful blaze, and let us be comfortable. What is it to us here, if the wind blows and the rain beats abroad? Since we cannot work, let us divert ourselves; but let us divert ourselves in a harmless reasonable way, that we may turn this idle time to as good account as the busiest. Come, what shall we talk of ?-of happiness; there cannot be a pleasanter subject. Where is it to be had, this happiness, and how shall we come by it? Where is it to be had? Why, everywhere! so that we can but command our thoughts, and do our duty; serve GOD cheerfully, and make the best of our lot. It may be, good neighbour, you are old, lame, sickly, have a large family and little to maintain them. Alas! poor neighbour; yet still it is ten to one you may be happier than many a nobleman and many a prince. I suppose you to be honest and religious : why then the better half is secure; your mind is easy; you have no load upon your conscience, and no need to be afraid even of death. But cannot your condition be in any way mended? Content is a good thing; yet success in honest endeavours is a better. There is no need of sitting sadly down, and acquiescing in a miserable lot, till, upon mature consideration, we find it to be really the will of Providence that we should; and then, let me tell you, dear friend, GOD's will is kinder to us than our own wishes. When we submit patiently to sorrows and hardships, not out of laziness nor out of despair, nor out of thoughtless helplessness, we then trust our souls to Him in well-doing; we act a part which our great Master will approve; and we may have a cheerful confidence in His mercy, that all things shall work together for our good. Come, pluck up your spirits, my friend, and let us see whether the part that falls to you is to mend your condition, or to bear it.

First, you are old: well, that is a fault that time will not mend, indeed; but eternity will mend it. The period will come when your youth shall be renewed; when you shall be young and lusty as an eagle, and these grey hairs and wrinkles shall be

succeeded by immortal bloom. In the meantime, so much of your life is well over; you are got so far on your journey through this vale of tears: you may reflect with gratitude on many past mercies and blessings, and it peculiarly becomes old age to meditate much upon those subjects, which are, of all others, the most noble and delightful. Heaven is the object that should be always in their view. What a prospect is that! What, think you, should be the joy of a seafaring man, when, after a long stormy voyage, he is come within sight of the port? Suppose a young man had an estate left to him which he had never seen; suppose he had been travelling a thousand miles to come to it; that he had met with perpetual bad weather by the way, and dirty roads; that he was faint, and well-nigh wearied out; and that, just when he comes to the brow of a dry sandy hill, bleak and unpleasant in itself, but from whence the prospect just opened upon him of that fair place he is going to enjoy suppose he sees the tufted woods crowned with the brightest verdure; suppose he sees among them glittering spires and domes, and gilded columns, and knows that all these shall be his own,-with what pleasure will he survey the gentle winding rivulets gliding through fertile meadows, the borders gay with flowers of every kind; the parks and forests filled with all sorts of excellent fruits; the castles and pleasure-houses which he knows to be rich with magnificent furniture; and what is above all, where he knows that his best and dearest friends, and a delightful society, whom he longs to be amongst, are waiting with kind impatience to receive him,-think you that he will have leisure to attend to the little inconveniences of the present moment? Will not his thoughts fly forward faster than his legs can carry him to this blessed inheritance? Yet how poor are such riches and pleasures compared with the humble but cheerful hope of the poorest old man, who has endeavoured to keep his baptismal vow, and who trusts in the mercies and merits of his LORD and SAVIOUR!-Miss Talbot.

THE OLD MAN AT THE GATE.

A SKETCH BY A PARISH PRIEST.

THE great and rapid changes wrought during the last few years, appear scarcely less than marvellous. Many a little village that erewhile was little known, has grown up into a large and important town. The ancient landmarks (so to speak) have been removed, and the traces of other days obliterated.

Old

gabled cottages, with whitewashed fronts, and the honeysuckles twined upwards in graceful beauty, have given place to finelooking houses, with plate glass windows. Rustic quiet has yielded to the din and bustle of commerce, and rustic games and sports have been swept away by a spirit for money-making. But the old village of Rosedale still remains pretty much the same as it was in our forefathers' days. The spirit of innovation has not yet reached it: no railroad has been cut through its peaceful vales; no manufactories have risen up within it. There is the same long straggling street; there are the same old houses; the same quiet, ay, and the same happiness, which many now sleeping in the old churchyard loved to witness. It has also its old inhabitants, and amongst them none more remarkable than the old man at the toll-gate, through which you pass on entering the village. At all events, far and near, there was not a greater favourite with young and old, rich and poor, than grey-haired William. True, he had some odd ways with him, and entertained some very old-fashioned notions, which he did not always keep to himself; but, nevertheless, he was always civil to those above him, kind to his equals, and as for children, he liked nothing better than to gather a number around him on a cold winter's night, and tell them some wonderful stories about the fairies, who, he averred, had made Lovedale their favourite place of resort. A fine, frank old fellow was he to look at. He had an honest open countenance; and though for forty years he had minded the gate (as he called it), in summer and winter, wet weather and fair, cold and heat, a bloom of health played upon his cheek; whilst the long locks of grey hair that adorned his head, gave him a venerable and patriarchal appearance. He had seen many ups and downs in life, much of the world and its ways, and in time learnt truthful lessons from dear-bought experience. As soon as I entered the parish, I felt an interest in him, not only from what I heard but also from what I saw. You could not enter his house, or look upon the outside of it, without feeling that it belonged to an orderly person. Externally it was neat and clean, and flowers were carefully trained up its side. Internally, its old oak furniture was kept so bright, that you could almost see yourself in it; and the floor was so white, that you felt it would be spoiled by a carpet. It was a great pleasure to me to sit and talk to the old man of an evening, and learn his history. I am now going to state it, using, as far as my note-book serves me, some of his quaint expressions, which, though not the most elegant, are nevertheless the best adapted for persons in his state of life.

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"Ah," said he, "I've seen something in my time; few more in one way and another. And I've suffered much, though not