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now it was all taken from him.

He was always thought to be a religious man; but in his time of trial his faith failed, he yielded to despondency and bowed his head like a bulrush. Nothing could rouse him; when the customers came into the shop he scarcely cared to serve them, and his weeping wife saw nothing but the Union before them. Mary knew Miles, and had prayed for him every night by her humble bed; and when she went into the shop for her little packet of tea, and he began to speak upon the only subject that filled his mind-the first thought in the morning, the last thought at night, ay, and in the night tooMary heard his sad tale, and then she spoke such strong, such consoling words that Miles felt that she was a messenger from God to him. He arose from the dust in penitence, and told her, with bitter tears, how he had been tempted to seek comfort in the cup of intoxication, but he went to ask for strength where only it could be found, and he became a new man. He faced life and its difficulties again with a brave heart, but he was also an humbled man; and when prosperity came again, he did not set his heart upon his gold, but used it as a steward who might be called upon any day to render an account. And still he goes on his way, and as I pass Miles's shop I see many an old pensioner leaving with parcels which have only cost him thanks. I say, "Poor Mary, thy words are not dead yet."

Our squire had an only son; he had been sadly spoiled, and was a wild fellow, and liked to be thought free from all control both of God and man. Reginald used to say he did not believe in God. Poor boy, the sun went on shining, and nothing in creation stopped in consequence of his disbelief. His words had no effect on the world of matter, but in the world of mind they did much harm. Young Simkins, the lawyer's clerk, admired and imitated the young squire, as far as he was able, and he also began to talk of death as annihilation. Reginald was taken ill of consumption, and Mary was appointed to the weary task of nursing

the wayward invalid. She did not argue with the irritable lad; but he began to love to listen to her motherly words and gentle voice as she read the prodigal's story to him, and spoke of the father's love when he was a great way off. Reginald

wept, and as Mary was wiping his damp brow, and watching his feverish slumbers, she could hear him murmur, "Father, I have sinned;" but his sun set in clouds, he never could do more than hope very tremblingly that he might find mercy, that Jesus might pity. The evening before he died the squire was sitting weeping beside the last of his name, his only boy, when the lad turned, and said: "Father, do not fret for me. Do not make any fuss or raise any monument to my memory, for I have been a great sinner; but build up those almshouses for my sake, and give poor Mary one." Poor Mary, she never wanted the almshouse, she died before they were finished; but as I pass in the evening and watch the old people walking in the little gardens or sitting in the little porches of the almshouses, I think of Mary, and say, "Not dead yet."

II. THE ECHO.

Ask any one in our village if they know where the Dane's Cave is. You will only receive one reply-“Why, every man or woman who has ever been a child can tell you where the old cave is; and all who have children know where they go on Saturday afternoons." And when you inquire what makes the old cave such a favourite, the answer is, "The echo, the echo." The old people in the almshouses love to talk of the fun they had, when they were young, with the old echo, which had such a mocking way of repeating words.

I never shall forget going with my brother one day to the cave. We amused ourselves for some time, and peal after peal of merry laughter was echoed back. At last a new idea struck him; he called the name of every friend, enemy, or acquaintance, and added some epithet, favourable or the reverse. I was amused, and enjoyed the fun heartily.

Thus he called," Hone is a coward, Tom Jones is a tell-tale ;" “Tell-tale,” said the echo: "Brown is a sneak;" "Sneak," replied the echo: but at last he called my name, and added some foolish nickname. Instantly all was changed; I was indignant, and cried from sheer vexation. "You are very

unkind," I sobbed; "Unkind, unkind," repeated the echo.

At that moment I noticed a figure darkening the entrance to the cave, and who should it be but Uncle John, just in time to hear "Unkind" sounding from roof and sides. "I call that very ugly," said he; "Ugly, ugly," said echo. "You are very rude;" "Rude, rude," repeated echo. Ah,

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it is no use quarrelling, Mr. Echo; we will go out ;" "Out, out," said the incorrigible mocker. And we sat down on the grass outside talking about it.

Uncle began to tell us a great deal about sound which I did not understand, and more that I have quite forgotten; but there was one idea which made me feel quite uncomfortable, and almost frightened me.

"When you speak," said Uncle John, “you make a wave in the air, and that wave goes on and on.”

"And where does it stop ?" I asked, anxiously. "Oh, that is a question I cannot answer. Ah! who can tell where a word stops? Many words uttered years ago are living yet. The speakers are lying there "-pointing to the churchyard-" but their words never died; they are as active, ay, more active, this day than the day they were uttered. The effects of these words are facts, living facts."

Two Doctors.

UNT JANE lives in a very little house in a pretty village in Staffordshire. I have just been spending a week with her, and I wish to put down in writing one thing that happened, as it has taught

me a lesson which I hope I shall never forget.

Two of my cousins were invited to meet me at my aunt's house, and we were all very happy together. We felt no restraint before the old lady, for she is very kind, and fond of young people. But I am afraid she could not have enjoyed her Sunday with us girls, talking as we did, half so much as the quiet ones she is used to spend alone.

In the morning a strange clergyman preached. He took this text "Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing." Of course the sermon was all about charity; he went through St. Paul's description of it verse by verse, and ended by advising us all to pray every day for more charity, and to cultivate it diligently, as it is the " very bond of peace and of all virtues." When we were sitting over the fire after dinner, we began talking over the sermon and the preacher.

Mary said she never saw anybody with such a long face, and such a tiresome droning voice. Kitty said there was nothing in his sermon but what she had heard before much better expressed; and I (for, though I was the youngest, I liked to give my opinion, too) said that I preferred more rousing sermons-something to fix the attention.

If the vicar had preached we should have been silent, from respect to Aunt Jane, as we knew she had a great regard for him, but we did not suppose she would mind our talking over the strange clergyman. So we went on: one mimicked his manner, and another remarked that his sentences were too long, till, at last, Aunt Jane said, quietly, "There, my dears, I think now we will have a little reading." And she sent me for the book I had begun to read aloud to her the Sunday before. She said no more

at that time.

One evening, towards the end of the week, my cousins were talking of some of our acquaintance, dwelling on their little faults, and altogether omitting to speak of their good qualities. I knew Aunt Jane well enough to be sure she would not like this. There was nothing that

vexed her more than to hear people spoken ill of in their absence.

"Shall I tell you a story ?" she said at last, with a smile, looking across at me.

"Oh yes, Aunt Jane, please!" we all cried, for a story never comes amiss to young people.

"Well, my dears," she began, "there was once a doctor, a very clever man, but he had one patient who never seemed to get better for all his doctoring. The truth was, she seldom took any of his medicine, but he did not know that. Now I'll tell you what happened one day when I was present. The doctor called as usual, and said that her pulse was feeble, and she required a tonic which he would send. No sooner did the medicine come than it was handed round from one daughter to another, and smelt and tasted. One remarked it was the colour of ink, another said it had a horrible smell, and a third declared that it reminded her of nothing so much as snail soup; then they put the bottle away on the mantelpiece, and the lady said how delightful Dr. G- -'s manner was, and that she hoped he would come the next day, for his visit made such a pleasant change.

"Then one of the daughters talked about his smile, and another about his beard, but amongst them all the medicine was put away in the cupboard, and forgotten."

"Oh! Aunt Jane, nobody could be so stupid!" we all cried out.

"Are you quite sure you have not been so stupid yourselves? The preacher last Sunday told us to pray for charity, and strive more and more to practise it. Have you followed his advice? Have you not rather treated it as the family of whom I told you treated that of the doctor?" Aunt Jane's manner was very kind, but it became earnest and serious as she added, "Which is of most consequence, think you, the health of the body or of the soul?”

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