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THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD.

The poor

I KNEW a collier in Staffordshire who had one dear little girl--the last of four or five. This child was the light of his eyes; and as he came home from the pit at night, she used to meet him at the door of his cot to welcome him home. One day, when he came in to dinner, he missed his little darling, and, going into the house with his heavy coal-pit clogs, his wife called him up stairs.

The stillness of the place, and her quiet voice, made his heart sick, and a foreboding of evil came upon him. His wife told him that they were going to lose their little lamb. She was taken suddenly ill, and the doctor said she couldn't live. As the tears made furrows down his black face, and as he leaned over his dying child, she said, “ Daddy sing,

Here is no rest-is no rest!'" "No, my child, I can't sing, I'm choking; I can't sing." Oh, do, daddy sing. Here's no rest. fellow tried to sing,

“Here on this earth as a stranger I roam

Here is no rest, is no rest!" But his voice couldn't make way against his troubles. Here he tried again, for he wanted to please his sweet little girl,

“Here are afflictions and trials severe,

Here is no rest-is no rest!
Here I must part with the friends I love dear,

Yet I am blest-I am blest!" Again his voice was choked with weeping; but his little one whispered, “ Come, daddy sing, Sweet is the promise.'” And the poor father went on again,

“Sweet is the promise I read in thy Word,
Blessed are they who have died in the Lord;
They have been called to receive their reward;

There, there is rest—there is rest!" “That's it, daddy,” cried the child, “that's it;” and with her arms round the collier's neck, she died happy in the Lord.-R. Weaver.

“SUCH A NICE WAY.” SOME years since a little boy kissed his mother goodnight, and went to his room. After some time she beard him up, and fearing that he might be sick, she went to see.

There she found little Harry sitting up. Why, my son, are you not in bed ?” said Mrs. Lane. “Oh, mamma, I have got such a nice way of finding out whether I keep the commandments. Every night I say them, and try and think of all I have said and done during the day, which has broken them. Is it not a nice way, mamma?” “Yes, my dear, if you are only faithful to yourself. We sin not only in what we say and do, but in what we think and feel. God will call us to account for every secret thought and intent of the heart."

“I am afraid, mamma, I broke the sixth commandment to-day, when Charlie Hunt tripped me up at school; I was very angry, and would have knocked him down and hurt him if our teacher had not come out; and I thought of what you had taught me; I did not say a word, but it has troubled me that I felt so hateful towards him, and I have been asking God to forgive

me.”

I will not repeat any more of the conversation Harry Lane had with his mother, but tell my young readers that he kept on in his good way, which he begun when he was eight years old, and is now one of the most consistent Christians in the land, and his mother hopes to see him one of the most useful ministers of the gospel.

H.

PRAYER THAT IS NO PRAYER. PRAYER, if it be done as a task, is no prayer.—John Mason.

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when a little boy at her knee, stood before him in shining letters. It was a lesson he heard repeated again and again ; she was never tired of imprinting it on his memory before she died ; it was her only legacy. In the gaiety of life he had forgotten it. He had lost his hold on it, but it bad never quite lost its hold on him; and now, in this hour of peril, it threw out to him a rope of mercy. What was it? “God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have eternal life.”

He caught the rope ; it seemed let down from heaven. "Lord, I believe," he cried ; save me, or I perish !”

Till he died, a few hours after, he said little but this one prayer : “Lord, I believe ; save me, or I perish !” a prayer never uttered by the penitent soul in vain.

That was a lesson worth more than all the gold of earth.

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THE QUEEN AT A SICK-BED.

At a recent meeting at Cambridge on behalf of the Army Scripture Readers' and Soldiers' Friend Society, the Rev. H. Huleatt, chaplain to the forces at Aldershott, narrated the following anecdote, which he had received, he said, from one of the actors in the scene.

The incumbent of Osborne had occasion to visit an aged parishioner. Upon his arrival at the house, as he entered the door where the invalid was, he saw sitting by the bedside a lady in deep mourning, reading the word of God. He was about to retire, when the lady remarked, “Pray remain. I shonld not wish the invalid to lose the comfort which a clergyman might afford.” The lady retired, and the clergyman found lying on the bed a book with texts of Scripture adapted to the sick ; and he found that out of that book portions of Scripture had been read by the lady in black. That lady was the Queen of England.

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