people of the village. Poor as she was herself, she said there were some still worse off, and it was for them she worked; it was not much she could do, and yet it was a little. Instantly my friend's eyes and mine met; and the Saviour's words flashed across the minds of each of us, "She hath done what she could." We thought, too, of the widow's mite cast into the treasury.

;

It may be, dear reader, that you cannot do much you may be poor, or suffering; but you can do a little. The little, thin, poor old asthmatical woman, who loved her Saviour, made garments for those who were poorer still; her suffering, afflicted daughter-in-law, by patience and cheerfulness, glorified God in her trials; and you, each and all, can and will do something for the glory of God, if the love of Jesus reign in your hearts.

A whole year passed away. I went again to visit these poor Christians, who were rich in faith and good works. I went with the same beloved friend, and on an afternoon that was the counterpart of the one a year before. The aged and infirm old woman had gone home; she had received her crown of glory that fadeth not away.

May not the villagers, the recipients of her kindness, have stood around her dead body weeping, as they did around the corpse of Dorcas, shewing the garments that she had made ? Happy old woman, called to a knowledge of the truth late in life, at the eleventh hour, and anxious during the little span that remained, to do something for that Saviour who had done so much for her. She is now reigning with Him in heaven.

Her suffering daughter still lived, though she had been much worse. She told me she had been so ill that she thought she was going home." She spoke as though she longed to be at home, safe in the bosom of Jesus.

H

"Going home," I repeated; "it will indeed be a home to you? How sweet to feel thus!"

"Do not you," she said, as she looked earnestly and affectionately at me; "Do not you feel as if you were going home?"

That suffering saint still lives; her home is not yet reached. If I see her no more on earth, may I meet her in heaven, the home of the redeemed! And there may I meet you, dear reader, among the number of those who have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.

Dear reader, are you doing what you can? and are you going home?

BERTHA ANNE.

THE DREAMS OF LIFE.

"Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are.”

Montgomery.

THE silver moon looked in at a chamber window, where a mother and her only child were sitting after the business of the day. The maiden was gazing on the calm still beauty of the summer night, and watching the moonbeams as they rested on the mountaintops, and glittered on the laurel leaves, and slept on the surface of the lake, and sparkled on the ripples of the stream, and threw long fantastic shadows upon the level lawn. The mother's eye rested upon her daughter's fair young face, and watched how the shades of

earnest thought deepened on that pure brow, and the many-coloured fancies of the soul played around those parted lips, and the bright dreams of youth lighted up those expressive eyes; and, as she gazed, she thought of the dangers and temptations of life, and sent up her soul in prayer to the All-watchful and the Almighty, that He would give his angels charge concerning her child, and shed over her young path the light of his love, to protect her from the trials of this troublous world.

The maiden's thoughts were not of this; she looked up to the starry heavens, and sighed that her lot was cast among the grovelling things of earth, and fain would her spirit have left its tenement of clay, and risen etherialised to the mansions of the blest. thoughts were of life's trials, not of its duties.

Her

Yet, what had she known of trials? Hers it had never been to know the heart-felt thirstings for the well-springs of affection, the ever-longing for the fount of human love. Hers it had never been to call up from the buried past, memories of friends, faithless or departed; but her days had been brightened by the sun of domestic love. Yet, as she gazed up to the moon-lit sky, her heart went not up in thankfulness to the Giver of so much good; but was filled with murmurings that the good had not been more.

The mother's eye was quick to note the gloom on her child's countenance, and she said, "Lilia, my own, what aileth thee? Wherefore these sighs, and whence these rising tears?" For the sorrow of the maiden's heart had opened the floodgates of her eyes, and the scalding stream coursed heavily down her cheeks. Then her heart answered to the voice of love, and she exclaimed, "My life, of what worth is it? Youth is passing, and what have I done that I should be remembered when this frail garment of mortality shall be reunited to its mother earth? That men should say of me, 'A bright star hath set;' and that they

should speak of me to their children as one to be known and remembered? My life is of no worth, I am aweary of it."

All

Then the parent's soul was grieved, and she spoke sadly to her child, "All may not be great, all may not be powerful, all may not be wise; and the knowledge of them that are so may not be always known. cannot reign, but some must serve; ali may not be reverenced, there must be some that revere. Yet, all have a place in the world to fill, and an end in life to accomplish; and when they have lived their allotted time on earth, all go to their long home, and receive, each for himself, the reward of his own doings; and the humble, and the poor, and the simple, that hath done his Master's bidding shall receive greater honour and greater happiness than he that hath had many gifts, but yet hath misused them all."

"But, mother," replied the maiden, "might I but choose my path in life, it should be among the wise and the great. My soul yearns for communion with poets and with sages, such as they whose crowns of olive, of laurel, and of bay, yet wreathe their tombs, and make their names immortal. Oh, mother, why am I thus a poor weak girl! were I a man I would for myself achieve the greatness I desire. By the sword or by the pen I would make myself a name that should last from age to age, and descend from generation to generation."

The mother's heart grieved over her child, and she said, "When thou wast but a little one, my daughter, thou didst learn a fable, which thou canst not have forgotten:-A glow-worm, on a mossy bank, looked up to the purple heavens and beheld a bright star in the firmament, and, like thee, he murmured at his lot; 'What avails it me,' he thought, 'that I have life and light, if my life be spent beneath a shadowing hedge, or beside a stagnant pool, and my light shine but for myself alone, while that fair star glittereth

ever in the azure sky admired and worshipped!' A traveller who had lost his road in the darkness of the night, passed by the bank on which the repining insect lay. One step was between him and danger, for below the bank was a deep, deep stream. The tiny lamp of the glow-worm attracted his glance, and his eye wandered from it to the pale reflex of its light in the still water, and he was saved in time. Canst thou not, my Lilia, draw from this a moral for thyself?"

When the maiden saw that her words had grieved her mother she was silent; but the thought was ever in her heart, "How shall I make myself a name?"

The summer passed in its gorgeous beauty, and autumn, with its hues of russet and gold; but ere winter had thrown his mantle of snow o'er the earth, the mother had left her place and gone to that "bourne whence no traveller returns," and the daughter was launched upon the stormy sea of life.

The world ever loves those who minister to its pleasures, or feed its vanity, or by their rare and lovely gifts delight its taste. Lilia was richly dowered with beauty and talents, and the world smiled on her and courted her, and offered her its homage, and loaded her with praise. And her early dream was fulfilledshe had made herself a name. The wise and the learned praised the young authoress, whose writings blended the profound knowledge of man with the delicate tenderness of woman. Musicians praised the young composer whose harmonies were so sweet, and whose melodies were so thrilling. Painters praised the young artist, the productions of whose pencil were so true to nature, yet so full of art. Their praise was freely accorded-for she entered not their lists to rival themand on their praise waited the worship of the multitude.

Yet her soul was sad, for amongst all the flatterers