bright-eyed boy, the other a hard-faced work-worn woman, who had nursed him through his long and painful illness, and would have spent her last breath in his service.

There was no funeral cake to feast the party on its return to the humble lodging of the poor artist, but some did return in order to consult as to what should be done for little Henry, who, they suspected, was left wholly destitute.

"Theodore's pictures will sell for a good sum, well managed," said one kind heart. "In the meantime," said another, "a subscription can be raised; here's my - mite."

"What's to be done with him?" was the next tion. Then came forward Sally Brooks.

"If it's what's to be done with Master Henry, gentlemen, you'll be so good perhaps as to leave him with me till he can go to school. I was with him when he lost his mother, and when he lost his father-I nursed both of 'em through all their illness-I have done for him since he was born, and he's like my own child; and I hope you won't go to take him from me." Seeing that they looked one at another without speaking, she continued, "If it's the pay you are thinking of, gentlemen, I hope you won't say a word of that; keep all he has till he is old enough to want it; I can keep him, God be praised, without help. I got more from his dear father than I can ever give back." The tears that accompanied these words, spoken with deep earnestness, nearly brought others into the eyes of those who heard them. Not a dissentient voice was raised; Henry was left in her charge for the present, one of the party consenting to become collector of the fund that was to be raised, and act as treasurer for the little orphan.

The sorrow of impulse is not lasting, and the help that comes from it is little to be depended on; the funeral past, very few days were sufficient to deaden the lively emotion which it had excited. "Poor Douglas!" was indeed never mentioned without respect and regret; but he soon ceased to be mentioned at all; his brethren had their own cares and interests to attend to; the sale of his pictures, which had begun briskly, slackened, and many hung unpurchased in the gallery to which they had been carried; while the subscription closed at an amount somewhat less than its promising beginning warranted.

Sally Brooks, who knew something of life and human nature, was not surprised, though rather disgusted at the rapid cooling down of all the sympathy; but she kept on her way, glad that little Henry had one friend, who, though humble, was one to wear well."

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The money collected was placed, as she had requested, at interest, till the child's age made it necessary for him to go to a school; and until that time came, she sedulously devoted her energies to training her charge.

The house in which Theodore had breathed his last was hers; she maintained herself by letting lodgings and waiting on her lodgers. When first Mr. and Mrs. Douglas came to her, she was struck with the beautiful harmony in which they lived-very unlike much of the married life she had witnessed. Although they were punctual payers, she was sure they were not well off, nay, she suspected that they were in straitened circumstances; and when Mrs. Douglas had an illness after Henry's birth, and the doctor's bill threatened to be very long, she saw that it preyed on their spirits,

Mrs. Brooks had other lodgers, who occupied her best rooms; but though she served them so diligently as seldom to change them, she never felt for any as she had done for Theodore and his wife. She had attached herself to them from the first almost, and when he was obliged to confess to declining health and lay by his work, she devoted herself to him as she had done to his wife.

It was during this season that she had, as she had declared, received from him more than she ever could repay. He had for some years lived by faith, for pious training had in his case been speedily blessed, and he was early brought to know and confess Christ; he had married one like-minded, and now that he was about to join her in the presence of their Lord, he had but one regret, and that was the leaving of his child.

What Sally heard from that sick bed she treasured up in her heart; every expression of faith, every ascription of praise, every fervent prayer, was winged with conviction, and found an entrance there. The doctrines of grace were new to her; she had gone through years of trial, and had often sighed to think that nothing but work remained for her in this life; while death was terrible to look at, for what might not be after it? But to believe that Jesus would guide and help poor sinners on earth with his grace, and afterwards take them to glory, placed all things in a different aspect; and when, which she soon did, she believed that he would so bless her, she went on her way rejoicing. Now she understood how the young wife and mother could so peacefully leave the husband of her heart and her helpless infant, and how that husband could suppress all murmuring, and weep as though he wept not.

The faith that cheered his dying bed brightened as he drew towards his end, and she was able to say truly, "I could not wish to keep you here. Oh, may I die the death of the righteous!" she would add to herself; "but I shall, for he is faithful that hath promised, as dear master says.'

"Now," she said, as after the funeral she was folding up and putting carefully by all the clothing, etc., that had made up her lodger's worldly goods, now I shall make the best of all this for poor little Harry. Oh, I hope-but there, I shall, no fear but I shall, have grace to do my duty by him."

Her tears fell on each well-remembered relic as she placed it in the drawer or box. One picture sho had

begged to keep when the others had been taken: it was the portrait of Henry's mother by his father. "It's all he will have to know her by till he sees her above,' she pleaded, and the portrait was allowed to hang where Theodore's hands had placed it, and where he had often, during the hours of lassitude, sat and gazed on it with tranquil pleasure.

Every hour that her lodgers spared to her, Sally gave to little Henry. Her stock of learning was small, but what she knew she laboured hard to teach him. At four years old, his acquirements were not great, but he was too active and intelligent a child to be left long in idleness; and before he was five, she had helped him on to read, so that he could understand the books she gave him, and repeat them to her, to her wonder and delight.

But her great aim was to instruct him in the Scriptures-she know that such knowledge was the end of all learning-and young as he was, she would tell him of his father's dying bed, and how Jesus took away the sting of death. Never was a lighter-hearted or more joyous-spirited child; but at such times his eyes would fill with tears while he listened, and in the simplicity of her love the good woman would fear that he too was preparing for a flight heavenward.

The gentleman who had undertaken the care of the fund collected for Henry's benefit, continued to feel an interest in him. He had known his father well in early life, and could hardly tell how it was that the bond between them seemed to have been broken. Professionally he had continued his friend and associate till his illness had withdrawn him from all notice. Beyond that, they increasingly felt they had nothing in common. Sebastian Thurn professed to hold "liberal views," as he called them, in religion; in fact he called himself a freethinker; and two cannot walk together except they be agreed. Theodore had tried once or twice with the meekness of wisdom to plead for truth, but in vain; therefore, though he retained a personal affection for Sebastian, and often pleaded earnestly for him to the Father of spirits, he forsook his company as a friend and associate.

Sally Brooks had been "turning it over in her mind," as she said, for some weeks, that it was time to apply for help to send Henry to school. He was more that six years old, had long learnt all that she could teach him, and although a most affectionate, docile child generally, was getting unruly, from being so much left to himself while she was at her work.

Where to go she did not exactly know, but her perplexity was happily removed by Mr. Thurn's calling on her-a picture of Theodore's, painted in the time of their first friendship, having brought the orphan boy to his thoughts.

Well, Mrs. Brooks! How is your young charge? Is this he? How grown! It's time to think of a school for him."

Sally assented energetically, and mentioned a dayschool very near, to and from which he might go without fear of his mixing too much with other boys.

"Why shouldn't he mix with other boys ?" said Mr. Thurn; "you don't want to make a girl of him surely!" No, sir," said Sally, unawed; " but I don't like him to go with bad boys."

c.

"Bad boys!" was the answer; nonsenso ! all boys are alike."

"Well, to be sure," said Sally, "they've got the same heart, I know that, but the worse they are, the worse it is for 'em to get together. Whatever bad

3

thoughts he may have, he knows no bad words yet, and it's a pity he should learn them."

"What do you expect to make of him ?" said Mr. Thurn laughing.

"I'll do my best," she replied smartly, "to make him like his father."

"His father had some queer crotchets," said Mr. Thurn, half to himself; "though he was a good fellow, and very clever.”

"I hope to see the day," said Sally, shaking her head, "when Henry 'll have them very same crotchets, and be as good; if he lives, I'm sure he'll be as clever;" and taking from a little box some attempts at drawing, which, even at that early age, he executed with much talent and facility, she began to expound the subjects with the deepest interest.

"I see I see," said Mr. Thurn, who was amused with them. "The child undoubtedly inherits his father's talent, but we mustn't make him a painter, Mrs. Brooks; better be a carpenter, or learn to make netherstocks. He may whistle and defy the world if he can work well at such trades; better be one of them than a poor, threadbare, half-starved, heart-sick artist, crushed by those he despises."

Sally didn't answer; his future destiny did not so much concern her as his present circumstances, and if she could obtain permission for him to go to the school she had spoken of, she was quite willing to yield the other point for after consideration. She had other reasons beside that she stated for fixing on this school; it was kept by a pious woman who made Christian principle the foundation of her teaching, and again, though she was very kind, she kept her little troop under the most rigid moral discipline.

Mr. Thurn, considering all schools pretty nearly alike, and considering too he had done his duty now that he had suggested Henry should go to one of some kind, assented to her wish, and left a written order for the schoolmistress to look to him for payment.

"You will let me know occasionally, Mrs. Brooks, how the child goes on," he said, laying his hand on the silken curls.

With a lynx eye, Sally watched what the schoolmistress called "the development of his mind." What that meant, she did not rightly understand, but she concluded it had to do with improvement.

Sir Henry Rawlinson was not more delighted with the first cuneiform characters he deciphered in the palaces of Nineveh than was she with the first copy of text hand. Such hair-like up-strokes! such noble capitals! she could scarcely believe that his little hands had brought about so wonderful a work. His ciphering book, with stupendous columns of sevens, eights, and nines, with beautiful red-ink lines and mysterious swans, elicited a fresh expression of delight and wonder. And then to hear him learn his lessons at night! and to hear him say them, that he might be perfect for the next day! Long geography lessons-with names so hard that she could not comprehend how that little mouth could pronounce them so glibly she never pretended to pronounce an opinion as to his perfectness in these, though she went through the form of holding the book. But when he said his verses in the Bible she felt at home, and often earnestly commented on them, telling him how those words were a comfort to his father, and had been a guide to herself.

She called on Mr. Thurn occasionally, taking a copy or some other trophy in her hand, the first time or

two, but she found him too much absorbed in other things to pay what she considered proper attention to the subject, and resolved not to take the dear child's things "to be snuffed at," as she said, any more.

Henry's tenth birthday drew near, he had for some time been the tallest boy in the school, and had carried off all the prizes. Sally meditated with regret on what she foresaw must soon take place, namely, his removal to another; for she despaired of Mr. Thurn's fixing on one where his soul's good would be sought after, and she knew he would this time choose for himself.

"Well, any how, the good seed has been sown in tender ground, and it's a fine thing to have been beforehand with the evil one. I must ask for faith to trust him wherever he goes; safety is from God, after all said and done."

Thus she consoled herself after receiving a short note from Mr. Thurn telling her that young Douglas must be prepared for a boys' school immediately.

"You'll promise me now," she said, as she sat the night before he was to leave her, putting the buttons on a jacket which she had with much ingenuity manufactured from an old coat of his father's, and on which many a tear had silently fallen as she worked; "you'll promise me to keep to good ways; to learn your verses though you mayn't be told, and never to go with bad boys. Oh, my child, there's many a lad that hasn't a bit of knowledge of goodness about him, that delights in mischief, having never been shown better; but you'll remember what you've been taught, I know you will, and you'll think upon your dear father and mother, and all I've told you about them; yes, and you'll mind what he said to me the last night. Sally,' says he, raise me a little, that I may see the last sunset I shall behold on earth. I am going where the sun never sets, light-all light-light for ever there.' And you was sitting in the nursing chair playing with the roundabout' he had painted for you. Oh, I've got it safe locked up; it was the last thing he ever put his brush upon, and I couldn't bear to see it about" (she answered to Henry's look of inquiry). "And he said, when he turned his eyes on you, The Lord will provide; be faithful to Him in all you do, and think nothing done till you see that Jesus has the boy's heart.' He said them very words, as I have told you before many times, so you can't wonder that I think so much about your soul: for how could I meet him up yonder if I was to go to break the promise I made him then that I would love you, work for you, and pray for you in my humble way, to the latest of my days." "Show me the roundabout," said Henry, closing the volume of Old Humphrey he had been reading.

"Yes; but you won't take it away, it's of no use except for babies-only for me; I look at it sometimes when I get faint-hearted, and it does me good when I think how he smiled at you when he painted it as he lay on the bed-his hand so trembling weak he could not guide the brush, and by reason of that the lines is crooked, and I'm glad they are; they're better to me than the straightest that could be drawn, showing his weakness so plain; and you wanted it before ever it was dry, and cried; and he said, 'Sce our ignorance, Sally; we would spoil our blessings by having them before the time; well it is to learn that God's time is the best. Tarry thou the Lord's leisure, oh my soul.""

"How you remember his words," said Henry; "I wonder you do when it is so long ago."

"Remember them! haven't they been the best sermons I ever heard preached'? I can tell you too that I remember many, more than I have told you, that's always coming up in my mind to help and encourage me; for there wasn't one thing that ever he said of the love of Jesus that I haven't found true at one time or another."

"I should like to see the roundabout," said Henry, pausing till Sally had somewhat recovered her serenity, but the trying on of his jacket diverted his thoughts, and in the excitement of packing his box, into which the good woman put all that she thought human nature at ten years old could possibly require, the subject was forgotten.

SUNDAY SCHOOL TEACHING.

BY MISS E. J. WHATELY, DUBLIN.

THERE is no agency which forms so prominent a feature in spiritual work at the present day as Sundayschool teaching. In localities where scarcely any other efforts are made for the welfare of the inhabitants, something like a Sunday-school is nearly universal, at least in our own country; and though less known among Protestants of the Continent, it is year by year becoming more in use among earnest Christians there.

When we remember what countless multitudes there are who have no opportunity for spiritual improvement but what they may obtain on Sunday, we can hardly estimate sufficiently the importance of those few hours on the Lord's day. If this be so, is it not a matter of deep responsibility to endeavour to make this mighty engine effective and powerful for the winning of souls to Christ?

The danger of making a Sunday-school a merely mechanical employment of a certain portion of the Lord's day is very great. In how many cases a teacher, unprepared herself, and unused to convey instruction, takes her seat in her class with a vague desire of being useful, but knowing little or nothing of how to make the time spent really profitable. A chapter or portion of a chapter is read, hymns, texts, collects, or other lessons repeated by each child in turn by rote, and the class is dismissed without a single idea having been conveyed to the mind. The teacher has worked conscientiously through the weary hour; the children have listened patiently or impatiently, according to the discipline kept up, and teacher and pupils feel equally relieved when the closing hymn is given out; the one feels she has got through a tedious duty, the others that they are released for a time from the necessity of sitting still: but what has been really learned, what impression made, what lesson conveyed? In many instances, we must answer none.

We are supposing an unfavourable case; but if, as we must fear, it is no unfrequent one, may it not be a profitable employment to endeavour to consider how a Sunday-school hour may be made both pleasant and beneficial.

The first point to 'be considered is, the choice and arrangement of teachers; the second, their training.

How often the superintendent or director of a Sunday-school will invite some young lady visitor or newly-arrived resident to become a teacher, without any attempt to inquire into her real qualifications; or when all that can be said for her is, that "she is