sure at any time to minister to her comfort and the work entailed by her class at the Sunday School, gave her as much as she was able to do. But what she did, she did with eagerness, energy, and cheerfulness.

After a couple of years spent in this way, the cholera suddenly made its appearance in the village; and terrible, indeed, were its ravages. Rich and poor, old and young, were alike stricken. Many of those who were able fled in terror and dismay from the dread disease, only to fall victims to it elsewhere. Christ's faithful disciples gathered together frequently in the church, to make supplication as well for others as for themselves. The timid were paralysed, the boldest shuddered, and the hardened and profane grew more hardened and more profane still, drowning their cares and fears in the miserable refuge of drink. Business was almost entirely suspended, and but one thought seemed to occupy the hearts of all -who would be the next victim?

What did Rose think and do under this awful trial? Did she want to flee from the

danger? Did she feel any terror or alarm? She did feel timid at first-indeed, it was but in nature that she should; but not oue thought or one wish had she to flee from the danger. No, strengthened by her loving and Divine Saviour, she went forth in earnest faith and eager love, more than ever intent on her mission of mercy and charity. Wherever help was needed, there she went. The blessings and prayers of the suffering and the dying rose up to Heaven as a cloud of incense on her behalf. But the end was soon to come.

After a long and weary day of visiting and nursing she returned home, to find her own much-loved mother suffering from the first symptoms of the disease. Rose sat up through the long night watching, nursing,

and soothing her, and administering the remedies prescribed by the doctor; but all in vain. Ere the morning light arose, Mrs. Norman, after much suffering, had breathed her last.

Before many hours had passed, Rose herself lay, racked by the agony of the disease, without one kindly hand to smooth her pillow, without one friendly word to cheer her soul: for the servant had fled at the first alarm of Mrs. Norman's illness, the doctor was busily engaged at a distant part of the parish, and the neighbours had not yet heard of Mrs. Norman's death. At last an old cottager, who loved Rose better than herself, knocked at the door and entered the cottage; and found there, stretched on her couch, all that remained on earth of the bright, happy, joyous Rose Norman, who had spent her whole life in works of faith and love, and who now, through the terrible gate of sorrow, and suffering, and death, had gone for ever to dwell with her blessed Saviour in Heaven.

[Castle Street, Leicester Square.

OLD CHARLES' BIBLE.

'Thy Word is a lantern unto my feet; and a light unto my paths.'-Ps. cxix. 103.

YOU ask, little master, the reason

I love my old Bible so well; You ask why, whatever the season,

The same words I ponder and spell; In summer and winter you find me

At eve, when day's labours are o'er, Still reading the words that remind me Of what I have read oft before.

I love it, the blessed Old Story,'

Of Jesus, my Saviour, my God! Of how He Who dwells now in glory

The pathway of sorrow once trod.
It tells of compassions that fail not,'
Of glories that fade not away,
And bids me 'be still,' and bewail not,
Though sorrow should darken my day.

For He Who was born in a manger,
Yet giveth us all daily bread,
His life full of sorrow and inger

With nowhere to lay down His head:

And He has a place up in Heaven

For you, little master, and me,

Where all who to serve Him have striven 'The King in His beauty' shall see.

So now you know why, little master,
I love my old Bible so well,
And how, as old age still comes faster,
It seems more of comfort to tell;
Oh, may you, when childhood is ended,
And grey hairs shall cover your head,
By faith in its teaching defended,
In the light of its promises tread.

M. II. F. D.

MANNERS AND CUSTOMS OF THE EAST.

THE

TENTS.

HE Arabs do not live in houses of stone or wood as we do. They do not stay long in one place, but move about with their flocks, seeking those parts of the country where there is water for the animals to drink, and grass for them to eat. It would not be worth their while to build houses in such places, so they make tents of hair-cloths dyed black, and propped up by poles. The covering of the tents is stretched out with cords, and these cords are fastened to stakes. Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, lived in tents, and so did the children of Israel while they were dering in the wilderness. Before the Temple was built, the Ark of God was kept in a large and beautiful tent or tabernacle, and there the priests sacrificed, and the people worshipped God. At one of the great feasts of the Israelites called the Feast of the Tabernacles,' all the people lived for seven days in booths or tents made of green boughs. A number of tents together is called a camp.

wan

MARTIN BLACK'S CHILDREN.

AVE you ever had a day-dream in which you imagined yourself very rich and prosperous, and doing a great deal of good in the world; feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, teaching the ignorant, and consoling the mourner? and then, have you ever thought with discontent of yourself, as one who would have been capable of great things if a less obscure corner in life had been allotted to you? As it is, with no spare money and no high position, nothing surely can be expected from you

in the way of benefiting mankind. With this last thought I imagine you wrapping yourself up in that ugly top-coat of selfishness which disfigures so many people. Wait a minute, however, before you button it, and let me tell you the story of one Martin Black.

When he came into the world, a little whining baby, people shook their heads and talked of poor Mrs. Black, and her heavy trials-husband just dead, three growing lads to support, and now this worst trouble of all. For Martin was deformed from his birth. Mrs. Black was a weakly, fretful woman, and readily took up the strain of lament she was not unkind to Martin, but she often said in his hearing that he must always be a burden, and she trusted the good Lord would soon take him to Himself.

Though Martin was very young, this sort of talk grieved him, and he very early began to try to be of use to his mother, just to prove that he was not a burden. He was a kindly little lad too, and liked helping the pale, complaining woman. So at six years old he could light the kitchen fire, get breakfast, and sweep the room almost as well as a grown woman.

Now Mrs. Black changed her tune. Martin was the only one who helped her at all; as for Jim, and Jonas, and Henry, big lads that they were, they grudged her the couple of shillings on Saturday night, and wanted to spend all their wages on themselves.

Martin's next step in life was apprenticeship to a shoemaker; he must learn some trade, and his infirmity prevented his taking to hard outdoor work. It was a real joy to him to bring home a trifle to the family purse; he carried every farthing that he earned to his mother, save, that now and then he kept back some little sum towards the maintenance of a numerous family of

birds and beasts which he had in a shed outside the house. For if ever a village boy got tired of a pet, or if an animal sickened and was given over, it was always carried to Martin, till the half Infirmary, half Refuge, was crowded with inmates. Guinea-pigs and rabbits galloped about among white mice and kittens; canaries, bullfinches, and such-like pretty song birds, shared their quarters with young owls: and all were Martin's darlings.

The gentry of the neighbourhood smiled on the boy's collection, and chiefly supported it by grants of green food and grain. Besides sick animals, crying children, beggars, and people in trouble, seemed to come naturally to little Martin; he did them all good, he found a spare nut in his dormice stores for the little ones; he gave his supper to the really hungry tramp, and he would sit and listen by the hour to the poor soul in trouble, with a look of sympathy in his round eyes that could not fail to comfort.

This was Martin's childhood. Not an unhappy one. At twelve years old his mother died, his brothers went out into the world, and the lad went to live with his shoemaker master. With the home cottage the strange menagerie had to be given up, but Martin did not grieve much, for he wanted his pence for other things now. But no one knew for a long time where old Widow Fussell's ounces of tea came from, nor who took poor foolish Father Smith in the workhouse his bits of snuff and tobacco, since his grandchildren left the village.

Martin turned scholar too, attended a night-school, and made himself a good reader and writer; he had always had a capital notion of accounts, and could tot up a sum in his head to the wonder of the village world. His great drawback was his health; he suffered from asthma, the result, poor lad, in a measure, of his deformity.