Two painters were employed to fresco the walls of a cathedral. Both stood on a rude scaffolding, constructed for the purpose, some forty feet from the floor. One of them was so intent upon his work that he became wholly absorbed, and, in admiration, stood off from the picture, gazing at it with intense delight. Forgetting where he was, he moved back slowly surveying critically the work of his pencil, until he had neared the edge of the plank on which he stood. At this critical moment his companion turned suddenly, and, almost paralyzed with horror, beheld his imminent peril; another instant, and the enthusiast would be precipitated upon the pavement beneath. If he spoke to him, it was certain death; if he held his peace, death was equally sure. Suddenly he regained his presence of mind, and seizing a wet brush, flung it against the wall, spattering the picture with unsightly blotches of coloring. The painter flew forward, and turned upon his friend with fierce upbraidings; but, startled at his ghastly face, he listened to his recital of danger, looked shuddering over the dread space below, and with tears of gratitude blessed the hand that saved him. Just so we sometimes get absorbed upon the pictures of the world, and, in contemplating them step backwards, unconscious of our peril, when the Almighty in mercy dashes out the beautiful images, and draws us at the time we are complaining of his dealings, into his outstretched arms of compassion and love.—Sel.