14. One called to mind how he had seen her sitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. Another told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she should be so bold; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when all was quiet, and even to climb the tower-stair, with no more light than that of the moon-rays stealing through the loop-holes in the thick old walls. A whisper went about among the oldest there that she had seen and talked with angels; and when they called to mind how she had looked and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so indeed.

15. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in whispering groups of three or four, the church was cleared in time of all but the sexton and the mourning friends. Then, when the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness of the place-when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all, it seemed to them, upon her quiet grave-in that calm time, when all outward things and inward thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in the dust before them, then, with tranquil and submissive hearts, they turned away, and left the child with God. CHARLES DICKENS.

LESSON XIX.

ST. PETER'S THRONE.

MEETING Old Time the other day, I said,

"Where's Argos? Thebes? or Sidon? and where

lie

The many noble piles of days gone by,
Built by the mighty ones?" He shook his head,
And nothing spoke, but showed me in his cell
Ashes of robes, yet tinged with purple dye,
And bits of crowns, and armor piled up high,
And splints of shattered sceptres mixed pell-mell.

I asked him then the fate of present things.
His all-destroying scythe around he plied,
And answered, "On my ever-moving wings

I bear the present where the past abide ;
The empires of to-day, like those of old,

In dim oblivion their proud heads must hide!" I asked again, "And does this stern decree

Apply to Peter's Throne?" Time gasped for

breath,

And in his stead Eternity replied,

"The Throne of Peter knows nor time nor

death!"

B. J. DORWARD.

LESSON XX.

LINA; OR, LOVE AND CHARITY.

Scene, a Swiss cottage. Present, DAME SCHEFFENER and her adopted daughter, LINA.

Dame. Is that you, Lina?

Lina. Yes, dear mother, 'tis I.

news for you.

I've strange

Dame. What is it, Lina? What hast thou learned that is to astonish me?

Lina. You shall hear directly; but first tell me

of poor Gertrude. You have heard, of course, that she leaves us to-morrow?

Dame. Ah! poor child, 'tis a hard trial, to go forth friendless into the world; but such partings come to us all, and must be endured. The day

will arrive, Lina, if 'tis not already near at hand, when you, too, will leave your childhood's home to seek another-and more fitting one, it may bebeyond the mountains yonder.

Lina. No, no, dearest mother, there will be no need for us to part. Listen! You know that, from time to time, good Master Groschen, in the town below, has sold for me the little wood carvings you have so often seen me working at during the long winter evenings.

Dame. He is a good, worthy man.

Line. Yes; and, when I'm rich, I mean to carve him a full-length figure of William Tell, to stand in the summer-house at the bottom of his garden.

Dame. It will take many years before he gets it, I'm thinking, if thou and he must wait till woodcarving has made thee rich, child.

Lina. But perhaps fortune is not so distant as you think, dear mother. Wait till I have told you all, and then judge if I am wrong in speaking so hopefully. Last week, among the usual trifles that I carried down for sale, I left in Master Groschen's hands a small carved figure, a work of greater merit than any I had yet produced, and one I almost doubted if I had skill to venture upon. Guess what it represented.

Dame. Nay, how should I, girl? A figure, say you? May be 'twas a likeness of our good priest's dog, which it is said he brought from St. Gothard. Or was it one of neighbor Kreutzer's goats, or a

chamois, perhaps?

Though this last would be

hard for you to take alive!

Lina. 'Twas a likeness of-yourself!

Dame. Of myself?

Lina. Yes; at your spinning-wheel. And, oh, dear mother mine, when it was finished I could scarcely bring myself to part with it. It almost looked alive! And Master Groschen said-what do you think he said?

Dame. That an old woman's picture wasn't worth having.

Lina. That 'twas a masterpiece; that all who looked upon it would say the same. The figure is sold, dear mother. A rich traveller bought it yesterday, and this morning I received the price. See! Fifty francs, and an order for a companion carving.

Dame. Fifty francs!

Lina. Ay, think of that! And the good landlord says all in the valley are talking about it, and that my works will be asked for by all comers. And only fancy! he tells me I shall be forced to leave our dear old cottage and go to live in Interlachen, or Berne itself, where the great people will find it easier to get at me than amid the glaciers.

Dame. Did I not say the time was at hand when thou wouldst go from me? Master Groschen is right: thy place is not here.

Lina. Master Groschen is wrong. I will not leave our loved mountain home. No; the great people must come hither, if they want to see the Swiss maid at her work.

Dame. And if they come hither, Lina, it will not lessen the chance of our parting.