business. To be sure, his stock in aloof from Dick Ward and his comtrade was not large, and to some it panions. With some pride he felt might not have been very attractive, himself better than they were. but the residents of Derry Street Now, he thought with a flush of neighbourhood were not over-par- shame as he took his seat, he was no better than they. And what would Maggie say, if she knew? Mike was decidedly uncomfortable. Recess came, but he was in no mood for play, so he lingered about by the stove.

My knife is gone, my whiteWil-handled knife. I thought I took it out of my pocket and put it here this morning.'

"I declare," said one, "I believe it was that ragamuffin, Mike Ravy. He was here until recess, you know. Won't we just blow him this afternoon, though!

And with many a plan for ridicule, the boys went their several ways. But when they gathered again in the afternoon, George had a few words to say to the.n.

"See here, boys; let's not make any fun of poor Ravy. I don't believe his folks are honest, so you see he has never been taught better, as we have. Then, too, we have never known of anything like it before from him, and he has done all he could to make this up. My mother says that perhaps it depends on us whether he keeps his resolution to be honest or not. At any rate, I'm going to do all I can to encourage him."

"He came home and told me. He was going to trade it with another boy for some candy for me, but he thought he had better not, and so did I. He carried it back "So will we all," was the general to you. Now he has gone to see if response. And then they eagerly he can earn something for me, then watched for their schoolmate to it will be all right, won't it?" appear, in order that they might "Indeed it will," was the answer, commence their missionary labours." but I must go now. I am in a But no Mike made his appearance hurry." Off he ran, down three that day, or the next either. In steps at a time, and up the street fact, Mike was too humiliated to in great haste. show his face. A week passed, and the boys held a council. Having made such good designs, they desired to put them into execution. "I'm going to hunt the boy up," said George; "perhaps he is afraid to come any more, for fear we will plague him."

And Mike was in tribulation: his mother was gone on one of her trips, his father was away also, and Maggie was ailing. Mike was in despair; he could find nothing in the house to tempt her appetite. Finally, one morning he told her he was going to leave her for awhile, and perhaps he would bring her something nice when he came home. It had occurred to him that perhaps she would enjoy an orange -and he had gone to see if he could earn one for her.

Half an hour later, Mike came down the street at a very different pace. He lingered outside the door awhile, but finally, making a despe rate plunge, he went upstairs.

66

'Oh, Mike," cried Maggie, joy.

fully.

"I couldn't get anything for you, Maggie. No one would give me work."

Before she could utter a word of consolation or cheer, there was a tap on the door, and there stood George, with a large basket on his arm.

"Glad to sec you, Mike," he said, pleasantly. "I brought these to your sister. It is no more than fair for you to take them," he continued la ghingly, as Mike drew back. "If one of us has more than the other, we ought to go shares.

So it will be your sister's duty to share with you. Good-bye for now. Come back to school as soon as you can; we all want to see you back again."

And off George ran, thinking rightly the two could do best alone.

But I wish he could have seen Maggie's eyes! As for Mike-there was a great lump in his throat, and thoughts in his heart he could not express, but George had now a firm, devoted friend.

And Mike was honest ever after.

"ROOTED IN LOVE."

A HEALTHY and vigorous plant is half under ground. For every visible branch there is a root out of sight buried in the soil. Nay, growth begins at the root. It gathers and sends up the sap that makes new wood and foliage, blossoms and fruit. Hence, if a plant is not well rooted, it will have a feeble sickly growth, or die. The soil, then, must be deep and mellow. If a tree is planted on a rock, or in a gravel bank, it may have sunshine and rain and dew upon its branches, it may be cultivated with the utmost care, yet its leaves will soon wither and fall. Move it to a bed of loam, and cut off the dying top, the root in its new home will start up vigorous shoots, and 20on rebuild the tree and cover it with foliage again.

We see, then, why the apostle would root the believer in love. He wants him to grow, to adorn the gospel by his Christian graces, and to bring forth much fruit. To this end he must have a hidden life as well as one that is outward and visible. He must have a deep personal experience of the love of God. He must send the fibres of his soul out into the warm and mellow soil. He must grow there as the rootless grow. His closet studies and meditations and prayers will

make him " а tree of righteousness."

There is a piety, so-called, that is like a Christmas-tree. It is all for show. It is conspicuously active or intensely orthodox. It endures for a time, as the rootless evergreen does. But when temptation or persecution comes it droops and dies. This piety of imitation or of form knows nothing of love. It has zeal, but no charity. It understands proselytism, but not conversion. It labours to build up a sect or a particular Church, but not to save or sanctify the souls of It is worse than a failure. It is a terrible and most injurious

men.

fraud.

And yet some really amiable people have no idea of a religion more radical, better-rooted than this. They believe that they ought to do something for Christ, to secure some preparation for death. They join the Church, go through the forms, try to force themselves to take an interest in various kinds of Christian work. Yet they live like parrots or monkeys, saying what they do not really feel, doing because others do, or they think they must in order to be consistent. They know nothing of the warm, living, constraining impulses of love; nothing of

that martyr spirit which counts the reproach of Christ its greatest riches; which rejoices in persecution for Jesus' sake. The Church is full of this rootless piety, this Christianity that has no hidden life, and hence it is that it makes so little impression upon the world. What is needed most of all just now is not more Christian activity, but more Christian consecration. Not more work for Christ, but more love for Christ. It is well to try and be useful, but we should first try to be good, try to grow in grace and in the knowledge and love of God. When every plant in the nominal vineyard of the Lord is truly rooted and grounded in love, then will that vineyard so put forth its beautiful foliage, and its ripe clusters of fruit, that the world will be attracted; and when we say to men, "Come with us and we will do you good, for the Lord hath spoken good concerning Israel," they will believe us.

THE LITTLE GRAVE.

You know where it is, strickenhearted one. You know the bright flowers that bloom above it, and the fairer form that moulders beneath. You know whose sunny locks are lying damp under that grassy sod. You know what precious dust there mingles with its mother earth.

Ah, what memories cluster round that little grave; what blighted hopes, what cherished joys are hidden there; what cares, what fears, what anxious sad forebodings, have found their end and been laid to rest in the quiet of that little grave.

It was a sad and bitter night when the last faint flickering gleam of life and hope went out together, and the little cheek lay cold and pallid on the pillow, and all was over. The weary nights of watch ing and days of pain were past, and though the grief of parting was intense, yet you felt that there was rest at last, rest for the suffering one.. There was no more burning fever, there were no more throes of agony, no more groans and contortions, no more sighs and wailings, all was rest. The pleading eyes were closed in death, and the

little dimpled hands, now cold and white, were folded for the dream. less sleep.

It was a sad morning when the calm sunshine streamed through the casement, and lay soft and mellow on the marble features of the dead; and when the little one, unconscious of the day's return, was dressed for the last time, and dressed for the tomb.

And then, when the last fond kiss was pressed upon the pallid lips that gave no answering sign of love, when the last tear fell upon the cold unconscious clay, when the coffin closed upon the fruit of all your months and years of pain, and toil, and love, and labour, and the grave concealed it from your tearful eyes, then you wept with great sorrow, and went down to your house with a mighty choking grief laying dark and heavy on your heart.

Things have seemed different since that day. Little graves are more sacred to you now than they ever were before. And little children find an easier pathway to your heart, and a warmer welcome there than in the bygone days.

How still the dwelling is! No

The air is full of farewell to the dying,
And weepings for the dead,

The heart of Rachel for her children
crying,

Will not be comforted."

rattles jingle, no playthings strew the floor, no little voice says 66 mamma" or "papa" now. No chubby arms twine about your neck; no soft cheek presses against your face; no sunny eyes glance with I have pleasant thoughts somelove and mirth and mischief now. times about these little graves. I No little clothes and shoes and think what a safe place the little stockings lie scattered here and grave is. Temptations never come there; they are all laid away, and there. Sins never pollute there. they keep their places at last. Tears, pains, disappointments, beEverything keeps in place now. reavements, trials, cares, and snares No little busy fingers are pulling are all unknown in that silent and mislaying things around; no resting-place. And then Jesus has pattering feet are hurrying on the keys, and He keeps our treasures roguish errands; no little hands safely, and guards them securely. are reaching up for "a piece," or No mother's heart is anxious about "a taste; no little voice says, a child that is laid in the little "Me, me, too." There is no one to grave. No prayers of anguish go pull at mother's apron now; she up for it, as for those tossed by the can work all day, with nothing to storms of passion, sunk in the trouble her only the dull anguish of whirlpool of vice, or lost in the her aching heart, and the stray wide wilderness of sorrow and of tears that chase each other down sin. There is now no need of chidher cheeks. There is no noise, no ing, reproving, watching, and reconfusion, no plague, no child!— straining. The chief Shepherd only "a little grave." bears the lamb on His own bosom, and it is for ever safe.

دو

No little feet run to the door for "a walk with mamma;' no little eyes look up and beg for " a ride with papa; no little voice says "Me go, too; no sunny face is at the window, watching for absent father; no dimpled hand flings kisses at him as he goes away; no little feet toddle to meet him as he returns. Oh, no, all these things are lost in the silence of the grave. The night-lamp burns dim, and goes out. No matter now, the little one is asleep, and, "If he sleep he shall do well."

You have your little grave; I have mine. You have your sad memories; I have mine.

"There is no flock, however tended,
But one dead lamb is there;
There is no fireside, howsoe'er de-
fended,

But hath its vacant chair.

The little grave is a sacred place. The Lord of Glory has passed into the sepulchre, and from it He has opened up the path of life. Hope blooms there, and Heart's-ease and Amaranth blossom amid the shadows that linger over it; and Jesus watches His treasures and counts His jewels in the little graves.

The little grave shall be opened by-and-by. The night is dark, but there is a flush of morn upon the mountains, and a gleam of sunlight glows along the distant hills. He who bears the keys of hell and of death shall come back to open the little graves, and call the sleepers forth. Then cherub forms shall burst the silent tombs, and these green hillocks shall yield their immortal harvest for the garner of our God.