and we shall meet in heaven," he fell back upon his pillow a cold sweat stood upon his foreheadhe cast one earnest look upon his father and mother the struggle was over-his spirit went forth to paradise, and the loving father had lost his loving child. Passionately, wildly, did he kiss the pale, beautiful forehead of the sleeper, till at last the clergyman gently led him out of the room.

In wandering through the park to the churchyard some weeks after, I saw a new grave near the little girl's—it was Harry Fulton's.

Again I was wont to see the quick gig upon the road, but the owner seemed to have grown many years older in a few weeks. He was an altered man; the smart brisk active man, with the quick sharp eye, was now sad and grave. Still the gig passed as regularly as before. At last Elmore Park was advertised for sale; every body was sure Mr. Fulton would be the purchaser, but every body was wrong; Mr. Fulton did not bid or buy; he remained where he was, and the long-coveted park passed into other hands. Then every body began to think that the firm was not as rich as had been supposed; but here again every body was wrong; for the other partner bought a vast estate about the same time; and then every body was puzzled with

Mr. Fulton. The following year, in a poor part of the City, a beautiful church began to rise from the ground for the use of the poor. It sprang up nobody knew how; the clergyman, who was Mr. Harland's brother, knew of course; but he would never mention from whence the money came. The mason shewed me the first stone that was laid, and at the bottom of it were graven these lines, "To the glory of God the Blessed Trinity, this church is built by a father who learnt from his child what he should have taught his child." Those lines were never seen by any one but the mason and myself.

The year after the church was built, the school at which Harry had taught, being in an old and decayed state, was pulled down, and a new one, of a beautiful and comely form, was reared instead. On the bottom of the foundation stone were written these words, "The father was a child at his child's feet." Later still some almshouses for the aged poor were built near the old church. Mr. Harland never told whence the money came for these goodly works. All I know is, that Mr. Fulton often went into the school; if the gig came home a little earlier, I was sure to find him in the school hearing the boys sing the evening hymn; or perhaps he might be found

sitting with the old folks in the alms-houses, reading the Bible, or some other good book.

But not only in this way did Mr. Fulton employ his money and his time. He was changed at home; he became more gentle and affectionate to his wife, while she, being thus met by affection, warmed in her love for him, and as there was now a spur to exertion, her character seemed to expand. After all, it became a happy home, happy, not in the world's sense, or the world's eye; happy by being consecrated to the service of God; happy in its sweet memories of the holy boy whom God had raised up and taken away, in order to be a blessing to the house both in his life, and in his death.

Years rolled away, and I saw a funeral passing through the park; it was the funeral of one who had risen in the world, who had found the world to be but vanity. The poor followed him to the grave; many a wrinkled cheek was wetted that day with tears as the body of their friend was laid in the earth; he was buried by the side of his beloved child, and there they lie together in that quiet calm churchyard, till the resurrection of the just.

JOHN HENRY PARKER, OXFORD AND LONDON.

THE ROCK AND THE SAND.

THE day came when Mrs. Horton had to leave the rectory. Her husband, a faithful pastor of his flock, had been swept off but a few weeks before by a fever which he had caught in visiting one of the elder girls of his school. The girl recovered, her pastor died. Never had there been seen such a touching sight as his burial; it was a plain funeral, very plain indeed; there was no show, no hired men with scarfs and wands, but some labourers, in their Sunday clothes and with a band of crape round their arms, carried the coffin to the grave. So many longed to undertake the task that it was a hard matter whom to choose. I noticed particularly one old man, who, though he could scarce carry his own weight, would hardly be persuaded to give way to younger and stouter On they moved, the whole village following, a long train of true mourners, young and old together, all filled with genuine sorrow. a dry eye was there in Coleton churchyard that day; and as the school-children of their own im

men.

Not

pulse threw some flowers into the grave, many a little one fairly sat down on the grass and sobbed aloud as though it had lost a father. The widow's grief I will not attempt to tell. She was able to go through the funeral, and that is all I can say.

One there was who had longed to be there and was not, I mean the sick girl. She was fast recovering, but she was very weak; she had however set her heart on being there, and had persuaded her mother, a poor widow, that she could walk as far; out they both set from their cottage, the sick girl leaning on her mother's arm, but when she had crept down the lane and saw the funeral winding its way from the rectory towards the church, the sight was too much for her; she instantly fainted away, and was at last carried home with the aid of a good neighbour who was passing by.

A few weeks passed, and then, as I have said, Mrs. Horton resolved to leave the rectory, that it might be got ready for the new clergyman, who was expected soon to take charge of his flock. He kindly pressed her to stay as long as she wished, but as she had to move she determined to get through the trial of such a change at once. She had taken a neat little cottage