merits of a crucified SAVIOUR. He is a place to hide us in, and will preserve us in trouble. He is merciful, and will hear our cry. He can give us hearts of flesh for hearts of stone. He can heal those whom He has afflicted; uplift those whom He hath brought low; pardon all our offences, and blot them out of the book of remembrance. Pray we Him to give us humble and contrite hearts; to draw us near to him: to fill us with His pardoning love. Then, haply, the plague may be stayed from among us; and the pestilence that walketh at noonday will not hurt us; and we shall hear of joy and gladness; and we shall sing with rejoicing. "This shall be written for those that come after; and the people who shall be born shall praise the LORD. For He hath looked down from His sanctuary; out of the heaven did the LORD behold the earth, that He might hear the mournings of such as be in captivity; and deliver the children appointed unto death." Or if not, should He deem fit to call us hence, we shall change the robes of mourning for those of joy; and having put off this corruptible body, shall hereafter be clothed with incorruption, and gaze on Him, Who on earth was the penitent's hope, and trust, and stay, and is in heaven the joy of the redeemed.

THE STEP-FATHER; OR, CAN I BE A MARTYR?

CHAP. IV. THE WORKS OF DARKNESS.

LONG time Annie stood looking out from the narrow window. There was just light enough to enable her to see more or less distinctly as the clouds swept across the moon, the different objects in the garden below. Now and then she could even discern the dim outline of the distant woods, the kine moving across the meadows, and the silvery gleaming of the rapid river-image of Time itself, which, whether we wake, or whether we sleep, speeds us poor mortals on our passage to eternity. The window was not entirely closed, so that together with the chilly night air came stealing in the varied voices of the village. Mothers calling aloud to their truant children, who seemed to become more boisterous as their sports drew to a close; the returning labourer's kind "Good night," the creaking of the carrier's wagon up the wearisome hill, the shepherd's call to his faithful dog, the whistle of the solitary passenger setting forth on his long journey, the chimes of the abbey-clock, the cackling of geese on the village green, and, nearer to herself, the low moving of the rising breeze through the thick elms,

and the rattling chain of her own favourite dog in his kennel below-such were the sounds that served to make her feel herself part of the world around; there was certainly some dark object creeping softly through the gap in the laurels halfway up the garden. What could it be? What could make Cæsar, usually so quiet, now so loud and fierce in his barking? She strained her eager eyes towards the spot; that dark object was drawing nearer and nearer-now as the moon was darkened by a cloud there was a rustling of the shrubs, and the sound of a man's tread close under her window!

Now she heard voices; there were two forms, and one of the height and with the bearing of her step-father; she could not mistake his angry tone. "Why does not that dog keep quiet? Does he take his master for a thief?" Certainly, Cæsar seemed to imply that he did; for at the words he sprang to his chain's length, and barked more furiously than ever. Three heavy stones against his echoing kennel made him but still more unruly; until at length he seemed to grow weary of barking, and with his nose along the ground between his fore-paws at the extremity of his chain, he eyed the party with a prolonged growl which grew into a bark at every change in their position. How did Annie's heart beat as she listened to their whispered conversation. Surely she must be the subject of it, for her step-father is pointing to her window, and she drew aside, as dreading to be seen.

"It is no very great height," observed the stranger, "it might be done now; if it were but a little darker, or at any rate a few hours' time will close all watching eyes."

"But mind," interrupted his companion, "no more than what I said; not a hair of her head must be hurt. It must be done as gently and quietly as possible. All I want is, to have her out of the way, but without putting her to more pain than is necessary. Once in the woods-once under the good dame's care, and it is as good as having her in her grave. But softly, hungry bodies sleep lightly; that casement may not be fast. Yet we may as well part here. Listen then; so surely as she has the blood of her mother in her, she will play the old game to-morrow, and look for the punishment as certainly as for her supper. Well! you see yonder bower shaded by the laurels. I will send her there for punishment as soon as ever she comes in. Bide your time, and do your work well. You must be going, or that dog will drag his kennel after us."

Annie neither heard nor saw more. Now, for the first time, feelings of unutterable dread took possession of her mind; she threw herself with a burst of weeping upon her little pallet,

and gave herself up to all the horror of imaginations conjured up by what she had just overheard. Only to think of being carried off by that dreadful stranger she knew not where, to become like one buried in the grave, far away from the old abbey, and all her favourite walks and dear friends in the village, not even to have the miserable silence of her own chamber, nor the society of her faithful dog. What should she do? To whom could she turn for help? Who would believe her, even if she were to report what she had heard? How could she tell whether it was indeed her step-father, and whether they did indeed plot against her? One thing only was certain; she was in danger, and that danger close at hand. She was a poor helpless orphan child, and had injured none. Again therefore, could she turn to her old most certain refuge. Again her mind recurred to the abbey, the evening service, the martyr's tomb, the doorkeeper and his parting words. Was she going to be indeed a martyr?

(To be continued.)

THE ANGEL OF LIFE.

CHAPTER IX.

"Yet in that hour of bitterness and dread,

Sweet Mercy did her dove-like wings outspread,

And order smiled again."-Oxford Prize Poems.

WITH a sense of some great evil impending over them, Ernest awoke earlier than usual; he went to the porch, and then recollected all the occurrences of the previous unhappy day: he kissed the pale cheek of his sister, who still seemed sleeping. Ernest went alone to bathe: he felt very sad and desolate; no one but dumb Fido to speak to, and though the poor animal seemed to enter into his grief, he was not like his loved Rosalie. Alone he performed his morning's duties; alone fed the doves, and gathered the food for the day's nourishment. He set the little cavern to rights, and then thought of what more he could do for Rosalie: it was impossible to take her with him to the walls, in the heat. If he did not work, how could they expect to get home, as the wall would be unfinished. He looked at her lying so still and deathlike: the ointment, he had never found it: he called Fido, showed him his foot which had been wounded, making signs that he wanted something to do it with. Fido wagged his tail and took him to a corner, where he found some dark salve. Ernest shook his head, and pointing to Rosalie, said he

wanted some for her. Fido looked at him as much as to say hę understood, and led him outside the cavern; on the right hand, under the branches, was the salve. With a happier face than he had had for several hours, Ernest bent over Rosalie, gently rubbing her head and eyes with the ointment. He placed himself by her side, not liking to leave her. She seemed just in the same torpor; the daylight disturbed her not; he shook her gently, still she moved not, but remained as motionless, as cold, with the same dismal and frightened expression of face.

Now the morning sun darted his rays into the cave, lighting it up as if by magic. It is bathing and watching time, thought Ernest; my duty has been solitary this morning. bathing Rosalie could hurt her, I should think not. should I be if she would open her eyes and smile, feel she is better.

I wonder if How happy and let me

With trembling arms Ernest lifted Rosalie from her bed, carrying her to the margin of the fountain; he threw the water plentifully over her face; her breathing seemed less difficult; encouraged by this he laid her down in the fountain, and shutting his eyes, waited some time in silence.

"Ernest!"-The brother and sister were locked in each other's embrace. "Where am I, Ernest?"

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'By the fountain-side: let me carry you into the cave." "Where have I been all this dreadful night? It seemed as if I were in some horrible place."

"Let us return thanks for your restoration, dearest. Can you bear to listen while I read, before I go to work to-day?"

Now the days chased each other in rapid flight, finding our wanderers patiently watching; the dangers of the wilderness, the birds of prey, and the hissing snakes, made them more wary and cautious. They worked singing, conversing, and reading by turns; thinking sometimes of their prize almost won, and the return of the expected Stranger. Ernest looked forward with delight to that event; poor Rosalie never said a word on the subject; her conscience upbraided her for her past behaviour; even to her dear brother she could not bring herself to confess the extent of her undutifulness. What excuses could she frame for the morrow, when their friend would most probably come? Where could she hide herself? there was no place but the cavern; she dared not run into the forest. What would have been her fate even now if Ernest had not been so kind and watchful? Suppose she was left behind whilst he went home, for he had been more diligent and vigilant, and thought more of home and his duty than she had done. Such reflections prevented Rosalie from chattering as was her wont; Ernest too was silent, though from a totally different motive. The greater part

of his task the day before had been necessarily neglected; he was therefore amazed on returning to his work, to find not only his own portion finished, but three times more built than had been done when he left it, and in a style of workmanship superior to theirs. Yet when he tried to discover where it had been commenced, he could not find the slightest trace of difference.

Rosalie observed it, but said nothing: her late conversation there, and the state of forgetfulness in which she had been all the previous day, brought bitter recollections, so she continued quite silent and thoughtful.

It seemed strange no search had been made for the children, that Fido had not run home and brought some friend to see them he was sagacious enough, seeming to understand their very thoughts. Were they to go back this ensuing week, or what was to be their future lot, all remained unknown and mysterious.

"I think we must return and watch by the fountain-side for our friend, Rosalie."

"Not just yet, surely," said she, drawing back.

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"Yes, at once," said Ernest, or I must go alone. Will you take the doves? I will bring my share, and sing me that sweet song you and I loved so much, and used to sing so often in our mountain home."

Rosalie began in a low voice, which gradually became more and more sweet, as she proceeded.

"Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on.

The night is dark, and we are far from home,
Lead Thou me on.

Keep Thou my feet: I do not ask to see
The distant scene,-one step enough for me.

"I was not ever thus, and prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead Thou me on.

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

"So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone;

And with the morn, those Angel faces smile,

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile."

Lyra Apostolica.

"Thanks, dearest sister: how sweet the concluding words are!