"Aye, I've read it. He was crucified, dead, and buried.""

"Have you ever read in the Bible how he was nailed to the cross?"

"I don't think it. I never got so far on Bible."

as the

"I think, then, my brother will read it to you." Rowland gave a ready assent, and the lad looked up gratefully, his countenance growing somewhat brighter. "But first," continued Ethelda, "I will tell you something about Jesus. He is, as you said, the holy Son of God; and he loves us all very much,-so much, that as He knew that we must be punished on account of our sins, He died, and thus was punished instead of us. All the time He lived, He was very good, and cured the blind, and lame, and sick people, and spoke kindly to the poor. He need not have died, for He might have come down from the cross; but then we should have been lost,-you, and I, and every one of us must have gone to hell. You know why we deserve to go to hell, don't you?”

"Why?-yes, ma'am."

"Can you tell me why, my boy?"

"Why? I don't think it just the now."

"If you had a bag of marbles, and another boy stole them, and the master found it out and punished the boy, Iwould it be fair?"

"To be sure-he'd desarve it."

"And if your father brought in some money, and laid it

down there, and you took a penny of it, and he punished you, would that be right?"

"Yes; but I never stole nothing."

"That is right; but you have sometimes done wrong, told a lie, or quarrelled, or used bad words, or forgotten to pray."

The boy hung down his head and muttered, "Sometimes."

"And so have I," said Ethelda; "so we are both sinners, and God would do quite right to keep us out of heaven, if He had not so loved us that He punished Jesus in our place; and now, if we ask Him, He will open wide the gates of heaven for us, poor, sinful children. Now, Rowly, if you will read part of the 27th chapter of Matthew, we shall hear how Jesus died."

The poor sick boy listened attentively. When it was over he said, "Thank you; and will ye look in again ? "

"Yes," said Ethelda, "that we will; but we don't know your name yet."

"Jamie Clark, and the little lass is Bessie."

“Very well, I shan't forget that. And will you pray these little words: 'O God, make me to love thee, for Jesus Christ's sake?"

The boy repeated them after Ethelda. Then taking some oranges out of her bag, she said, "These will do for you and Bessie till I come again."

Poor Jamie put up his emaciated hand to pull the

forelock of his hair, and thus he made his rustic bow; and Ethelda and Rowland proceeded onwards on their

way.

"Ethie," said Rowland, "do you think I could often go and see that poor boy, and perhaps talk with him?” "Do, Rowly, and God will speed you."

A sunbeam had entered that dark cottage,-yea, more, a ray of its brightness had been shed on the poor dying youth's immortal soul; and it was a sunbeam from the throne of glory, which should shine more and more until lost in heaven's perfect day.

CHAPTER VI.

Ꭼ Ꭰ Ꮃ Ꭺ Ꭱ Ꭰ ARNOLD.

"My times are in Thy hand,

Pale poverty or wealth,

Corroding care, or calm repose,

Spring's balmy breath, or winter's snows,
Sickness, or buoyant health-

Whate'er betide,

If God provide,

Tis for the best, I wish no lot beside."

THROUGH the aforesaid little geranium-flowered window, the faint glimmer of a candle might have been observed very early on that Tuesday morning. It was Edward at work-not, however, with his awl and his last, but with his books-a Greek Testament which, self-taught, he was now able with tolerable facility to peruse, and Parkhurst's Greek Lexicon, a second-hand copy of which he had once with his slender finances managed to purchase.

Edward had been a clever, industrious boy, always the first in his class at the village-school;—the boy of whom the kind-hearted master augured great things, because he felt that his pupil had even outstripped himself in the path of knowledge. When Edward was twelve years old

his father died, and his widowed mother was left with six young children. Of these he was the eldest.

66

Mother, you look worse than ever to-day," said Edward, very tenderly to his parent, when he returned from school, the third day after his father's funeral.

"And it's no wonder," replied the poor woman, bursting into tears. They say we must go to the work

house."

"But we won't, mother! we can't-we mustn't;

and

the boy stood still for a moment, till, finding the scalding tears course each other down his flushed face, he suddenly turned round, flung down his satchel of books, hurried. towards the field, and there throwing himself on the ground, cried in bitter agony:

"My own mother go to the workhouse-my sisters, myself? No, no-never, never! But what can I do?— what shall I do? I am miserable. O God of the fatherless, pity thy poor wretched boy! I thought I'd get on with my schooling. My master has always said I'd be a gentleman some day-and now to go to the workhouse! Oh, no, no!" And again he raised his swollen eyes to heaven, and said, "O Lord, help us in this strait, and show me what I can do!"

The boy had lain for long on the damp grass in that field, when a word of consolation seemed whispered to his aching spirit, "Commit thy way unto the Lord, and He will bring it to pass." Rising up, he knelt beneath the old elmtree, and implored of his God to undertake his cause, and