THE HAPPY TRANSFORMATION.

When Aurelia passed, with stately yet elastic tread, like any queen, people turned around to gaze, and whispered, "What a splendid girl!" Yet that vague and muchabused word conveys no adequate idea of her noble bearing and exquisite grace. It was not, however, her fine figure, dark blue eyes, arched forehead, and auburn hair, which charmed you so much, as that nameless combination of form and expression, that seemed the outbreak of some "diviner soul."

Her parents, wealthy and fashionable, were proud of her appearance and manners. She filled their eye and their heart. Hence they lavished upon her all their resources. Books and accomplishments, amusements and pleasures of every kind, were at her service.

She had many admirers. Distinguished men were proud to call themselves her friends. Life opened upon her like a carnival.

Young B-, who seemed worthy of her, won Aurelia's heart. Their nuptials were celebrated with great pomp and festivity. Kind wishes and jubilant congratulations were showered upon her like sunshine.

Aurelia had no time for reflection; indeed she never had. Her thoughts were all on the surface of things. She had never known disappointment or sorrow. The universe seemed made for her. Sun, moon, and stars did her obeisance. She knew that she was beautiful, and imagined also that she was good,-good enough for earth, good enough for heaven, a mate for the holy angels. It would not have surprised her to see them bending before her with their golden wings.

A fair home amid umbrageous trees and sunny landscapes, was provided for her. Her time glided pleasantly, in alternate Occupation and amusements.

At last she clasped a beautiful boy, the image of his father, with something of the grace of the mother's form. Her cup of joy ran over.

But there came a blight to that happy home. The child sickened and died. The mother was frantic; she would not believe him dead, she clung to him with a deathgrasp. All night long she hung over his pallid form, insisting that he would yet awake. He never awoke. The poor mother

had to give him up. But it almost cost her her life. She said her heart was broken.

No; he never awoke. Years passed away, and his little grave grew green. By and bye, a little sister was laid by his side. The mother's wound, slightly healed, was opened afresh. She was childless, and like to be. Her home was desolate. Her pleasures, her occupations, palled upon her. She wished to die. But was she prepared? Could she lie down in her grave as peacefully as her children? "Asleep in Jesus!" that was their condition; so she was told by a christian friend.

But could she sleep? No. She had slept, and she had dreamed-dreamed magnificently, until death came; then she had awaked; and she should never sleep again. She murmured against God. Why were her treasures laid in the dust? Why were all the beauty and the glory stripped from earth and sky? She was herself pale and haggard now. Her husband tried to cheer; but he performed the duty so poorly, that, while gracefully accepting it, she felt "her anguish" deepening. Then she found that her heart was harder than stone; that it was alien from God, from holiness and heaven.

Her home, happy as it was, had been atheistic. Her heart, the seat apparently of all kindly joyous impulses, had been "dead to God." And now that her heart treasures were gone she felt as if she could "curse God and die." But could she,-dare she do it? And what would be the final issue? A horror as of death swept shuddering through all her frame.

What was the meaning of all this; she began to inquire. "What had she done to merit such affliction? Had she lived only for herself, had she been selfish; and was this calamity the curse of the Almighty ? No! God is just; it cannot be !" She was sorely puzzled and confounded.

Others, too, oh, how many! were suffering like herself. The cemetery was full of little graves. Thousands of families were mourning all over the land, all over the world.

Some of her intimate associates, and among them her husband, who found consolation, distraction rather, in his business, recommended amusements. She tried them, but failed. She was too much awake to the reality of things; death was yet too close

to her, to admit of comfort from such a source. In the wildest whirl of excitement, she felt the strange throbbing of her widowed heart, muffled, indeed, to all outward seeming; but to her ever beating

"Funeral marches to the grave."

There was no hope for her. She must die. But would God receive her? She knew him not,-alas, she loved him not! Preachers and books had told her that he was good. Her own deeper instincts had attested the same great truth. But he had killed her babes! She had seen them writhing and dying in his hands. She had seen them buried out of her sight, in the cold, wormy ground, swallowed up and lost, as in the maws of some devouring monster. All her prayers and tears for their rescue had been unavailing. Her own heart was a sepulchre. All her hopes lay buried there, buried by the hand of God.

All at once, as by a flash of lightning, she saw the atheism of her heart. It was sin. Ah, the serpent, the demon, the destroyer, that glared upon her, with bloodshot eyes and devouring tongue; and that, too, from the very recesses of her own spirit! Sin! sin! she had heard the word, but the thing she had never known, never realized. But there it was, in spite of all her beauty, and riches, and happiness, in spite of her better convictions, aye, in spite of her bereavement and sorrow; there it was, hideous as night, accursed as hell.

She was selfish,-she had always been selfish, she had not worshipped God,-she had worshipped herself. Moreover, she had expected all nature to wait upon her; and not only so but even God. He, the Lord of glory, was made for her, not she for him! God was to be waiter and servant, she recipient and queen.

Such were the terrible thoughts that rushed through her soul, like storm-clouds through the sky.

At this juncture, some one put into her hand the Life of the late Mrs. Ware, who lived only to do good. It made a profound impression upon her mind. It revealed to her the abyss into which she had fallen. It showed her the way of life, and peace, in faith, in self-denial, and love.

Then she read the Bible. She read especially the Life of Christ recorded in the gospels. She was ashamed of herself. She loathed the very beauty, wealth, and talent which had proved her snare. She cried to God for mercy. She found it in Christ.

It was' thus that, repenting in dust and ashes, Aurelia renounced self, and found her centre in God and goodness.

She would imitate Christ. She would comfort the afflicted. She would educate the poor. She would try to do good to all. She communicated her views to her husband, who was alarmed and afflicted; but by the grace of God, he began to feel that there was "a better good." It was long, however, before he was delivered from the dominion of the senses and the world.

Heaven began to open upon Aurelia. God was just; God also was wise and merciful. Death as well as life was his. Through his love and power, death, the curse, was transformed into a blessing. Indeed, under Christ and his transforming power, death is no longer death. Life is the preparation for heaven; death the dawn of an immortal day. Her children were not lost, not even to her. Ah, how radiant and beautiful they appeared in the new spiritual world into which, by faith, she had come. Their green graves, and the flowers blooming there were the lowly but significant emblems of the supernal glory; as, indeed, all the forms of the outward world are but the image and emblem of the heavenly state.

Well, then, Aurelia must live, not for herself, but for others; not for time, but for eternity. The long, long summer is dawning yonder upon the hills of God. A few more years and she will pass to the heavenly home. This life is transient, and yet, as the pledge and preparation of the eternal life, how significant and beautiful! How glorious even death, transfigured by the light of heaven, just as yon thunderclouds upon the horizon are transfigured by the golden sunlight.

Thus Aurelia walked in the light of God. Heaven was in her heart, including Christ and the holy angels, the spirits of the just, and all the glorified children, who wander on the margin of the river of life, crowning themselves with unfading lilies!

was a splendid but deceitful masquerade, behind whose glancing forms lurked sin and death. But now she looked upon things as they were, and found that all was fall of God, full of blessing. Earth and heaven were really one; for the former, like the morning, or the spring time, was the pledge and preparation for the other. And thus Aurelia walked softly in the opening dawn of an eternal day.

THE STORY OF THE CROSS. Some time ago a christian gentleman, in walking home one evening, found himself in the midst of a group of ragged lads,— beggars, thieves, or both,-who were talking, laughing, and swearing. He longed to do them good, so he stopped suddenly, put his back against the wall, and said, "Boys, listen to me, I have something to tell you-a sort of story."

They were all silent for an instant, partly from astonishment, partly from curiosity. And then, in the plainest language he could use, he told them the story of the life, sufferings, and death of Jesus Christ. Not a word or a sound interrupted him. Then as the end came nearer, and he tried with all his might to make the last awful scenes seem true to them, he heard an occasional shuffle as one and another tattered figure pushed nearer to hear how the Saviour had suffered for him. They listened with faces of awe, dirty enough, but solemn, to hear of the agony that made drops of blood roll down his face; and when they heard of how he died, hanging by nails on a wooden cross, because they were wretched and wicked, sobs of uncontrollable emotion burst forth. Dirty hands wiped dirty faces, as he told them that now, while he spoke to them, he was standing amongst them, and that he loved them just as much as when he died upon the cross for them.

He finished his story, and no one said a word. Suddenly he said, "Now, lads, Jesus loved us very much, oughtn't we to love him? Who loves him? Let every one that wishes to love him hold up his hand. I do;" and he held up his own. They looked at one another; then one held his up. A little mass of rags, with only one shoe, and a little grimy face, half hidden in a shock of hair, scarcely confined by an old battered hat, with no rim, held up his dirty little hand. It was a touching

spectacle! One and another followed, till all the hands-just twelve in numberwere up.

Then the gentleman said, "You all wish to love him. Now, dear boys, hear what he says to those who love him. 'If you love me, keep my commandments."" A few words followed to show what this meant for them, and then he walked straight up to him who had first held his hand up, and holding out his, said, "Shake hands on it that you will promise me to try to keep his commandments. This is his commandment,-that ye believe on the name of the Son of God." Unhesitatingly the little black hand was put in his, and he shook it hard, saying, "God bless you." So he went round to all.

Before he parted from them, he gave them each some money to get a bed and a penny loaf with.

About three weeks afterwards, as he was going under an archway, a little ragged shoe-black was cleaning at one side. After the customary, "Clean your bo-ots, Sir?" the boy made a dive forward, and stood chuckling with delight in front of him. The gentleman had not the least idea who he was, and said with surprise, "Well, my boy, you seem to know me; and who are you?"

"Please, Sir, I'm Jack."
"Jack? Jack who?"

"Only Jack, Sir, please Sir."

All at once it flashed across him who the lad was.

"have

"I remember you now," he said; you tried to keep your promise to love the Lord Jesus, and show how much you love him by obeying him?"

"Yes, Sir, I have; indeed I have," he answered, with intense earnestness.

The gentleman stopped and talked to him a little while, and let him clean his shoes.

"Can you read, Jack?" he asked. "Yes, Sir, not over well; but 1 can make shift to spell out a page."

"Would you like a Testament of your own, where you could read for yourself the story I told you the other night?"

No answer; but an odd sound, half a chuckle of inexpressible happiness, half a choke of emotion at the idea. There was no pretence about the lad. The dirty little thief had set his face heavenwards. He did not know much, but if he had only learned to say, "Lord, remember me,"