into scenes of revelry, from the sight of which I turned despairingly away. More than once I saw kind friends seek to draw him back to his home; and once I watched him while one accosted him with the words, 'He that liveth in pleasure is dead while he liveth.' I saw how, at first, Giotto laughed, and then how he grew angry, and returned to his former pursuits. And so I gazed in sadness upon him, till at length a cloud, so dense that I could see nothing through it, seemed to envelop him. Then I wept greatly, for I thought the lad was altogether lost; and while I wept, my guide whispered to me, 'Look once more.' So I looked, and, behold, I saw Giotto far away on the wide ocean-alone, in poverty, desolate, no home, no friend remaining, and, at first, methought no hope; only, as the winds blew fiercely over the ship which bore him, and the wild waves roared around, I fancied I could hear above the dashing of the foaming surge a plaintive voice, which said, 'Thou hast destroyed thyself; but in Me is thine help;' and as he lifted up his head to listen, I saw a faint glistening of light upon his face, and that was my last ray of hope for poor Giotto.

And now I felt that my vision was nearly ended, and I turned with an imploring look to my guide.

'What further wouldst thou?' he said.

So I told him I would fain rise to the heights of yonder rocky peak, that I might see for myself how it was that the travellers by its steep way became so blessed and so happy even in the gold mine.

"Thy wish shall be given thee,' he replied, 'so far as mortal eye can behold, or mortal heart comprehend ;' and as he said these words, I perceived a mist, so light and transparent that its particles sparkled like gold, pervading the air around me; and through that mist I rose far beyond the vale where I had been tarrying, and, amid fragrant odours and winds soft as balm, was swiftly borne to a region, to me as yet unknown.

(To be continued.)

256

The Boy Martyr.

THE BOY MARTYR.

E are going to tell you about Cyril, who lived in the third century, at Cæsarea in Cappadocia. Whilst still a child he learned to love the Lord Jesus; and in

the midst of surrounding heathenism. openly told he was a Christian. His young companions made game of him, and did him all sorts of evil; and in his own home he had much to endure. His father, who hated the very name of Christ, beat him, and did all in his power to make him deny the Lord Jesus; but finding nothing would induce him to do so, he expelled him from his home.

He was brought before the Roman judge, who, seeing he was young, took pity on him, and advised him to be wise, and go home.' 'I am willing,' said the boy, 'to receive reproach for the sake of Christ. My father has turned me out of his house, but God will receive me. I shall have a better mansion. "To me to live is Christ, but to die is gain.' He was then ordered to be bound, and led off to the stake; the soldiers, however, being told to bring him back again, for no one doubted that, when the boy saw the flames, his courage would fail and he would yield. But no. 'Your fire and your sword do not frighten me,' said the boy. 'I go to a better home, to greater riches, than you can offer. Kill me quickly that I may go home.'

Seeing the onlookers weeping, he said, 'Ye should rather rejoice. Ye know not what a city I am going to inhabit-what a hope is mine!' And so, amid the tears of the whole city, the noble boy went to win the martyr's

crown.

Surely his constancy and bold confession of Jesus must have spoken home to the hearts of the young in that age; it should do the same to youthful readers now.

Archie Mason.

259

ARCHIE MASON:

AN IRISH STORY.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE COTTAGERS OF GLENCARRAN.'

CHAPTER VI.

'I say unto you, Love your enemies.'

W

ILL you give me some paper, an' lend me the loan of your pencil?' asked little Charlie one night as he sat on the floor beside Rosy, who was busily writing at Jenny's one table.

Rosy wrote a good many letters at this time, for Willie M'Alister was in Glasgow trying to 'better himself,' and she had promised to be his wife when he returned to Loughveagh. Charlie being very imitative, like all bright children, must needs write a great many letters also.

His letters were to his playfellow, Mary Ryan, whom he had not seen for nearly a fortnight. Little Mary would never be met with again in Jenny's lane: she was gone for ever from Loughveagh. Rosy told Charlie that she had been very sick, but was well and happy now-a bright angel with God in heaven. He could not quite understand her, but he knew Mary would never play with him again, for he had seen her little coffin carried past his grandmother's door that morning.

'I'm writing a letter to Mary,' said he, when Rosy had furnished him with paper and pencil.

'Ah, whisht, dear,' whispered Rosy; whisht, for fear you'd wake your grandmother.'

Both glanced towards the bed where Jenny lay, breathing heavily, with her eyes closed.

A sweet smile dimpled Rosy's fresh round cheek as