"Will you explain yourself?" exclaimed the lady, with peremptory tone, and with flashing eyes, almost transfixing the speaker.

"A-yes-ma'am-we are sorry-we do not speak for ourselves," said Mr. Tubingen.

"Not at all," said Mr. Decorus and Mr. Hivox.

"Have I given any offence?" said Miss Valeary.

"None at all-none in the least-none whatever-far from it-on the contrary"-exclaimed all three, with intensity.

"What then?" said the little lady.

"It is a subject which we feel the greatest delicacy in approaching," said Mr. Tubingen, the speaker, "but it may not be unevident to Miss Valeary that Miss Valeary's voice-which is, I may say-on ordinary occasions—in a room-at the social meeting-so creditable to Miss Valeary-does not so fully-that is, I may say-highly as we think of it— so adequately kind of chord with the present composition of the choir to do that justice to Miss Valeary which Miss Valeary's voice-in the opinion of good judges, is-so-so-so- -highly cap'ble of

on the part of Miss Valeary!"

"Is that it?" said the lady, bursting into an offended cachination. "You have been a long time coming to it. Put your minds perfectly at rest, gentlemen. So long as I live, if it be a hundred years, you shall never suffer annoyance on my account. I will listen to your melodies, though they should happen to come through the nose," she said, looking smilingly at Mr. Tubingen. And with that she jerked out of her seat, and began to arrange flowers in a vase with dainty judgment.

The committee bungled out of the room immediately. "A hundred years!" said Mr. Hivox, the alto, with witty cruelty, as they walked along; "If she lives a little longer, the if will be out of the question." As this was uttered, all three joined in an admirably-executed laughing chorus-to which Miss Valeary was only a listener.

After they had gone, she was in a state of nervous agitation, and flitted about with the agility of a grasshopper. She arranged her tidy French bonnet on her head, and with her cheeks in a high state of inflammation, and her little eyes full of eagerness, passed out of the gate with trepidation, and speaking to no one whom she met, arrived out of breath at the head-quarters for all sorrowing, complaining souls, the Village Rectory. Admitted into the study, she sat down, and with many sobs and sighs and pitiable inflections, in the midst of drowning floods and with a hystericky abruptness, told the story of her wrongs.

THE WONDERS OF NATURE.-The Cocoy queen beetle is about an inch and a quarter in length, and what is wonderful to relate, she carries by her side, just above her waist, two brilliant lamps, which she lights up at pleasure with the solar phosphorus furnished her by nature. These little lamps do not flash and glimmer, like that of the fire-fly, but give as steady a light as the gas-light, exhibiting two perfect spheres, as large as a minute pearl, which affords light enough in the darkest night to enable one to read print by them. On carrying her into a dark closet in day-time she immediately illuminates her lamps, and instantly extinguishes them on coming again into the light.

MERCY IN SORROW.*

BY THE EDITOR.

"Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction." Is. 48: 10.

WHEN we return from the grave of a fellow being we always bear in our minds some prominent circumstance of that person's life. We say or think: We have buried a rich man, a poor man, a useful or useless man; some feature of the person's life comes up to view more prominently than another.

When our thoughts revert to her whom we have borne to the grave, how naturally do we say, We have buried a sufferer! She was for years, long years, emphatically a sufferer-day and night a sufferer. Little did those who passed along the street know of the pains that were endured in quiet within. Little did those who enjoyed sweet sleep at night realize her painful watchings and wakings.

She was a sufferer; and those sufferings were greatly sanctified to her soul's good. In her experience was fulfilled the divine declaration : "Behold, I have refined thee, but not with silver; I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction."

Gold and silver are found, not in a pure state, but mixed with dross. This dross is so fully one with the metal that it must pass through a severe fiery process, before the metal is pure. Nor is it fit for use until it is thus purified and refined.

This is a picture of the life of grace in the soul. It is the gold of glory amid the dross of sin. It must pass through a fiery trial—a furnace of affliction-before it is pure and fit for heaven.

It is the plain testimony of scripture, and it ought not to seem strange to us, that the way to life lies through tribulation. We naturally lie in sin, are captive in its power: no wonder that we should have to rise to life, and freedom, through sighs, and groans, and anguish.

Our Saviour's life is, in this respect, a true picture of the life of a saint. It commenced in sorrow and ended in joy; first the cross and the pain, then the crown and the glory. Through night into day— through death into life-through pains into peace. This is the king's royal road-this is the way that ends well!

The world reverses the divine order. They have first the joy and then the sorrow-first the day and then the night-here the crown and there the shame. The world cries: Hail Dives in purple, and power, and prosperity, and pride! Christianity says, Hail Lazarus, in poverty and pain. "Wo unto you that laugh now, for ye shall weep then."

"I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction." These words show

us the mercy and love which lie in affliction. God says: "I have chosen

* Funeral thoughts on the death of Mrs. Maria Kuhns, for many years a great sufferer.

thee"-chosen thee as my own. But I have chosen thee in a furnace. There I will prepare thee. This shall be to you the evidence and sign of my love. "For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth. If you endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons: for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not? But if ye be without chastisement, whereof all are partakers, then are ye bastards, and not sons."

We have here the true meaning of affliction. It is disciplinary-it is a nurture of the soul-it is a means of grace. It works mercy to the soul! It is easy to see how, in more ways than one, it does this. It melts and softens the spirit. The dross cannot be removed from the gold till it breaks, melts, flows. Is not this the effect of suffering? See how it breaks down stubborn self-reliance. See how the strong man is tamed by affliction. See how the unfeeling man becomes tender. See how the dull, stupid heart awakens and opens, as anguish after anguish shakes and rends it. This is the plougher for the fallow ground. This is the beating that makes the oil to flow. "Father, I have sinned," exclaims the once hardened soul, when the arrows stick fast in him, when the waters come unto his soul!

The furnace of affliction not only softens, but also separates. It cuts the springs of our wordly energies. The pleasures and pursuits which engaged us before have now lost their charm and meaning. What once seemed so important now seems so vain.

Even outwardly affliction separates a man from the world. He is drawn aside into the still eddy of life's onward stream. Confined to bed, or the chair, or at least to the room or house, He only hears the din, or sees from the window the flow of busy life driving past. He hardly feels himself to be any more a part of the world. How perfectly vain then seems this world with all its glitter of hope, with all its show of reality! Palaces and position, power and pomp, possessions and pursuits, seem but toys when viewed from a sick room, with a shattered constitution, with aching limbs, and a bleeding heart. This is part of the separating process. So do afflictions turn the heart away from the passing and perishing toward the unfading treasures of a better life. Thus does God graciously make the earth dark around, that the heavens may become more bright and attractive above. Thus, as in nature, so in grace:

"Darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!"

"Before

Thus also the furnace of affliction purifies. The flail of tribulation breaks and cripples sin. It is a fire that consumes lust. It levels pride -it subdues vanity. Its waters quench the fires of ambition. I was afflicted, I went astray: but now have I kept thy word.” "It is good for me that I have been afflicted; that I might learn thy statutes." "In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord."

O how often have the pains of the body occasioned the peace and joy of the soul-the sorrows of the earth, led to the joys of heaven. How

often have even light afflictions wrought out a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. How many have found it better to lose a right hand, a right eye, yea the whole health of the body, than that soul and body should be destroyed in hell!

This will be known yonder! This will cause thousands on thousands in heaven to praise the mercy of tribulation in a louder and more grateful song. "What," it will be asked in adoring wonder, "what are these which are arrayed in white robes? and whence came they?" To which it will be answered: "These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood of the Lamb. THEREFORE are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night in his temple: and he that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters: and God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes."

Here is the mercy of sorrow. Here is the love of God in our pains. Here, "behind a frowning Providence, he hides a smiling face."

How often is weak faith counfounded? How often do the sorely afflicted and their friends "think it strange concerning the fiery trials," as though some strange thing, yea, even a wrong thing, "had happened unto them." How often have even the pious in sorrow cried out: "Why dost thou shake off the unripe fruit, and cast off his flower as the olive?" "Why go I mourning? Why doth thine anger smoke against the sheep of thy pasture? Will the Lord be favorable no more? Is His mercy clean gone forever? Doth His promise fail forevermore? Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath He in anger shut up His tender mercies?" This is their infirmity. This they say in the weakness of their faith.

Yea, the pious in their sore afflictions are even sometimes envious at the wicked, whose strength is firm, who are not in trouble as other men, and who are not plagued like other men. So foolishly did even the Psalmist, when he was plagued all the day long, and chastened every morning. Behold, he counted the wicked happy: But when he went into the sanctuary of God, then he understood their end: "Surely Thou didst set them in slippery places!"

It is not strange-it ought not to be so regarded-that the favorites of God should suffer under His chastising rod. The principle on which these dealings of God rest is a plain one, and well understood, and fully approved. "We have had fathers of our flesh which corrected us, and we gave them reverence." The child that has been trained in right paths by a parent's chastising hand, afterwards approves of what was done, though it cost pains and pangs, terrors and tears, at the time. "Shall we not much rather be in subjection to the father of spirits, and live." Shall we not joyfully, in the midst of darkness, pains, and tears, bless the hand that leads us through the night of wo into the light and blessedness of an eternal day. "What I do," says the kind Father, as he lays stroke after stroke upon His dear children, "you know not now, but you shall know hereafter."

"The Lord can clear the darkest skies,
Can give us day for night:

Make drops of sacred sorrow rise
To rivers of delight."

Such being the holy ends to be secured by affliction, it is implied in the strongest manner that God will mercifully sustain his children in their affliction. It is He that afflicts, and not another. The rod is not in a hand that will unmercifully and extremely use it. It is not in the hands of one who uses it willingly-not in anger-not as a punishment. The Father weeps while he lays on stroke after stroke. He says, Oh, that it were not necessary! "For though he cause grief, yet will he have compassion according to the multitude of his mercies. doth not afflict willingly, nor grieve the children of men."

For he

This is the very best assurance that no affliction will be beyond endurance. It was a murderer-one who had forfeited all claim to sustaining grace-that said, "My punishment is greater than I can bear." The saints are sustained by an unseen presence. Who, of God's people, ever sunk finally even under the sorest affliction? Though trials came fierce as a lion from the swellings of Jordan-though they came in troops like horsemen-though they hung on like hungry vultures till the flesh and marrow were consumed, yet the end came with its glorious victory over every wo! Behold the great cloud of witnesses, of suffering prophets, apostles, martyrs, confessors, and saints of all ages, of whom the world was not worthy; who were tortured, not accepting deliverance, bearing about in their bodies the dying of the Lord Jesus, in trials of cruel mockings and scourgings, in bonds and imprisonment, stoned, sawn asunder, slain with the sword, subjected to every torture that earth and hell could devise, and yet the end came, and the victory over pain, in eternal peace and joy.

Thousands of sufferers have found by blessed experience that, in a way which the world knows not of, God's presence sustains the suffering pious. It is as though He called them aside to speak comfortably to them. Through every pang flows the refreshing current of grace. On every wound an unseen hand lays the allaying balm. Grace, and the merciful intentions of love, underlie every pain. From the unseen and eternal side the sufferer hears voices, sees ministering hands, and feels the power of mysterious sympathy.

The suffering saint is not cut off; but, because he suffers, is only the more sweetly in union with Christ. He stands in "the fellowship of His sufferings." "In all their afflictions he is afflicted, and the angel of His presence saves them." The Holy Spirit dwells in the saints, and abides with them always. He is especially the comforter-the comforter in us. His mission is an inward mission, presiding over all the sorrows of the heart, opening upon it the fountains of grace and consolation. When the eye sees no more earthly ministering forms around, when the ear hears no more words of comfort from the lips of human friends, then the Holy Spirit, like a faithful vigil, lies around the spirit, soothing each pang as the heart-strings break, and with a sweet blessing dismisses the spirit from a racked and aching body to the bosom of its God.

It is sometimes complainingly asked, Why do some christians suffer so much and others so little? This question may be answered, in part