All through the summer-night,
Those blossoms red and bright*

Spread their soft breasts unbending to the breeze;
Like hermits watching still

Around the sacred hill,

Where erst our Saviour watched upon his knees.

The paschal moon above

Seems, like a saint, to rove,

Left shining in the world with Christ alone!
Below, the lake's still face

Sleeps sweetly in the embrace

Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone."†

It is the holy associations of this lake with the Lord Jesus that make it so strangely attractive. Not that he retired to its shores for solitude; for though now there is on it only one town worthy of the name, namely Tibarieh, yet in His day the whole shore was as densely thronged with human dwellings as the River Clyde is in our country. But for various purposes he chose this small lake and its vicinity as the scene of his most gracious and wondrous miracles. Within sight of it he twice fed multitudes with a few loaves and fishes; on its shores he spoke his marvellous parables, and preached to the thronging multitudes. In the cities that lined its margin he did most of his mighty works. Somewhere on yonder slope, he rejoiced in spirit as he lifted up his eyes and soul to his Father, and gave thanks that "He had hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed them unto babes ;" and then proclaimed himself the one only Mediator, stretching out his hands to the multitudes, while his voice fell on their ear, breathing grace, unfathomable grace, "Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

It was on these waters that his feet pressed, on that memorable night when he walked as on a pavement for about three miles to the disciples; and these were the waters which at another time he quieted by a word, as easily as next morning, on yonder shore opposite Tiberias (where still Keble. Matt. xi. 27, 28.

*The oleanders.

we find rock-cut tombs, and see a precipitous descent of the mountain), he cast out the legion of devils that forthwith entered the herd of swine and goaded them into the lake. And here it was that after his resurrection he showed himself the same Saviour still, so rich in pardoning mercy to the backslider, and so wise in checking every curious thought about "What shall this man do?" yet not less showing all the while how he cared for every present want, even down to the fire and the food needed by the shivering and hungry disciples.

"How pleasant to me thy deep blue wave,

O Sea of Galilee ;

For the glorious One who came to save

Hath often stood by thee.

It is not that the fig-tree grows,

And palms in thy soft air;

But that Sharon's fair and bleeding Rose
Once spread his fragrance there.

Graceful around thee the mountains meet,

Thou calm-reposing sea;

But, ah, far more the beautiful feet
Of Jesus walked o'er thee.

O Saviour, gone to God's right hand,

But the same Saviour still;

Graved on thy heart is this lovely strand,
And every fragrant hill."

Mrs. Burton's Best Bedroom.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "JESSICA'S FIRST PRAYER.'
F there was any one of her worldly possessions in
which Mrs. Burton felt she might justly take pride,
that is, if pride of any kind or degree is allowable
to a Christian, it was in her best bedroom.

It was the largest room in her house, and the best furnished. The Venetian blinds were always kept down, lest the sun should fade the colour of the curtains and the carpet. She would

scarcely suffer her careless chit of a servant-girl to set her foot in it; never unless she was herself present to see that she did not put her finger-marks upon the polish of the mahogany, or the pure white paint of the casement and the chimney-piece. When it was in use, as it was occasionally, in the event of some distinguished guest visiting her, her heart throbbed alternately with pride and anxiety; and she was never quite tranquil until her visitor was gone, and the key of her best bedroom safely locked up in a drawer in her own chamber.

Mrs. Burton was the widow of a respectable tradesman, who had left her a comfortable income, on which she could live and indulge herself in her numerous acts of charity, without any great carefulness. She was nearly sixty years of age, a hearty Christian, simple-minded and good-natured, but with a hidden heat of temper, which was more frequently kindled to a brief flame by her best bedroom than by any other cause. The temper she mourned over, and confessed, sometimes by an additional indulgence to her servant, sometimes in a penitential conversation with her minister. But the bedroom remained the object of her greatest regard and her greatest pleasure.

The youngest daughter of Mrs. Burton, who had been born after her parents had begun to prosper, and who had received a more costly education than her brothers and sisters, was one of the few guests for whom the best bedroom was always prepared. She had married well, and was also, in consequence, perhaps, of being the last and youngest of her children, the darling of her mother; and nothing, absolutely nothing, could be too good for Sophia. When, therefore, she sent word that she was coming to spend a short time with her, and would arrive the next day, one of Mrs. Burton's first concerns was to set about a complete "cleaning down," as she called it, of the bedroom.

It was a labour of almost equal love and solemnity. Martha, the servant, put on a clean apron, and left her shoes at the door each time she entered it. Mrs. Burton

stood over her as she brushed the carpet, to watch that the brush did not hit against any point of the furniture; and she would not trust her to do any of the dusting. With her own hands she laid out the snow-white sheets, pillow-cases, and counterpane, touching them fondly as she smoothed them upon the bed where her Sophy was to sleep. When this was done she brought two illuminated texts, painted in many colours, which she had not long since bought at a bazaar, and hung them up, the one over the looking-glass-which she had festooned with muslin and lace-and the other over the chimney-piece.

In hanging the latter her eye rested upon the mantle-shelf, and detected several spots upon its white surface. She could not make up her mind to pass them over; and after a little fuming she despatched Martha to the nearest painter's for his pot of white paint, and then, with great care and diligence, gave the shelf of her chimney-piece a new coat. It was getting near tea-time before it was completed, and the old lady was growing tired with her busy day's work; so, with a sigh of content, and a last look of mingled satisfaction and pride round her best bedroom, she left it, giving strict orders to Martha not to think of entering it again that evening.

Mrs. Burton's house stood in a private street, on the outskirts of the town, and it was considered so secure and respectable a neighbourhood, that if Martha went on an errand, she generally left the door just ajar, if she was going to be away only a few minutes. It happened that evening, soon after nightfall, she ran out to return the paint-pot to its owner; and not a minute afterwards a man, staggering along the street in an helplessly drunken fashion, laid his shaking hand upon the handle, found the door open, stepped in, and by one of those unaccountable freaks of drunkenness, walked straight upstairs, without making himself seen or heard-for Mrs. Burton was shut up in her back parlour, and Martha, as we know, was out-and opening the first door, stumbled into the best bedroom.

He

flung his old battered hat upon the newly-painted chimneypiece, and steadying himself by it, drew off his heavy boots and with all his soiled and dirty clothing upon him crept in between the lavender-scented, blanched, milk-white sheets and pillows of Mrs. Burton's best bed.*

It was no doubt a happy circumstance that the old lady was far too tired at bed-time to care to take a look at her best bedroom. She contented herself with locking the door and carrying away the key, resolved to see how the paint was drying the first thing in the morning. Before long she and Martha, with their unknown guest, were all soundly sleeping under one roof.

It was early in the morning when the drunkard's slumber was broken by some unaccustomed sound without. He opened his eyes, and stretched himself drowsily; but the next instant he was wide-awake, and his outstretched arms remained outstretched in utter astonishment. The rising sun shone upon the window and its Venetian blinds, and a luxurious green light filled the room. His rough and grimy hands lay upon a counterpane of extraordinary whiteness, and his shaggy head rested upon the softest of pillows. He raised himself on his elbow to look round, and sank back again in blank amazement. Wherever could he be? Who was he? Was it really himself, Tom Marshall, whose home was a miserable bare room in one of the lowest of the back slums? Or was he somebody else, who had a right to be there? How did he come into this place at all? He was so bewildered that he lay still for a while, trying his best to think. But it would not do. He raised himself again to take a survey, and his eyes fastened upon the illuminated text over the fire-place. He had been brought up as an ornamental sign-painter, and the fanciful letters did not puzzle him. The words did not remove his bewilderment, but they turned his thoughts into another direction. "Thou God seest me!" he read, half aloud. "Thou God seest

* Strange as this incident may seem, it is strictly true, and happened within the writer's knowledge.