kindly or uncharitably, but I must speak plainly. You all know what Alick's life has been, and here is the end of it. It is not for us to pass judgment on him. He, perhaps, had never such a warning as we have before our eyes this day. But at any rate we shall be without excuse in the day of judgment, if we fail to profit by what we now see. I was continually interrupted in this short address by the struggles and cries and exclamations of the sick man; so I only added, "I had hoped that it might have pleased God in His mercy to have afforded him the sense and the will to join in our prayers, and perhaps He may yet do so, in answer to our petitions; all however that we can do now is to be earnest in prayer for him, that God would yet give him grace to repent, and time for repentance. Let us form no hasty conclusions as to his state, but while we intercede for him, let us pray for strength to amend ourselves!"

Then we all kneeled down, and I offered such prayers as were suitable in behalf of an impenitent sinner in a state of delirium.

March 1st.-Mr. Graves, the surgeon, announces that mortification has commenced in Martin's legs, and consequently in a few hours more he must pass to his account. The scene

in the chamber of the dying man was a mere repetition of that of yesterday, only the sufferer's appearance is more shocking than it was, owing to the progress of the disease. I remained with him some hours, and prayed with his fellow-servants, for him and for ourselves, from time to time but Alick himself never returned to a state of consciousness for so much as a single minute.

:

March 2nd.-Alick Martin is dead. He continued in the same state of delirium all the early part of the night. Mr. Graves, with some difficulty, induced him to swallow a composing draught, after which he burst out into singing, and continually sang himself to sleep, the first rest he had had for eight and forty hours.

About an hour afterwards, he opened his eyes, looked slowly round, gave a deep sigh, and then closed them upon this world for ever.

I am told that since his death, decay has gone on so rapidly, that his body must be laid in the grave to-morrow.

But the soul,-the soul?

JOHN HENRY PARKER, OXFORD AND LONDON.

NOTHING LOST IN THE TELLING.

"Now wasn't that shocking, mother?". Wasn't what shocking, Frank ?" Why about the Walkers."

"I'm sure I don't know, Frank," replied Mrs. Wood, in the tone of one who was not attending very carefully to what was said to her. Mrs. Wood was busy ironing her caps, and she wanted to finish her work while daylight lasted, and the sun had already set.

Well, mother, but wasn't it wonderful ?"

Bless the child; wasn't what wonderful ?"

Why what Mrs. Faddy told me about the pedlar, and the pie, and the poison."

I dare say it was, Frank; Mrs. Faddy's tales are apt to be wonderful."

"But don't you think it wonderful ?"

What?" inquired Mrs. Wood, as she laid down one iron, and took up another, with a look

of ignorance which betrayed a complete unconsciousness that Frank had been telling her a long story, the whole of which had been lost upon her.

'Why I do believe that you haven't listened to a word I said."

"I beg your pardon, Frank, but I am afraid I have lost the best part of it. I heard you beginning with Sally Faddy as your authority for your story, and so I thought more of what I was doing than of what you had to tell. When you have known Sally as long as I have, you will do the same.'

Frank looked vexed. "I can't think why you dislike Mrs. Faddy, mother. She is very kind to us all."

"I don't dislike her, Frank. I dislike her gossiping ways, and her carelessness about truth very much, but I have a regard for her, and wish with all my heart that she would break herself of her fault. I was at school with her, forty years ago, I was in service with her afterwards, and we have been neighbours ever since she came to take care of her aunt, so if any body knows Sally, I do; and I say again, Frank, that I have very kindly feelings towards her,

till it has quite spoiled her whole character. She cannot tell a plain truth; she must always exaggerate; and always add something of her own inventing by way of increasing the effect of what she has to tell. The consequence of this is, that it is quite impossible to trust her about the simplest matter of fact; and without being at all an ill-natured or mischievously inclined person, she is the greatest maker of mischief in all Elmhurst."

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But, mother, every body says how kindhearted she is, and how good to her neighbours, and how attentive to her tiresome, deaf, old aunt Fitchel."

"So she is, Frank, and she has many other good qualities besides, but nothing can make up for the want of truth.”

"Do you think she means to deceive, mother ?"

"Not by any means, Frank. I am confident that nothing would tempt her to tell a lie to benefit or to shield herself. She believes as surely as you and I do that the devil is the father of lies, and that lying is one of the most offensive of all sins in the sight of God; and yet through love of talking, or desire of being the first to tell the news, from some infirmity