nected with certain of its phases cannot be affirmed: affliction has problems which are not easily solved. Nevertheless, it is less enigmatical and perplexing than is often supposed. Much trial, whether of body, mind, or estate, we perceive plainly to be both vicarious and beneficial: how do we know that all is not ? why may we not reason from the visible to the invisible, from the definite to the dubious? One result, at any rate, should flow from a knowledge of the law of sacrifice-it should make our pain more endurable. If, in some way or other, our burdens are borne for the sake of others, if they are but constituent parts of a vast system whereby God helps and blesses His creatures, we may well be more patient than, alas, we often are. We feel sure that no apology is needful in making another quotation: it is from the writings of the late James Hinton. Suppose, instead of Curtius, a slave, hating Rome and cursing her with his last breath, had been bound hand and foot, and thrown into the gulf to save the city. Yet suppose, in some future state of existence, that slave had come to see the part which Rome was to play in the civilization of the world, and was to say from his heart, I am glad I was sacrificed for Rome,' at once the involuntary sacrifice would be made his own, filling him with an infinite joy and satisfaction. So our most blankseeming woes, the pains and privations we have most grudged as barren of all good, may have forward ends-may, in fact, be so much stored-up force, and become the very material of the noblest joy."

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The " breaking of bread has a further explanation. Certain

critics argue that it reminded the disciples of sacramental bread, and thus Christ "was known of them." There is a close correspondence between what occurred at Emmaus and what occurred when the Eucharist was instituted. "And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them; thus is the Lord's Supper described. Put by the side of that the following: "As he sat at meat with them, he took bread, and blessed it, and brake, and gave to them." We can readily imagine how the points of similarity would, as they succeeded each other, bring back to the minds of the spectators what they had doubtless been told by the apostles touching the institution of the Sacrament.

Nor is this interpretation without a bearing upon ourselves. The Redeemer is indeed "known of" us "in breaking of" sacramental "bread." For instance, how eloquently it reveals His wish to be recollected! "This do in remembrance of me." Most earnestly He desires us to cherish Him in our memories. And who can be surprised? Forgetfulness is one of the sources of calamity and mischief in every department of life. A patient in a hospital, contrary to the expectation of his doctor, dies. Why? Because the nurse forgets to give the prescribed medicine at the time of the disorder. A train runs off the line or collides with another: broken limbs and lost lives being the dreadful consequence. What caused the accident? A railway official forgot to hoist a signal or to work the points. A traveller is

found stiff, cold, dead, in the grey light of morning. How came it to pass? He forgot the way. Who shall say what disasters have also followed forgetfulness of Christ? Many a pang of remorse, many a tormenting reminiscence should we have been spared had we "set the Lord always before us." Therefore, my friend, "beware lest thou forget the Lord." Oftentimes direct the "inward eye that is the bliss of solitude" to the great Deliverer. Serve Him, and He, in His turn, will not "forget your work of faith, and labour of love, and patience of hope."

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LOST IN THE SNOW.

FOR THE YOUNG.

MANY years ago, in a small settle-friends (for they had known each ment in the wilds of the great North other in "Merry old England") American forests, lived a family by were a family named Hamilton. the name of Haight, consisting of The parents and two sons were father, mother, grandmother, and constant visitors at the fireside of one child, a little girl of some eight John Haight. Kitty's favourite summers, named Kitty. companion was their youngest son, The father, a tall strong man, a bright manly boy of twelve, nearly forty, had by hard labour named Donald, after the old Scotch and great perseverance cleared grandfather, who still lived in one quite a farm out of the dense woods of the glens of "bonny Scotland," that met the eye at every point. and who had never seen his little His wife, a patient woman, was grandson and namesake. content to live anywhere "John As I mentioned before, Donald liked, yet very often her heart and Kitty, being near and almost longed for the pretty quiet village only neighbours, became fast friends. on the other side of the great ocean, He dearly loved the gentle and and for the friends and loved ones somewhat delicate child, while she she had last seen when years ago almost reverenced the honesty and she sailed, a bride, for the New manliness of the little "Scotchman," World with its treasures and wealth. as she playfully called him. But to Treasures and wealth it is true had return to my story. not come, but she had what was still better, a happy home, a good husband, a fair child, and her dear old mother, who had loved her too well to let her go alone, a mere child, into the wilds of the unknown country. I called the place they made their home a settlement, yet I think it could scarce be called such, as it was but a small collection of log houses scattered here and there through the woods, with no church, store, or post-office to be

seen.

Their nearest neighbours and

It was on a cold winter morning towards the end of January that Mrs. Haight called Kitty to take her father's dinner to him, where he was at work in the woods felling trees. She felt quite sure that nothing could harm the child, as the wild animals that once roamed the woods had been effectually frightened away by the settlers. Once in a great while one pressed by hunger would be seen, but such occasions were rare.

The sky, it is true, did look like snow, but then she would be with

father, and all would be right. Thus Mrs. Haight reasoned as she assisted the little girl to put on her moccasins and snow-shoes, without which it was impossible to walk on the hard frozen snow which for weeks covered the ground. Placing a tin pail in her hand, and bidding her hurry so father would get it hot, she turned into the kitchen to her work. Kitty's dinner was in the pail, too, so she need not expect her home till her husband came at dark.

Towards the close of the afternoon, but somewhat earlier than usual, Mrs. Haight was surprised to see her husband enter the house. "Why, John, what brings you home so soon to-day?" "You'd better ask yourself why, Mary, my dear; do you think a man can work as long without eating as with? "What do you mean, John? I sent your dinner this long time ago by Kitty, and hers with it too, to have a good time with father, as she always says; like as not she's stopped at Donald's, and they've got to playing, and never thought of you or the pail again. Just you run over and see, and I'll have something hot by the time you come back."

He started off, and as she turned into the house to prepare his supper, glancing now and then through the window at the storm, which had begun soon after the child started, and which had been gaining in force ever since, her heart misgave her, and she wished she had not let her go.

But she tried to throw this feeling off, thinking every minute she would see her husband returning with Kitty in his arms, naughty little thing that she was, to run off playing and forget her father. It was not long, though it seemed so to her, ere she heard his footsteps, and hurrying to the door to meet him, she gave a scream, for she saw

he was alone. "Don't tell me, John, that our little Kitty, our only little one, is lost! I'll never, never believe it!"

"Don't take on so, Mollie, my dear, we'll soon find 'em; she and Donald started off together to come to me, and I'm 'fraid as the snow has made them lose the path. I'm glad Donald's with her; he's a fine brave lad, but we'll find 'em soon, so cheer up, little woman. I'm going to get the neighbours to help, and we'll soon have them safe; so have a good fire and something warm for them, for they'll be both hungry and cold, I'll warrant you."

John started off, but with a sinking heart, for well he knew if the snow did not soon stop falling the children would never come home alive; but it would never do to let his wife know until-he could not name the dreadful thought that then came to him. While he is telling the neighbours and starting out on the search, let us turn to the two little children.

Soon after leaving home Kitty met Donald going in the same direction, so they went merrily on together. Before going far, the snow, which had begun to fall when they met, fell so thick and fast that they could scarcely see ahead; however, the children did not mind it, and the time passsed away quickly.

Suddenly Donald said, "Seems to me we are a long time finding your father, don't you think so?" but Kitty said "she guessed not," and so they trudged on, believing all the time they were nearing the place where Mr. Haight was working. "Kitty, it's getting very late, and I don't think we are near your father at all. I'm afraid we've lost the path." "Oh, Donny! surely you don't mean that we are lost; and Kitty began to cry. "Don't cry, dear little Kit," he said, “ we'll soon find your father, and then we'll have a jolly ride home on his

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big sledge." Kitty, somewhat com- | done." Kitty was comforted while forted, bravely continued her tire- eating, but this occupation gone, some walk, for the snow had now her thoughts returned to her trouble, drifted and was soft, and the and her grief broke out anew. Oh, children often sank knee deep. mother darling! how I want you to-night, I'm so cold and tired, and the woods are so dark. Donny, do

With Donald, however, it was different; he was anxious, for well he knew what those terrible snow-you think I'll ever see mother and storms were in the dense forests, father and grandmother again?" and he knew that if the snow did not soon cease, every mark that might lead them home would be gone, and that there would be but little chance of their seeing it again. As these thoughts came to him, his eyes would fill with tears, though he hastily brushed them away lest Kitty should see them. For a long time they walked along in silence, until the little girl beginning to cry again said, "Donny, I can't go any farther. I'm nearly dead now, I'm so tired."

"Kitty, I tell you you must walk, else you'll die out here in the cold." Donald had never spoken so to her before, so without answering, and between sobs and tears, she tried to walk again. But the woods now were more dense, they often had to make their way on their hands and knees, over rocks and decayed tree trunks; and, to make it harder, the wind was blowing fearfully, and white whirling clouds of snow almost blinded them. Donald's strength, like hers, was beginning to fail, and in a few minutes they threw themselves down on the snow in despair.

The sun had long ago gone to rest behind the western hills, for in the far north during the long winter the days are very short, and the night comes on early.

The darkness and silence that pervaded the forest only added to the children's fears. But Donald did not give way long to his grief. "Kitty," he said, "we must eat something (in their excitement they had forgotten their hunger), and afterwards we'll see what's to be

"Yes, dear, surely you shall if I can help it," and it was then the firm determination came into Donald's heart that afterwards saved Kitty's life. "Donny, I can scarce keep my eyes open any longer, I'm so tired," and the weary child laid her head on the boy's shoulder. "You shall sleep, Kitty," and with his cold, aching hands he dug a soft bed in the snow, close by the trunk of a large tree which sheltered them somewhat from the fury of the storm. Gently he placed the child down, and seated himself beside her. Donny, sing, won't you," she said, "and perhaps I'll think it's mother singing me to sleep; so Donald sang in his sweet childish voice the simple songs he knew, and by-and-by he saw that cold and fatigue and fear were forgotten, for little Kitty slept.

Quietly moving from the child, he took off his overcoat and jacket, and gently, for fear of waking her, he wrapped them around her, though he knew that by so doing, if help did not soon come, he would be beyond aid.

And still the child slept, and Donald paced up and down, up and down, trying to keep warm; but by degrees a numbness began to creep all over him, cold and fatigue were doing their work, and with the prayer, "God take care of us and bring Kitty safe home,” and the thought, "If I only could see mother," he sank to the ground and fell asleep. And the snow ceased falling, and the little stars crept noiselessly out on the distant heavens, and seemed to smile down

pitifully on the spot where the children slept, one the sweet unconscious sleep of childhood, the other the deep sleep that knows no waking. For so Kitty slept warm and safe with the boy's clothes around her, and so he slept, the cold white snow around him, and above the tall dark trees. Lovingly and willingly he had robbed himself of warmth and life that Kitty might be saved.

As soon as Mr. Haight had collected the men, they started off with lanterns for the lost children. Mrs. Haight had given her husband a pail of hot coffee, for she said between her sobs, "You'll find them very soon, John, and this will warm them, for they'll be cold, I know; while you are gone I'll go and stay with Donald's mother, for has she. not lost a child too?" But oh, what a long, dreary night it seemed to them; a night that would never end; at every sound, ever so faint, they were sure the men were returning, but the sun rose high in the sky ere they came back.

where are you!" and with a heart well-nigh breaking with happiness, and as fast as his excitement would allow, he hurried to the spot to clasp his little lost one to his heart. "Oh my little darling baby! thank the Lord, thank the Lord."

How long he stood holding her close to him, as if he never could let her go, he did not know; but he was roused from his great joy by the sight of Mr. Hamilton's deathly face, and by his suppressed unnatural voice, saying, "John, O John! my boy, my little Donny! how can I ever tell his mother?" Mr. Haight, gently putting Kitty down, bent over the cold form of the young boy, and he saw too plainly the child was dead. James," he said, "how is it he's without coat and jacket, and such weather as this?" but before the father had time to answer, Kitty called out in a choking voice, "Oh, father! see, here are his things, he wrapped them around me to keep me from freezing, and I never knew it; and he's died for me. Oh, Donny, Donny, how could you!" The child's grief was so terrible that for a time the men forgot their own sorrow in comforting her. After a while Mr. Haight said, "We must be going home, though but a sad home-going it will be; and he took up the horn Mr. Haight and James Hamilton which lay on the ground, and blowwere together, and as the hours ing through it, soon brought all passed away one by one, bringing the men to the spot. One by one no trace of the lost ones, not a sound was heard in the vast solitude, save now and then a groan from the poor men who felt how almost impossible it was to think of finding them alive.

As soon as John and his followers came to the entrance of the forest they separated, going in different directions, and a horn was to be sounded by the party making any discoveries.

Just as the sun rose above the eastern hilltops, Mr. Hamilton said in a husky voice, "John, what's that yonder, that little black spot by the pine-trees; see, it's moving, and "--but John did not wait to hear any more, for a child's voice was heard to say, “Donny, Donny,

they sadly passed by the dead child, stooping to look at the sweet face of the noble boy. There was no look of pain and suffering on it, but one of rest and love, and many a hard heart melted, and many a sob was heard in the dark forest. "I'll carry my boy myself; no one shall touch him"-the poor father said this almost fiercely, but very tenderly he lifted the lifeless form of his child, and the bitter tears fell hot and fast on the peaceful upturned face.