your room more tidy. I find your drawers were left open, and your clothes not folded neatly away; and you have put up your books the wrong way upwards.'

A little time after, Aunt Phoebe made me pick up the crumbs I had let fall on the carpet while eating my lunch; and lastly, she said, 'We must begin to-morrow, Kitty, to do a few lessons every day, and a little needle-work; you know the old saying about "all play and no work."'

I

I was now quite cross. I had been pouting for some time; but now I burst into tears and said: 'You're all very unkind to me to-day. Things don't look half so pretty as they used to look. should like to go away from Strawberry Cottage, and never come back again. Roger is a cross old man; and Sarah's very ugly; and you're not so pretty as you used to be, Aunt Phoebe !'

Aunt Phoebe let me finish, and then she got up from her seat and gently took my hand. She led me upstairs into a little room opening out of her own. She was so gentle and kind, she made me ashamed of my naughtiness, and I looked up in her face to see what she meant.

'Kitty,' she said, 'when I was a little girl I was like you; I had a discontented, impatient temper. But I had a dear mother, who took great pains with me to teach me how to master it. She put this glass into my room, Kitty, and she used to call it the "temper glass.""

My aunt then led me up to a small round looking-glass, and bade me look at myself in it. I did; and there I saw my own face to be sure, but so crooked, and pinched, and ugly, that I could not bear to look at it. Then I looked at Aunt Phoebe's in it, and it looked dreadful; and at Sarah's (for she had followed us into the room), and that was frightful.

'I do not like this glass,' I said; 'I don't want to look in it. Why do you show it to me, Aunt Phoebe ?'

Because,' she said, 'this glass is like your temper just now. It makes everything look crooked and ugly. This is the same cottage, the same Aunt Phoebe, the same Sarah and Roger you used to like so much, and now none of them pleases you. You see them in the looking-glass of your naughty temper, and that makes them look different that is all,'

'Oh, Aunt Phoebe,' I said, 'I will try to remember;' and I laid my head on her lap and began to cry. I will try to be better. I know it is just as you say-the ugliness is all in myself. Perhaps, if I had that wry glass always near me, it would make me remember that my cross temper makes pleasant things look crooked and ugly.'

6

Very well, Kitty,' said my aunt, you shall have it in your room. And now kiss Sarah, and now kiss me, and then take six runs round the garden and smell the flowers, and then go upstairs for a few minutes; and by that time I shall have given my orders to Sarah, and you shall come and pick up the crumbs, and have the pocket-handkerchief to hem.'

I did as I was bid, and I can remember how sweet the cabbage-roses were into which I put my nose, and the southernwood, and marjoram, and lemon-thyme, of which I brought a little bundle to my aunt when I came in.

And the wry glass was put in my room, and I looked in it many times every day, that I might remember how different things look when we are 'out of temper.' And now that I am growing old, and often see people making themselves and others unhappy when there is no need, I say to myself, 'What a pity they should be so fond of looking in the Wry Glass !'

It

'Do you really think that Heaven hears all the cries that come up from earth? would, indeed, if there were any such thing as justice. But there is not, and therefore Heaven does not hear any cry. How long have I not been crying for work for myself, for bread for you, for justice for us all? But no Heaven has heard my cry.'

'It will be heard yet, if you only have patience and persevere,' replied Martha.

'I have had patience quite long enough,' answered Schwabe. 'But now it has come to an end, and to Heaven I will cry no longer. Don't talk any more about it. The stranger there must die.'

The conversation between Schwabe and his wife was carried on in a low voice, as the door of the room in which the linendealer slept was slightly ajar. The wife was now silent, and wept. She had said all she

could say to bring her husband to a different way of thinking. It had been in vain, and she could do nothing else but weep. The weaver got up, listened at the door, and said at last,

All is quiet; he is sleeping soundly and comfortably, for I do not even hear his breathing. Now then, courage, and forwards to the work!"

Just as he was about to enter the chamber Martha seized him, and cried out full of despair,

'Have pity on your poor wife and child! I will not let you go. You must not

murder your guest, who is sleeping beneath your roof.'

"Wife!' exclaimed the savage, half-tipsy weaver, as he pushed the weak woman away from him, wife! do not drive me mad! | I would rather plunge the knife into your breast than be hindered from carrying out my purpose; and even then this strange man should die.'

Well, kill me then rather than that I should survive the bloody deed,' wept his wife, and then she sank groaning and half fainting to the floor.

Her husband stood still for a moment shocked, but he quickly recovered himself, and said, as he seized the handle of the door,

'When the deed is really done, and we haye enough money to live in comfort, she will be reconciled to it, and be quite calm again.'

He pushed the door gently back and took a step forward in order to enter. But | he stopped suddenly, and remained standing as if rooted to the ground at the halfopen door. Annie slept in the same room in which the stranger's bed had been prepared. The light from the lamp fell through the open door on to the child's bed. The father saw how the child had

half risen, but with closed eyes, and plainly asleep, sat up in her bed. She was talking in her sleep, and her father heard her speak in a clear and plain voice,

'I am the Lord thy God: thou shalt have none other gods but me.'

Martha, too, heard her child speak, and was aroused from her stupor by it; she listened with wonder and with terror, mingled with joy. Then slowly she rose from the ground and went to the door of the room; the child continued,

6 Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain: for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh His name in vain.'

O Lord my God; this is a plain miracle!' exclaimed the mother, in the greatest excitement; for where has Annie ever heard these words, and how can she therefore repeat them in her sleep? Not from me has she learned them, nor from you either Heinrich, nor from any of our acquaintances, or I should have known it, surely. Those are the commandments which I learned in my childhood. But I had quite forgotten them, and now they are coming up into my mind again.'

The weaver stood like one bewitched, stared at his child with widely open eyes, and felt as if he were in a dream.

Remember that thou keep holy the Sabbath-day,' continued the child, as with the voice of a spirit, and warm tears rushed into the eyes of the deeply troubled and agitated mother. Even in the weaver's eyes, too, a tear glistened.

He seized his wife's hand and pressed it. He groaned,- What is that?'

'Honour thy father and thy mother, that it may be well with thee, and that thou mayest live long upon the earth,' said Annie. Now the weaver let his wife's hand fall, and pressed his own right hand clenched

'SHALL I GIVE IT?'

'Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in? or naked, and clothed thee? or sick, and came unto thee?

'And the King shall answer and say . . . Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.'-Matt. xxv. 37–40.

LITTLE Emmy sat ready dressed for going to church. It was Sunday, and there was to be a collection that morning for a 'Children's Refuge,' lately set up in the neighbourhood.

'Mayn't I have a penny to give?' asked the little girl.

'You have no penny of your own,' said her mother; and if I give you one just to put into the box, it won't be you giving it, but me. It is no kindness to give what costs us nothing. But I'll tell you what we'll do. You shall have a penny for your very own. You may buy a ball with it to-morrow, or a little china doll, or some goodies-just anything you like: or you may give it to-day at church. Now, what do you think you'll do?'

'I don't know,' said Emmy. I like goodies.'

"Well, this will buy you a good many,' replied her mother, giving her a bright