My mother had a tender conscience, and blamed herself, it may be, in this matter, more than any one who knew all the circumstances of the case would have had the heart to blame her. The above conversation made a deep impression on me at the time, and was never afterwards forgotten it was a lesson to me for life. It is a happy thing to be permitted to profit by the experience of others. I have known those who had to work it out for themselves with bitter weeping and lamentation. There is nothing that the Christian traveller looks back upon with such deep and unavailing regret as lost opportunities.

THE peasants of Brittany call January "the white month," but it was a very black month for us that year. The cold was intense, and the exposed situation in which we lived made us feel it all the more. We could have done with a larger fire too, but my mother never seemed to care about it until just before my father came home, when she always managed to have a cheerful blaze. If we complained, which was not often the case-for we soon guessed how matters stood-she used to tell us to run about and keep ourselves warm.

William was now old enough to be sent on errands, and sometimes, when my mother was not able to leave home, he went to see Uncle Jabez. He did not much like going there, and I do not think that she liked sending him,

but it could not be helped. He was, as I have before said, a strong, active boy, and very

useful in many ways; while I was of no use to any one.

My dear, kind, busy mother often paused in her work to lay her cool hand upon my throbbing temples, and whisper a few loving words. Even little Alice had learned to make less noise when brother John had headache. Those headaches were terrible things, and yet it was pleasant to be so loved and cared for as I was then, and a source of deep and quiet thankfulness to God. Many a time have I felt this when their hushed and gentle voices fell on my ears. Once little Alice said, "Mamma, poor John is crying," and when my mother came and bent over me, I clasped my arms around her neck and whispered, "It is not the pain; it is because you are all so good to me-because God is so good to me in giving me such a mother."

"My poor boy! but you must not forget that God has given you One that can do far more for you than the fondest earthly parent."

"The Lord Jesus Christ, mother."

"Yes, my son. Did you ever thank God for this dear Saviour?"

"No, mother; and yet I ought, for what should we do without him?"

"What indeed, John?"

"Mother, I ought not to mind the headache, when I have so many comforts, and above all, your loving and caring for me; and when I remember what the Lord Jesus bore for us. And I will not mind it any more, if I can help it; and the weary head, which was now throbbing painfully with excitement, sank again upon the pillow.

"Do not talk now," said my mother, "or think either, if you can avoid it."

"But I cannot help it. I am always thinking, and that makes my head worse. Oh! mother, I

do think such strange things: it would make you laugh if I were to tell them to you; while at other times it is no laughing matter."

"You shall tell me about it some other day; try and rest now."

I believe that in time I should have become a mere dreamer, if the land of imagination had not bordered so closely upon that of stern reality; or if "the ivory gate of dreams," as a poet expresses it, "had not stood quite so near to the horn gate of every-day life." William, too, had his dreams; but while mine were all of earth, his aspired to heaven. My father did all that

he could to counteract this growing tendency of my mind, by affording it more active and healthful occupation; but the means in his power were very limited; and then he was so much from home. I recollect his saying upon one occasion, "Come, come, John, up and be doing, my boy; that is the right motto. You will never dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge one."

"Oh, father," exclaimed little Alice, "is John to be a blacksmith? I should never have thought him strong enough."

Alice had often stood to watch the village blacksmith at his huge anvil. She liked to see the blazing fire, and the bright sparks flying about in all directions; and truly it is a very cheerful sight, especially in winter. It was no wonder that she marvelled at the idea of my even so much as lifting, let alone being able to wield, that ponderous hammer.

We all laughed at the child's mistake, all but my mother, who looked grave and pre-occupied. Perhaps she was thinking what we really were to be when we grew up. My brother and I frequently spoke of it together. He always said that he should like to be a clergyman. I do not