Matty liked her out-door life in the fine. summer weather, and she now spent a good deal of her time with her invalid friend, who grew worse as the warm weather set in ; and, less able than formerly to attend to her sewing, was glad of Matty's company while her mother was busy in the shop.

Doost want to dee?' asked the little girl one day, when the other had been talking of the joys of Heaven. 'Aw thinks as thae doost a'most.'

"Well, I'm not afeared,' answered Sarah. 'I dunnot want to leave mother; but for that, I thinks as it'll be happier theer than here: we shall not have to fight so hard agen sin, an' there won't be nought to worrit a body.'

'Aw thinks as aw should like to dee too,' said Matty. Then aw should see th' fine New Jerusalem and know all 'bout th' saints and angels. An' mebbe as Jesus Christ 'ud take me up t' His arms and bless me, as He'd used to do th' little childer on earth. Mammy had used to take me o' her lap sometimes, and make a to-do wi' me, but nobbody doesn't now.'

'I loves thee,' said Sarah tenderly; and Christ ull love thee too, whether thae's here or theer, if thae's a good lass. It's not for a little thing loike thee to be talking o' dyin'. It's different wi' me; I's been ailing this iver so long; an' I often an' often thinks as I should loike to go to Heaven an' rest.'

And the wish was soon to be fulfilled. When summer passed into autumn, long before the first snow had fallen, Sarah Lane was laid in her grave, and her little pupil went her way with a sad heart, feeling she had lost her best friend on earth.

There was some talk about this time of the child's being sent to work, and Matty herself hailed the idea with delight; partly perhaps that she began to desire some regular employment, but chiefly because she gathered from scraps of conversation she heard dropped, that if she went to the factory she would also go to school. But day after day went by, and still no work was found for her. At last she thought she might safely urge the matter to her father one evening when he was at home.

'Huntleys wants no more young uns,' he said; but that's no rayson why we should na try some other shop.'

'But wark's slackish jist now,' said Mrs. Gubbings. Aw doubt if we could git her took on onywheres.'

'Aw'm afeared, too,' said Gubbings. 'Bill Fowl tell'd me last neet as how little Bill and Sall has to bide a' whoam now; Slaters has tarned off half theer hands, and Marslands too is begun warkin' half time.'

'Weel, it's nought to fret o'er,' returned his wife. It's weel nigh as broad as it's long; for theer'd be th' schoolin', ye knows.'

'Aye, to be sure,' assented Gubbings, and no more was said.

And probably nothing more was done, either. If any efforts were made, they were certainly not successful; and as month. after month slipped by and the subject was not alluded to, her dream of school faded once more from before Matty's yearning eyes, and the child told herself with a sigh that God had willed it so. 'Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth,' she read, and asked herself in all humility, Was it possible that God could really love her a poor little girl who was able to do so little in His service? Her Bible assured her she need not doubt, and for the hundredth time she blessed the giver of the precious gift. (To be continued.)

We sat beneath our walnut-tree,
Often in the heat of day;

You stitching ever,- we half tired

With our never-ending play.

'Now, Nursey dear, do rest a bit-'

'Nay,' said you, but read to me; Then I can stitch, and watch the baby,

All beneath the walnut-tree.'

And so I read, but soon I nodded

Down in sleep upon your knee, Baby long in sleep had rested,

Let the happy sleepers be. J. E. C. F.

'Where is glory? How many miles is it?' he asked again.

I did not quite understand his meaning, till he repeated the line,

'Where saints in glory stand;'

and then I knew that he thought 'glory' was the name of a place on earth. He was a very little boy, so I simply told him that the Happy Land spoken of was God's home in Heaven, and that He would have His children to live with Him there.

But most of my young readers are, I dare say, older than my curly-headed little friend, who only just knows his letters, and I should like to ask them if they are trying to walk in the way that leads to 'the Happy Land.' Are they, I wonder, treading in the steps of the Holy Jesus, Who became a child for their sakes? He was obedient to His earthly parents, that He may teach the lambs of His flock to follow Him; and He will lead them lovingly to the Home which He has prepared for them, if they will only listen to His voice saying to them, 'I love them that love Me, and those that seek Me early shall find Me.'

HOW JOHN ROSS BEGAN TO
'KNEEL DOWN.'

HE room was small, and the furniture old-fashioned; but there was a neatness and warmth about it that made it look pleasant and comfortable. On a stool by the fire was a bright little girl; and at the tea-table sat a pale matron, anxiously seeing that her husband had all that he wanted, while he for his part was entirely absorbed in his evening meal of 'haricot.' Mrs. Ross understood the art of cooking; and the dish which she had set before her husband was delicious,

'Was it nice, father?' asked Ally, as he turned towards her.

Ay, just as usual,' was the answer. 'Hunger's the best sauce, you know, Ally.' The mother smiled. It was scant praise, but she was satisfied.

You won't be going out again to-night, John, will you?' she inquired, presently.

It

Her husband hesitated. He was no drunkard, yet the tavern had for him very great attractions. He liked excitementthe talk about politics, and other gossip. It never occurred to him that it was worth while to converse with his little daughter, and his thoughtful, intelligent wife. Laughter at home would have grated on his ear; and the idea of telling the two who, in all the world, best loved him, what he read in the newspapers, was as far from his thoughts as Lapland is from Patagonia. Poor John Ross! He had yet to learn that a man has other duties besides those of earning, spending, and boasting of his wages.

'I must go,' he said, for they will expect

me.'

But you

'I don't know; that depends. need not sit up, burning candle for nothing, as you did last night.'

'Very well, John. Say "Good-night" to father, Ally dear.'

The child put up her mouth for a kiss. 'Good-night, father,' the child whispered, as he stooped to receive her caress: come home as quick as you can.'

He was gone. Mrs. Ross washed up the plates and dishes, and put them, with Ally's help, into the cupboard. Then she sat down to mend her husband's waistcoat. They were dull that night, and with reason; yet the child laid her head on her mother's knee with a sense of rest and calm that seldom came to her in her father's presence. Soon she began to sing the hymns which she learnt at school. Then, kneeling to pray beside her mother's chair, she began to say, 'God bless dear father

Hush! Was that some one at the window, or was it only a puff of wind that rattled the one half-frame against the other? Ally looked up, and listened.

'It is nothing,' said her mother, and the child went on: 'Bless dear father to-night, and bring him home safe, and help me to be a good child to him and mother; for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.'

As these words rose to heaven the door was opened by John Ross himself. Unseen by his wife and child, he waited in the shadow to hear the rest. It was not much, if measured by the number of its wordssimply a similar prayer for other relations, and that short prayer so full of meaning which Christ taught His disciples-but there was a beauty in the scene, a touching pathos in the voice, and, above all, a reality in the petition, which compelled John Ross

to bow his head and worship. Nor, even when the last Amen was uttered, could he persuade himself to come forward and disturb them; for Ally began to talk about him, saying, 'I do hope he will come before I go to sleep. Don't you, mother?'

"Yes, darling; though I cannot expect it,' said her mother.

The child waited a little while, and then said, Is it far?'

Mrs. Ross had been sitting with her eyes fixed on the fire, thinking, perhaps, of her blithe girlhood and earlier married life. She started now, asking, 'Is what far?' in a vain effort to understand the child's question.

"The Welcome Home," where father goes every evening; don't you know?'

Did she know? Ah, too well, too well! It required some effort to answer calmly, 'Half-a-mile.'

'And why does he never take us there?' continued Alice.

It is not a place for little girls, my child.'

'Do people work there, then?'