He said nothing for some time, and when he spoke his voice was quivering with emotion.

"Shall we try and say a prayer? 'tis not much that I know, but God will excuse my lack of learning, maybe; for He knows I haven't had the chance of much. And as He is always watching us and thinking of us, it seems a real shame that we should never find a word to say to Him in return." So, for the first time in their married life, John Henderson and his wife knelt together in prayer.

Some three months after this, Annie was waiting at the door of the schoolroom with a very eager face, and holding something carefully hidden beneath her little cloak. She darted forward as Miss Grey entered.

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There," she said, "this is for you!"

"For me ?" said the lady, looking at the little twist of tissue paper which the child had given her; "what is it, my dear ?" "Open it, and you'll see," said Annie, forgetting in her excitement to be polite; "open it, and you'll see; I papered it up, for fear some of the other girls might see it and grab it from me."

Miss Grey unfolded the paper; within was a beautiful half-blown rose, of a delicate, creamy white; two glossy green leaves grew on its stem, and set off its pearly beauty; it was the " very picture" of a rose.

"There was a red one; but father said you'd be sure to like this one best," said Annie, breathlessly.

"Who are you, dear? and how does father know me? and where did you get this lovely rose ?"

The string of questions reminded the child of where she was, and who was speaking to her. Before, her whole soul had been concentrated upon the flower; now she remembered to make her curtsey. "Please, ma'am," she said, "we went out for a day's pleasuring to the country, father and mother and me, and we got the two roses from the garden of the house where we had tea-the woman gave them to It was so good of her!"

me.

"This one is really most beautiful," said Miss Grey; “I haven't seen one so fine this year. What made you wish to give it to me, dear? and how did father' know I should like the white one the best ?"

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Please, ma'am, it was all along of what you said about God watching over us and thinking about us that made father love Him," answered Annie, simply; " and now we don't ever forget to thank Him every day. And please, ma'am, father knows you quite well, for I showed you to him and to mother; and we often looks at you as you sits in church."

Miss Grey smiled, and laid her hand on Annie's shoulder. Her heart was full-she could hardly find voice to speak. Was this really "fruit" at last?

"And please, ma'am, we pray for you at home, Sunday nights-pray God to bless you, for you know father says it was all along of you."

Marion Grey has a little cabinet, in which she keeps her treasures; and among its contents the one she prizes most is a withered white rose. Withered, but it is fragrant yet. It is the evidence of the first ear which the earth brought forth as "seed to the sower."

Christ-like.

HE will of Jesus Christ is, that those who belong to Him should walk exactly in His footsteps; that they should be, as He was, full of mercy and love; that they should render to no one evil, but endure, for His sake, injuries, calumnies, and every outrage. To them all anger and resentment should be unknown.

Athanasius.

Widow Faithful.

IDOW FAITHFUL was not her name, but one which she had won for herself by her simple faith and hope amidst her own trials, and her usual way

of giving comfort to others. In humble circumstances, with very little more education than that which she had derived from the Bible, and quite contented with her "crust and Christ," as she used to say, she was a light shining in a dark place, and exerted an influence which those far higher in the social scale failed to exert. Always quiet, always resigned, always hoping the best, always praying and expecting an answer to her prayers, whenever she entered a house her entrance brought with it the peace and joy of a messenger from heaven. She had no occasion to speak; her quiet face reflected the emotions of a heart full of faith in God, and could say more than could be expressed by mere words. She was one of those living epistles that are known and read of all men.

In many a house where death was, in many a house where children met the new day as orphans, in many a house where sickness was laying poor people low, and causing irritability of feeling, if she did speak, it was in some such words as these :-"Let us be quiet, my dear; we cannot at all understand this, but what a comfort to feel there is One who does. Our heavenly Father, you know, is far wiser than we are, and He is doing all this; now let us be quiet and trust in Him, and not be afraid." Every one who heard her gentle voice, and saw the resignation which had given a refined beauty to her features, was the better for it.

When I first saw her she was more than three score years and ten, and had been a widow more than twenty years. She entered our church one morning, and took her place in one of the free seats. She was simply, I might almost say, scantily dressed; but there was that in her face and bearing which told of brighter days, and gave to her decent poverty a richness which, in my eyes at least, threw into the shade the

silks and satins of some other worshippers. With eyes occasionally lifted towards heaven, with hands clasped in silent supplication, with knees, though so feeble, bent in prayer, and with a face so serene, patient, and hopeful, she was not soon to be forgotten. I did not find out for many days where she lived; but I longed to take her by the hand, and bid her God-speed on her heavenward journey. My first interview with her was under very solemn circumstances. The cholera was raging amongst us and mowing down young and old like grass. One of our most active helpers in the church went one morning to his office in blooming health; at noon he was brought home to the dear young wife to whom he had only been married a few months, apparently stricken for death. Hurrying to his house, I heard cries of mourning which seemed to tell that all was over, and that bereaved ones were weeping their passionate but fruitless tears. On entering the parlour a strange sight presented itself. Widow Faithful, with her venerable grey hair breaking loose from her widow's cap, with tears flowing down the furrows of her aged cheeks-flowing so plentifully that they seemed to have an exhaustless spring of pity behind them—was rocking the young wife on her bosom as if she had been an infant, and her soothing song continually was this, "Wait, wait, my dear; have patience; the Lord knows best, and so you must hope the best. You do not know what He will do yet; but He understands all about it; and the doctor, you know, may for once be mistaken; pray, pray a little, there's a dear, and leave all to Him who loves you far better than even you do your husband; leave all to Him!"

To the latest day of my life I hope I shall never forget the scene. Here was youth leaning upon age; and, by simple quietness and motherly gentleness, above all, by her steadfast faith in the righteousness and goodness of God, Widow Faithful was communicating a calm to a troubled bosom which could never have been imparted by words, however well chosen. She had known nothing of the young couple ;