Certainly: you will have to take them to her. But that does not alter the case. You have stolen them, and you are a thief.' Edward was sobbing bitterly now. That his kind aunt, Anna, should condemn him so severely, and call him by such hard names, carried proof to his inmost heart that sin is a terrible thing in itself, quite apart from any punishment. 'And the boys?' he said in a trembling tone; and Miss Cox-will they ever forget it? And you, Aunt Anna? Oh, you will never love me again!' 'Yes, Edward, I shall, as soon as I see you trying to be a better boy, and thinking more of God's laws. And if you go to Miss Cox and ask her properly, I am sure she will forgive you. See how good she has been! do you not wish to thank her? And your school-fellows, too-but you do not know about them.' Then she told him what they had done, and proposed to send for them all three that very afternoon, to receive his thanks, and to go with him to Miss Cox's to see the marbles given back, and to have their own money returned to them. 'I cannot do it before them all; indeed I cannot,' he sobbed. I don't think I can do it at all. Oh, aunt! is there no other way? Won't you take back the marbles for me?' 'No, Edward, that would not do,' she said. 'If we do any one a wrong, we must ourselves own the wrong, and make restitution, as it is called. And since others saw you do the thing, they should see you trying to undo it, so far as you can: they ought to hear your confession, and know that you give back what you have taken. More so still, since they have been so generous in trying to save you from punishment. I know it is hard, very hard; but if you want to set yourself right you must She drew him towards her now, and spoke begin by doing your duty, however painful more gently. 'What shall I do? What can I do?' he moaned. 'Will nothing ever make it right again?' 'Nothing can undo the Past, Edward. But Christ died to save us from our sins: His blood can cleanse us from the stain of guilt. You must ask God to forgive you for His dear Son's sake. If you ask in real earnest He will hear you, my child.' Edward was awed and quieted. it may be.' And it proved quite as painful as Edward had feared the shame seemed almost too great to be borne, even though Miss Cox met him kindly, and his companions behaved like good-hearted little fellows as they were, and made light of their own share in the business. And I hope after a time,' said Mrs. Webb, as the party left the shop, and she was bidding the boys good-bye, that you will be friends with Edward once more. You see he is really ashamed and sorry; and the best among us may fall into temptation some time or other." We will be friends with him now,' cried the three boys at once; and they shook hands with him all round. 'Now he's owned to it, it doesn't seem so bad; does it ma'am?' said Johnny Fisher. 'No; to hide a fault always makes worse of it,' Mrs. Webb answered gravely. And then she and Edward walked home in silence until they reached the door. Here Edward said, 'I'm glad I've done it. And I never should, Aunt Anna, if it hadn't been for you.' 'I'm glad, too,' she answered quietly. He began again, and now with trembling lips-Shall you tell father?' 'We will tell him together,' Mrs. Webb said. And I will beg him not to punish you, because I think you are punished enough already.' "Yes, aunt, I feel as though a thrashing couldn't be worse than all this.' But he was saved from the thrashing by his aunt's entreaty, though his father was severely angry. The anger was bad enough, Edward thought, as he crept away at last: but still he was glad that his father knew, and that all concealment was now over. His heart felt lighter that night than it had done for some weeks past, though it was still sore and sad. And the next morning, when the Commandments were read in church, and he heard his aunt's clear voice responding to the words, Thou shalt not steal,' with the earnest petition, Lord, have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law,' he buried his flushed THE CHURCH MOUSE. WHAT brought thee hither, little mouse? There are few comforts here for thee: Why didst thou leave the farmer's house, And all its cheerful glee? I pity, mouse, the erring thought Which brought thee here to pine away; For who would wish to spend for nought His labour, and his day? It was not wise to quit the fire, And platters full of broken bread, E'en though the hassock of the squire Now serves thee for a bed. Poor little creature of a day, Without a hope, without a soul, Thou hast no need, like us, to pray That God would make thee whole. The Sunday bells, so full of cheer, No place in thine esteem. In our bright Creed high on the wall; No resurrection call! Are born to that eternal lot, Who yet regard it not. They never cry, O Lord, how long They hunger not for living bread, The world they love is bare and bleak, Away, away, delusive dreams! The whole wide world can nothing give: Come, let us to the crystal streams, And eat, and drink, and live! G. S. OUTRAM. POOR HARD AS STONE. CHAPTER I. DOOR woman! what a hard life you have lived these many long, long years! how you have had to struggle with sorrow and want! How different you thought it would be when you stood with your Edward at the altar, where you plighted your troth to each other! Though you did not look forward to a life of riches and abundance, yet you hoped for one of peace at home, in which, through hard labour and prudence, you might gain a comfortable livelihood, and pass your days in quiet and happiness. Yes, indeed, piety and diligence were not wanting. Day and night did Edward work for the daily bread, and faithfully did you assist him. But he could not keep want and trouble away from his door. And when the children came-one, two, three, and more-oh, how then you had to toil for the bare necessaries of life! And yet those cares were sweet. Edward worked gladly for you and for the children, whom he so dearly loved. You bore and suffered much; for was it not for your children's, for your beloved husband's, sake? So those days passed away in contentment, and now and then there was a ray of sunlight which fell with comfort and strength upon your struggling married life. But then came Death, and tore your beloved husband from your side, and you stood there alone with bleeding heart, and with a troop of sorrowing, destitute orphans. This was a hard time for you, and many a tear did you shed then in silence. But with heroism you rose to the struggle. It had been a hard lot to feed and clothe the children, even when Edward stood at your side. But you had a far heavier yoke to bear now; but with courage and trust in God your faithful motherheart set bravely to work, and so far succeeded that you were able to say, 'Now it will be a good deal easier; now they will be bett !' Your eldest son, Fritz, had passed through his apprenticeship, and was now able to bring many a sixpence into the house. The boy, or I should rather say the youth, had been well educated, and brought up as a good Christian. He fulfilled all your hopes about him. He brought home every farthing that he earned, and for a time matters prospered far better in your household. Again there was a bright ray of light from above, which strengthened and comforted you. But now came the time when, according to Prussian law, Fritz must be a soldier; and now again you must alone bear the care of the five children. And Fritz, too, you could not abandon him when he went away and joined the army. You toiled, and struggled, and starved, in order to be able from time to time to send him some little comfort. Poor widow! how hard that was for you. How you suffered and endured, and alone-quite alone-worked for them all! And were the children grateful to their faithful, loving mother? Has Fritz remembered those nights of watching, those anxious hours, and repaid them to the brave, true mother? Of the others I shall not speak; but of Fritz I will relate, good reader, and you may judge yourself whether he acted as a good son should do. CHAPTER II. NOTHING, it is said, educates a man so well as the army, which is for him a real school of life. There he has to lead a welldisciplined, regular life, so that out of the most stupid rustic is formed a sharp, intelligent, useful man, in whom the love of order and cleanliness has been implanted. Generally speaking such may be the case, but it certainly is not so with all. Many a lad has gone away heavy and stupid, and has not come back much better, for with his uniform he has laid aside his neat and cleanly habits. But with others it has been much worse. They have gone to the town piously-educated Christian lads, and have returned to their parents' homes ruined in body and soul, and robbed of the treasures of faith, hope, and love. The military system does not do this. It is generally to the bad company a young |