THE OLD BROWN HOUSE.

It was very old, low-roofed, and weather-beaten, standing quite a little stretch from the road, and you might have supposed it deserted but for the thin column of smoke that wound slowly above the roof, so desolate did it look. But it was inhabited, and could you have pushed aside the creaking door you might have seen an old woman, wrinkled and gray, sitting by the silent hearth, stirring the dull fire, or looking absently from the window. It was Aunt Ruth Jones, as the neighbors called her, of whom little was known, except that she was a queer old woman—a sort of hermit, living all alone in the old neglected house. It had come into her possession, with the small farm adjoining, by the death of her parents some thirty years before.

At first the neighbors were curious to see the new occupant; they found a tall, spare woman, then thirty-four, little given to gossip, shy and cold; some affirmed that she was proud, and others said that her life had been

one of disappointment. But none had succeeded in drawing out her story, and gradually the old brown house and its occupant were left to themselves. Years had wrought changes; the walls were now darkened with smoke, the windows dingy, the floor sunken in; there was nothing cheery in the ill-kept room, or in the face of Aunt Ruth. This ought not to have been so, but remembering her isolated lot, there was not much room for wonder. Some natures become shriveled and cramped when left to themselves, and hers was such an one; I am afraid it was also narrowed and hardened by being shut off from humanity, with none to share her joys or grief, or care indeed, if she had any.

As the days came and went they brought nothing to her but a little round of chores, a bit of patchwork, or straw braiding, and occasionally a walk to the village store to buy the few articles she required. The gay dresses and pert stare of the village girls, the glimpses of happy homes caught through the windows, and the noisy stir of life, only made more striking the contrast of her own lonely lot. Gladly would she hasten back to her own silent fireside, where the cats, at least, were

glad of her presence. Old Brindle knew her step, and tossed her head impatiently for nubbins of corn, or the pail of slop with which she was wont to be treated. The hens cackled merrily, and scarcely stirred from their tracks, as her dress brushed their shining feathers. The care of these creatures was a sort of company, and on frosty mornings she might be seen watching them eating so greedily, while her own breakfast was yet untasted, and her feet and fingers benumbed with cold.

Though none shared her heart or home, yet there was sometimes a bright presence within those dim walls, a childish, questioning voice, and sweet laughter. It was Bessie Lane, who had stumbled on the lone old woman one June day, when, bound for school, a sudden dash of rain had driven the child there for shelter. And ever since the happy little girl, with flaxen hair and clear eyes, would go to the forsaken old house to chat with Aunt Ruth. As that springing step was heard, and the latch lightly lifted, there would come a gleam of brightness to the faded eyes, and a smile to the thin mouth. The child found ready entrance to the lonely

heart; children will, you know, they are so “queer,” as wise old heads sometimes affirm.

“What in the world makes you visit that old hermit?” said Eliza Ray, her school-mate, one morning. “Bridget, our hired girl, says she is sure such a looking old hag must be a witch.”

“Witch, or not, I like her;” and Bessie Lane tossed up her hat, and pranced off after a fox squirrel just down the road.

So Bessie kept up her visits, and the two would sit and talk together by the hour, Aunt Ruth showing her long-treasured trinkets, relics of years gone by, and detailing their history, till Bessie’s eyes would dilate with wonder. On this wintry morning, in which we have introduced her to you, sitting by the dull fire, and looking from the dingy window, the time of Bessie’s absence had been longer than usual. The sky was leaden, and the wind whistled down the chimney and shook the casements. But suddenly Aunt Ruth starts and peers through the window. There is a bright little hood and blue cloak approaching; she sees that, but not the carefully wrapped parcel Bessie is carrying, for she hurries to brighten the fire and brush the hearth.

“Good morning, Aunt Ruth. It has been ever so long since I have been here, hasn’t it?”

“Yes, a long time for a lonesome old body like me; but this is no place for the young and happy, I know.”

“Oh, yes it is, dear Aunt Ruthie. You must not say so. I like to come real well. But Uncle Jake has been so sick; he sent for pa and ma, and I went with them. It is such a long way off, I thought we never would get there. And Oh, Aunt Ruth, I have not told you yet”—and the chubby face sobered down.

“What is it, child?” picking up bits of litterings from the floor. Somehow she always did so when Bessie was around, the hands involuntarily moved in little touches of order and neatness. The room was good enough for her; for the child it seemed dismal and must be brightened a little, unconscious that she was being called to a better life, or that a love for light and beauty was awakening in her weary heart.

“Well, I will tell you; we are going to move away. I declare, I think it's too bad to leave all the girls just as I began to like them, and you, too, Aunt Ruth. I don't

want to go one bit;” tears rolling down her face.

“Going away, my little girl going off,” said Aunt Ruth, looking closely at her.

“Yes; and mamma said we couldn’t move Chip, it would be such a bother, so I have given poor birdie away to Allie Smith;” tears flowing afresh. “I let Amy Wells have my kitten, but I haven’t found a place for my poor little rose. See,” said Bessie, going to the table and removing the wrapper, “isn’t it a beauty? You will keep it to remember me by, and take care of it always, won’t you, Aunt Ruth?”

The little blossoms were out in full, and seemed to smile a benediction upon the old woman as, looking earnestly at it, she said, “Yes, yes, child, I will keep your rose; no harm shall come to it.” The little plant seemed to carry her thoughts away, for she began talking absently to herself, then recalling her musings, she said:—

“So you are going away; and you’ll forget all about poor Aunt Ruth with so many new friends. Well, well, it’s natural.”

“No, no, indeed I shall not,” said Bessie, Sah. Read. Vol. II. 16

giving her a hearty hug, “and sometime I will come to see you.” They talked a long time, but at last Bessie recollected that her mother did not know her whereabouts, and with a good-by kiss to Aunt Ruth, and to the pet rose, she was gone like a flitting sun-beam.

Then the shadows seemed to come back to the inmate of the old house; but as her glance fell upon the little flower she commenced clearing a place for it to stand in the warmest corner, musing to herself the while, “Just such roses I used to carry in my hand to the old stone church in Amsden when no bigger than Bessie. It seems like yesterday, but ah! it is a long time. May be if I could do like that again it would not be so dark and lonesome like.” Then a grim smile overspread her wrinkled face. “Wouldn’t the fixed-up folks stare to see me in their fine churches? No, old Ruth won’t trouble them as long as this old hovel will—shelter her. I think I’ll put the rose here by the south window, then if the child ever does come, she will see it from the gate.”

Bringing a little pine stand, she carefully placed the plant upon it. In doing so, she

chanced to glance at the window. “Bless me! it never looked quite so dirty before;” and the woman moved with new life, as she cleaned, rinsed and polished the glass. But this being done the old muslin curtain seemed dingier than common, shading the clear glass; so it was taken down, and another finer one unpacked from a drawer and put in its place. The next morning, as she ate her lonely breakfast, she placed her chair to face the window and the rose. The sun was shining, and as the rays streamed across the room to the opposite wall, she marked the cobwebs. That day the cobwebs were swept down, the other window washed, and the floor cleansed. The old house had not been so neat and cheery for many years.

Near the close of the week she went to the village, this time putting on a dark delaine, instead of the snuff calico with a yellow flower. Somehow the gay dresses and curious glances did not disturb her as much as usual. A pleasant recognition was passed with a neighbor whom she had not spoken to for a year. A feeling had come over her, that she was one of the great human family after all, and the icy mountain of reserve began to thaw just a little.

Her purchases made, she concluded to take another road home. This route lay past a church. It was lighted, though early, and a few real worshipers had met to pray before the regular service. They were singing now, and Aunt Ruth paused, as a clear, triumphant voice bore up the strain,—

“Plunged in a gulf of dark despair.” Spell-bound, she listened to its close, never stirring from her tracks till a group of people passed near, then slowly walking on, you might have heard her talking again to herself. “O Ruth Jones, where are you? I used to sing that, too, in the same old church where I carried the roses, only it was years after. I used to pray, too. I wonder if God would hear me now.”

That night, and many nights after, she could not sleep; the words of song kept ringing in her ears, bringing up the old scenes and associations, till the great deep of her soul was broken up. In her darkness she felt gropingly, feebly for the old paths, and the good Spirit was all the time leading her back to the light. I can not retrace for you all the way that she came. I only know that

gradually, surely, the night wore away, and the sun of peace shone upon her soul. She went to the church, where the song had that night staid her footsteps, and listened to the words of life. Her life became a blessing; for her nature was broadened, deepened and purified. The sick and needy learned to be glad at her coming, and little children ran to meet her.

And did Bessie Lane ever come again?

Yes, when June smiled upon the earth the childish figure once more paused at the gate, but the blue eyes gazed bewildered around. “This isn’t the place. Aunt Ruth must have moved away.” Well might she think so; the house was neatly painted, the yard fence repaired, and up and down the path all sorts of flowers were blooming. Just then Bessie descried a neatly dressed old lady tying up some vines.

“Can you tell me where Aunt Ruth Jones has gone that used to”—Bessie stopped, and with one bound sprang into the woman’s arms, for it was Aunt Ruth herself.

“It is so beautiful here! how did it all happen?” cried the delighted child.

Aunt Ruth smiled brightly, and, taking,

Bessie by the hand, passed into the neat, cheerful room, and up to the south window, where the carefully tended rose was putting forth new beauty and fragrance. Bessie fairly danced with delight at sight of the rose, but Aunt Ruth seated the child gently by her side, and told how it had happened; how the little flower had at first whispered to her heart of the long ago, of the holy song that would not let her sleep, and, lastly, of God’s good Spirit that had so tenderly led her straying steps to the sun-gilt path of peace.

LIVE FOR SOMETHING.

LIVE for something; be not idle— Look about thee for employ; Sit not down to useless dreaming— Labor is the sweetest joy. Folded hands are ever weary, Selfish hearts are never gay, Life for thee has many duties— Active be, then, while you may.

Scatter blessings in thy pathway! Gentle words and cheering smiles Better are than gold and silver, With their grief-dispelling wiles, As the pleasant sunshine falleth Ever on the grateful earth, So let sympathy and kindness Gladden well the darkened hearth,

LOOK TO YOUR THOUGHTS.

MANY suppose that if they can guard themselves against improper words and wicked deeds, they cannot be very guilty on account of thoughts which may revolve in their minds, however corrupt they may be. They look upon their thoughts as things which spring up in the heart by some laws of association which they cannot understand, or which, if understood, they cannot control. As they have not summoned, so neither, in their view, can they dismiss them; but must surrender themselves to their influence for a period, longer or shorter, until some circumstance occurs which gives a new direction to the current of thinking. When they confess their sins, there are oftentimes words and deeds which they admit to be grievously in conflict with the demands of the divine Word. But it rarely happens that any unhallowed imaginations in which they have indulged awaken emotions of genuine sorrow. Now the thoughts are the guests we entertain—the company we receive into the innermost

privacy of our bosoms. And just as a man is censurable who voluntarily and habitually consorts with corrupting company, so is he to be condemned who deliberately entertains depraved thoughts.

Let every one, and especially every young man, remember that God holds us responsible for our thoughts. Man can only take cognizance of the outward appearance. His observation must be limited to those words and actions which can be perceived by the senses. But the scrutiny of Omniscience extends further, penetrating the evil which hides our inner selves from the view of others; it explores the most private recesses of the spirit, and perfectly understands that portion of our character which others cannot scan. Man can only call us good or evil, as our words and actions authorize. But He whose glance enters the heart and surveys the emotions which are there cherished, condemns, as wicked, every unhallowed thought; and will as surely take these into the account in determining our final retribution as he will consider in that reckoning our outward acts. “Guard well your thoughts.” “Your thoughts are heard in Heaven,” says a distinguished poet.

Never was there a more scriptural sentiment.

But perhaps there may be those to whom this may look like a harsh procedure. If it were true, as some suppose, that we could not control our thoughts—that they rushed uninvited upon our attention, that they detained that attention for a time, longer or shorter, just as they pleased, and that they departed as unceremoniously as they entered our mind—then I grant that it would be hard to make us responsible for such visitors. If we had no power over our own mental operations, it would seem as unjust to punish us for our delinquencies in these particulars as to censure us for the depravity of a resident of Asia or Africa. But can you defend such a position as this? Have you no power to determine what themes shall and what shall not employ your meditations? Are you the mere slave for your thoughts, compelled to follow as they, by some caprice, may direct? No intelligent mind in which the will is ruler is prepared to admit that it has been subjected to such vassalage.

The truth is, and I appeal to your own consciences in support of the declaration,

that you are endowed with the power of thinking upon just such subjects as you may prefer. You can, at pleasure, direct your attention to any topic, agreeable or disagreeable, lawful or unlawful, connected with the past, present or future; you can resolve it in your mind for a longer or shorter period, and then you can dismiss it entirely from your consideration. If this were not true; if your thoughts were not under the control of the will, you would be incompetent to the management of your business; you would be disqualified for every pursuit of life involving the exercise of reason. You would in truth be insane.

Now it is because God has given us the power over our own thinking that it assumes a moral complexion in his sight. The man who resigns himself to unholy reveries, or who entertains in his own heart purposes which, if acted out, would render him liable to the censure of his fellow-men, and to condemnation from God, is as certainly guilty, though it may not be to the same extent, as though he had been openly corrupt and abandoned. “Out of the heart,” says the Saviour, “proceed evil thoughts.” Here

observe that our Lord plainly teaches that our thoughts may be evil or sinful, and therefore may expose him who harbors them to punishment. And lest any one should be disposed to look upon evil thoughts as an offense too trivial to awaken any concern, mark the company in which this sin is found. Learn from those offenses with which it is classed something of the enormity to which it may rise. “Out of the heart proceedeth evil thoughts, murders, adulteries, fornications, thefts, false-witness, blasphemies.”

One of the most important counsels in the entire volume of Revelation, is the direction of the wise man: “Keep thy heart with all diligence.” This is the fountain whence issue the streams which are to fertilize and gladden, or to pollute and destroy. No one was ever wicked in speech or action who was not first wicked in heart. The deeds of atrocity which shock us in execution were first performed in heart—in thought. Had this been “kept,” had the early idea been restrained, the result so fearful in development might have been averted. Young men, look to the springs of action, as you would avoid acts which involve you in ruin and disgrace.

Keep the heart as you would secure a conduit, which, with God’s blessing, will make you honorable, lawful and happy now, and all that you desire hereafter. Look to your thoughts.

THINK NO EVIL.

Ir by our words or acts none suffer wrong, To us ’tis thought no blame can e’er belong. But this meets not Heaven’s high and searching test; That looks at thoughts as well as words expressed.

The rule is given that we must think no ill; If any wrong us, we must love them still, Must do them good, and for them ever pray, That truth may lead them all from error’s way.

To think no evil when we are betrayed, When e’en a subject of reproach we’re made, When we are falsely charged, traduced, reviled— This needs a heart that’s pure and undefiled.

CAUGHT IN THE QUICKSAND.

VICTOR HUGO gives the following impressive description of a death in the quicksand off certain coasts of Brittany, or Scotland. He says:—

It sometimes happens that a man, traveller or fisherman, walking on the beach at low tide, far from the bank, suddenly notices that for several minutes he has been walking with some difficulty. The strand beneath his feet is like pitch; his soles stick to it; it is sand no longer—it is glue.

The beach is perfectly dry, but at every step he takes, as soon as he lifts his foot the print which it leaves fills with water. The eye, however, has noticed no change; the immense strand is smooth and tranquil; all the sand has the same appearance; nothing distinguishes the surface which is solid from that which is no longer so; the joyous little cloud of sand fleas continue to leap tumultuously over the wayfarer’s feet. The man pursues his way, goes forward, inclines to the land, endeavors to get nearer the upland.

He is not anxious. Anxious about what? Only he feels somehow as if the weight of his feet increases with every step he takes. Suddenly he sinks in.

He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedly he is not on the right road; he stops to take his bearings. All at once he looks at his feet. They have disappeared. The sand covers them. He draws them out of the sand; he will retrace his steps; he turns back; he sinks in deeper. The sand comes up to his ankles; he pulls himself out and throws himself to the left; the sand is half-leg deep. He throws himself to the right; the sand comes up to his shins. Then he recognizes with unspeakable terror that he is caught in the quicksand, and that he has beneath him the fearful medium in which man can no more walk than the fish can swim. He throws off his load if he has one, lightens himself like a ship in distress; it is already too late; the sand is above his knees. He calls, he waves his hat or his handkerchief; the sand gains on him more and more. If the beach is deserted, if the land is too far off, if there is no help in sight, it is all over.

He is condemned to that appalling burial,

long, infallible, implacable, and impossible to slacken or to hasten, which endures for hours, which seizes you erect, free and in full health, and which draws you by the feet, which at every effort that you make, at every shout you utter, drags you a little deeper, sinking you slowly into the earth while you look upon the horizon, the sails of the ships upon the sea, the birds flying and singing, the sunshine and the sky. The victim attempts to sit down, to lie down, to creep; every movement he makes inters him; he straightens up, he sinks in; he feels that he is being swallowed. He howls, implores, cries to the clouds, despairs.

Behold him waist deep in the sand. The sand reaches his breast; he is now only a bust. He raises his arm, utters furious groans, clutches the beach with his nails, would hold by that straw, leans upon his elbows to pull himself out of this soft sheath, sobs frenziedly; the sand rises. The sand reaches his shoulders; the sand reaches his neck; the face alone is visible now. The mouth cries, the sand fills it; silence. The eyes still gaze, the sand shuts them; night. Now the forehead decreases, a little hair flutters above the sand;

a hand comes to the surface of the beach, moves, and shakes, and disappears. It is the earth-drowning man. The earth filled with the ocean becomes a trap. It presents itself like a plain, and opens like a wave.

Could anything more graphically describe the progress of a young man, from the first cup of wine to the last?

VIRTUE INDISPENSABLE.

If good we plant not, vice will fill the mind, And weeds take up the space for flowers designed; The human heart ne’er knows a state of rest, Bad tends to worse, and better leads to best. We either gain or lose; we sink or rise, Nor rest our struggling nature till it dies; Those very passions that our peace invade, If rightly pointed, blessings may be made.

A SERMON FOR GIRLS.

I AM sick of this cant and twaddle, for I can call it by no better name. It is all nonsense—no girl need throw herself away. Couldn’t support herself! And so she married that man with no moral stamina, no more fit for her to mate with, than an eagle is to mate with a crow!”

“Why, what could she do? She couldn’t teach—she had no gift in the way of business. She had to marry.”

“Do,” said I, “why she could do housework!”

“Do housework!” My companion lifted her hands in horror and amazement. “Do housework! Who would recognize her, and then she is not able to do housework.”

“Is there caste in this land? I would recognize her none the less because she made my bread and washed my dishes. Not able to do housework! What has she taken upon her but housework? Will not the vows of wifehood and the care she has assumed be housework?

Working out, as you term it, would be nothing to the responsibility she has taken.”

“Oh, well, the world does not look at it in this light.”

“Does that make the work any easier? I fail to see the point.”

“You always do put things so queerly. I for one would do just as Emma Haze did, if I were situated in the same manner.”

Would you, reader? The circumstances were these:—

Emma Haze was an orphan. She had a home at an uncle’s, if such a place can be called home. She was tolerated there because she was a brother’s child. She worked for her board and was grudgingly allowed the clothes she needed. Although her education was good, she had no tact for teaching. She had no taste for business, as has been already said. Her forte was doing housework, but rather than support herself in that way—for fear of what Mrs. Grundy and her train of followers would say—she married a man who had no mind, no principle, no education, but a little money.

Would you have done it? I put the question

to each girl who reads this—would you have done it? If you would, then you are—must I say it?—a coward.

And now I want to preach a sermon to every girl in this land. Perhaps there will be nothing beautiful in it, nor any poetry, but it will have this merit, there will be truth in it. This is the text: “Girls, your life will be just what you make it.”

Nothing is lowering to your dignity, if you do not let it lower your dignity. Keep in the path of virtue and you are in the right. It is no worse for you to go into the kitchen of another, and do the work, and be paid twenty shillings a week for it, than it is for you to marry and do the same work, and get nothing for it but what you eat and the clothes you wear.

I went in search of a servant last summer. For seven long weeks I searched sorrowing. One pretty looking girl told me that if I only lived in the town, instead of the country, she would help me, but she was afraid that she would soil her complexion, and then country work was such dirty work. Yet her father was a drunkard, and her mother earned their daily bread by going out

at day’s work, scrubbing, washing, and the like. And there the daughter was content to sit with folded hands, waiting, hoping that some one would come and marry her.

“But,” says one, “I don’t want to think that I must work out all my life, for a living.”

You need not, but you will need courage, perseverance, and a will to do. Let me tell you a story. Mary Barnum and her brother were left orphans. She was sixteen, he fourteen. The father had been a shiftless, inefficient sort of man, and had laid up nothing for the future, so they were obliged to support themselves. Fortunately for her, she knew how to do housework, and any one who secured Mary, secured a treasure. So she went to work. She sent her brother to school. At the age of sixteen he went to learn a trade. Soon after she came to me.

“I am tired of doing housework, tired of scouring knives and cooking dinners, and now I am going to school,” she said.

“Going to school! What are you going to live upon?”

“I’ll earn my living.”

And she did. She worked at one place for

a year. She earned twenty shillings per week. She spent fifty cents a week, so that at the end of the year she had one hundred and four dollars. Now she was ready to start for school. She selected the best school in the State—the State Normal. She rented a room for fifty cents a week. The school term for the year is forty weeks. Twenty dollars of her money was gone. Some few friends seeing that she was determined to go to school, furnished her room very plainly and cheaply.

She then resolved to live on one dollar a week; this necessitated the strictest economy. Thus sixty dollars of her money was spent. That left her but forty-four dollars with which to pay her tuition, buy her books, and get the needfuls.

To be sure she was not noted for the number of her dresses, nor was her hair frizzled and puffed in just the latest style, nor did she appear at every social; but one thing she was noted for, perfect lessons. She gave such attention to her studies that at the end of the year her scholarship was such that she received a training certificate, entitling her to teach without a public examination.

Whatever she undertook she did well. Her motto was, “Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well.”

The next two years she taught, receiving four hundred dollars per year. At the end of the two years she managed to save four hundred dollars to send her to school the remaining two years. With the utmost economy it served her purpose. She had so little left that she had not enough to buy a new dress in which to graduate.

But when the bouquet was thrown her at the close of reading her essay, I hardly think she thought as to whether her dress was new or not. Afterward I heard the Governor and the State Superintendent congratulating her.

The next year she was offered an excellent situation in one of our union schools. But her health having failed somewhat during the last term she was in school, she went out doing housework, instead of accepting the position. Did it degrade her any? No; she did her work just as faithfully as if it were the chosen business of her life.

At the end of six months, her health being established, she commenced teaching. She was a successful teacher.

Where is she to-day? The wife of an eminent professor in one of our Western colleges.

I know another lady who borrowed the money to carry her through school, and paid it after she commenced teaching. To-day she is one of our successful writers.

Another who had no means of her own, had a brother who was a farmer. He had not much ready cash, but he gave her enough provisions from his farm for herself and a little girl boarder. For the board of the little girl she received five dollars per week. That five dollars per week carried her through school. After graduating, she taught. Her health failed, and the physician advised her to give up teaching and go to doing housework. Fortunately for her, she knew how to do housework.

She had a piano, and was very fond of music. So her next thought was, could she not find some place where she could earn her board and a little more, and take music lessons? She went here and there to find such a place. She succeeded at last, and was offered one dollar a week. She accepted the situation, and did her work so faithfully and

well, that the lady of the house paid her two dollars instead of one. She told her she earned it. Was not that better than to have sat down and folded her hands, and bemoaned her fate?

At the end of the year her health was established, and to her other attainments, she had added that of music. Do you think she lost one womanly grace during the year she did housework? Far from it. She had gained in many things that make the true woman, and to-day few are her equals.

Girls, you need not say, “mother was to blame; she never taught me to work.” Put your mind to it, and your heart in it, and in a year’s time you will be mistress of housework.

Mary Mead was left penniless; she was then seventeen. A few days after the death of her parents she came to me.

“What shall I do,” she said. “I absolutely know nothing which will enable me to take care of myself.”

And it was so. She could sing a little, play a little, and paint a little. Her mother had done all the work, just as a good many other mothers are now doing, and left Mary

to romp and play, and have a good time generally.

“What shall I do?” said she, bursting into sobs. “If I knew of any one who would teach me housework, I would work one year for my board.”

I told her I would find her such a place, and did so, and so thoroughly and well did she learn, that at the close of the year, the lady of the house was glad to keep her and give her wages. She stayed six years.

At the end of that time, the son, a noble, young man, who had just entered into business with his father, astonished his mother one morning by saying, “I am going to ask Mary Mead to be my wife. Mother,” said he, “not a word. Do not say anything you will wish unsaid. If I mistake not, Mary will be just as astonished as you are.”

And Mary was. But why should she have been? She had a good deal of leisure, and she had improved that leisure. Sometimes she read, sometimes she played, sometimes she painted. The lady of the house had seen that she was lady-like and reserved, and had given her access to the library and piano at

proper times—privileges which are not usually given to servants; nor do they usually deserve them, if they know what to do with them. She never intruded, but made the most of her privileges. She had saved her money, and when they were married—for married they were—she had enough to plainly furnish their home, and over it she presided with grace and dignity.

Now I would not have you girls go out doing housework for the sake of getting a husband, for you might fail if that were your intention, but I would have you all remember, your life will be just what you make it.

A SCENE IN A DEAF MUTE SCHOOL.

An interesting graduate of one of the oldest institutions for the education of deaf mutes, having a desire to learn to speak, and to read the lips of her speaking friends, was recommended by her old principal to try Mr. Whipple’s school, which she accordingly entered. She made rapid progress, and was much aided by the natural alphabet, the invention of her teacher. This alphabet curiously suggests sound, or the right position of the organs to utter sound, as well as form; and whenever a mute pupil can read and write it, he or she can generally give any of the forty sounds of our difficult language with great precision and discrimination, and often with remarkable correctness. This young lady, filled with enthusiasm at every step, mastered the alphabet with little difficulty, and one day came to her teacher with something written on her slate, which she asked him to correct, her mind being agitated with emotion. It proved to be the Lord’s

prayer, put into the language of articulation. Perceiving her agitation, the teacher could scarcely restrain his own tears as he corrected a few unimportant errors of pronunciation, and delicately returned it.

The next morning the lady came exultingly to the teacher and exclaimed: “I prayed last night, for the first time in my life with my voice; and neither of them could restrain their emotions. He ventured to ask her if she had ever prayed before. “Oh, yes; I have thought my prayers, but I never spoke them before.” “My lips shall praise thee, O God;” “Attend to the voice of my supplications, O Lord.” The earnestness and satisfaction of the devout mute, who had now realized one of the bright dreams of her life, admitted of no question, and called for no reproof, if she was something of a literalist in her interpretation.

“THAT’S THEE, JEM!”

A BAND, or “troupe,” of young men, with hands and faces blackened, and dressed in very grotesque costumes, arranged themselves one day for an exhibition of their peculiar “performances,” before the door of an earnest Christian merchant whom we will call Mr. Carr, who resided in a noted English watering-place. After they had sung some comic and plaintive melodies, with their own peculiar accompaniments of gestures and grimaces, one of the party, a tall and interesting young man, who had the “look” of one who was beneath his proper station, stepped up to the door, tambourine in hand, to ask for a few “dropping pennies” of the people. Mr. Carr, taking a Bible, from his window, which he kept there for sale, addressed the youth:—

“See here, young man, I will give you a shilling, and this Book besides, if you will read a portion of it among your comrades there, and in the hearing of the bystanders,”

“Here’s a shilling for an easy job!” he chuckled out to his mates; “I’m going to give you a ‘public reading!’”

Mr. Carr opened at the fifteenth of Luke, and, pointing to the eleventh verse, requested him to commence there.

“Now, Jem, speak up!” said one of the party, “and earn your shilling like a man!”

Jem took the Book and read: “And he said, A certain man had two sons; and the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living.”

There was something in the voice of the reader, that lulled all to silence; while an air of seriousness took possession of the youth, and commanded the rapt attention of the crowd.

He read on: “And not many days after, the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living.”

“That’s thee, Jem!” ejaculated one of his comrades—“it’s just like what you told me of yourself and your father!”

Jem continued: “And when he had spent all,

there arose a mighty famine in that land; and he began to be in want.”

“Why, that’s thee again, Jem!” said the voice—“Go on!”

“And he went and joined himself to a citizen of that country; and he sent him into his fields to feed swine. And he would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat; and no man gave unto him.”

“That’s like us all!” said the voice, once more interrupting. “We are all beggars; and might be better than we are! Go on; let’s hear what came of it!”

The young man read on with a trembling voice: “And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father’s have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger! I will arise and go to my father.”

At this point he fairly broke down, and could read no more. All were impressed and moved. The whole reality of the past rose up to view; and, in the clear story of the gospel, a ray of hope dawned upon him for his future. His father—his father's house—and his mother, too; and the plenty

and the love ever bestowed upon him there; and the hired servants, all having enough; and then himself, his father's son; and his present state, his companionship, his habits, his sins, his poverty, his outcast condition, all these came climbing, like an invading force into the citadel of his mind, and fairly overcame him.

That day—that scene—proved the turning-point of that young prodigal’s life. He sought the advice of Mr. Carr, communications were made to his parents, and the long-lost and dearly-loved child returned to the familiar earthly home; and, still better, to his Heavenly Father! He found the promises of the parable of the prodigal son, true both for time and for eternity.

Yes, there is One who will not chide nor scoff, But beckons us to homes of heavenly bliss; Beholds the prodigal a great way off, And flies to meet him with a Father’s kiss!

Continue reading: THE WIDOW’S MITE.