An early day was appointed to decide the wager. The hunters went out and started the deer; Sir William had placed himself with his dogs in a good position; and prayed to Christ, the Virgin Mary, and St. Katherine, for success. (He was a Roman Catholic, and therefore superstitiously prayed to the Virgin Mary and to other real or supposed saints.) When the deer was started, Sir William let loose his dogs, spurred his horse, and cheered on his dogs. The deer reached the middle of the March-boarn, but the dogs were behind. In another moment the deer might have crossed the water, and Sir William's life would have been forfeited. His fear was very great, he threw himself from his horse, and was in an agony of distress. At this moment the dogs came up and turned back the deer, and killed it close by Sir William.

The king then bestowed on Sir William a large tract of land, and Sir William, in memory of, and gratitude for, his deliverance, built a chapel, which he dedicated to St. Katherine. The hill, where the monarch viewed the chase, is yet called the King's-hill, and the field, in which Sir William was, is called the Knight's-field.

We cannot say whether the preceding tale be true or fabulous; it is, however, not improbable that the tale is substantially true. It was very wicked and barbarous to make such a wager; but ignorance and barbarism then awfully prevailed. It is our happiness to live in better times. Many of the ancient Castles in Great Britain were, oftentimes, the scenes of battle and murder; and many of the ancient Churches were erected, to make, as was supposed, reparation for the sins of their founders. In this they were greatly mistaken; although it is a good thing to erect buildings for God's worship, such acts cannot atone for sin. The death of Christ is the only atonement for sin; and we can only be saved by repenting of sin, and believing in Christ.

HONESTY REWARDED.

"WHEN shall I get a new bonnet?" doubtfully soliloquized a young serving-girl, who, in a dismal back garret, where a great baby was sleeping, was despondingly considering her head gear, as she prepared to go out one Saturday evening. She might be excused for reflecting on the subject; for the coarse straw bonnet-which had never been handsome-was now sun-burnt and dirty, and with its soiled and faded ribbon, looked hardly neat, though it had been carefully kept. "I declare I'm almost ashamed to go to church in it, it's so dirty," she continued, as she turned it around in her hand; "though may be it's of a piece with my gown and shawl: but come, they are not dirty neither. I wonder whether mother can spare me my wages this week? Perhaps she can; I know she was sure of work last Saturday; well, we'll see.' So saying, she tied on the shabby bonnet, and carefully folding up two shillings, which she took from the window ledge, she put them into her pocket; and giving a last glance at her little bed, to see that her baby bedfellow was safely tucked in, she hurried out of the room, and out of the house, away on her weekly visit to her family.

Bessie Abbot was a pretty pleasant-looking girl of nearly eighteen, strong, active and industrious. She was the daughter of a worthless man, and an excellent woman. The teaching of the latter had borne good fruit in Bessie, who was only a drudge in the family of a little shopkeeper, but a neat and excellent servant, as far as her knowledge went. Her integrity and good temper would have rendered her valuable in any situation, and she was in the receipt of what she considered the handsome sum of two shillings a week, for which, with board and lodging, she did everything in her employer's house; for its mistress was constantly engaged in the shop, and left the whole care of her five children, as well as all the household work, to" Pretty Bessie," and never was burthen laid upon a more willing worker. Bessie's father did little for the support

of his household; he spent half of his time, and more than half his earnings, in the beer shop; and the little money left for his wife did hardly more than support his board; sometimes, indeed, he even demanded food when he had given no means of procuring it. The burthen of the family of course fell wholly upon his poor wife, who was a quick and (dexterous needlewoman, and who was glad to obtain any species of work by which she might earn a little; for her supply from the tailors, who were her usual employers, was not very regular, and sometimes failed altogether for a time.

Bessie was the oldest of a large family: the two next in age to herself, a boy and a girl, of fifteen and thirteen, were both well placed, though neither could contribute to the family income; but there were seven still younger, entirely dependent upon this poor mother's exertions. Such being the circumstances of the household, we need not wonder that a girl so affectionate as Bessie should have felt very doubtful of the possibility of buying a new bonnet; for, unlike too many in her situation, she never felt that her money was her own if it were needed for her mother's use, and was only happy in the thought that she was enabled to contribute to that mother's comfort; and in this respect her natural feelings were aided by higher principles implanted by Him who so severely censured the unfilial conduct of the professing Jews.

As Bessie hurried along the streets to her mother's house, which was on the other side of the town, she cast many a wistful glance towards the display of bonnets and ribbons in the shop windows, and paused once or twice to bestow particular admiration; nay, she went so far as to decide what shape she would buy, and how it should be trimmed, if she could but get the money for it, and she had strong hope of being able to accomplish this, because she knew that her mother had been promised more work than she could do for several weeks to come. At last Bessie reached her home, which was one ill-lighted room, with a dark closet adjoining, in a tumble-down old house, situated in one of the courts of a densely populated neighbourhood, and

tenanted by five or six families besides the Abbots. It was home, however, and Bessie felt that it was so, as, after running up the tottering stairs, she opened the door of her mother's room, which, if not very comfortable, was at least very clean.

"Oh, Bessie, Bessie!-here is Bessie " cried a posse of little ones as she entered. "Here is Bessie come, mother! Come to mother, Bessie; she's crying;" and two of the young things seized their darling sister by her dress, and pulled her forward, as though at her coming their mother's tears must dry.

"What is the matter, mother dear?" cried Bessie, frightened, as she approached a neat, careworn woman, who, with her hands convulsively pressed together, and silent tears dropping from her eyes, looked absorbed in hopeless distress.

"Bessie, Bessie, what shall we do?" she exclaimed, as her daughter knelt and threw her arms around her: "what will become of us?"

"Oh, mother, what is the matter? What has happened?" returned Bessie, her own tears beginning to flow in sympathy and alarm. "Oh dear! I thought to find you so comfortable to-night!"

“Ay, and so we might have been," answered the mother, in a tone of heart-broken despondency-" only for him-for your father, Bessie! How could he do it?"

"Mother, mother, what has he done?" exclaimed the terrified girl, all horrible visions of crime starting up before her.

"He has taken away my work, Bessie-my work that I had hoped to get so much for-and he has pawned it for drink-I don't know where; and he beat me like a dog when I begged of him to tell me where it was. And the master wanted it, and I hadn't it for him; and oh, he was angry-and no wonder; only it's hard upon me, Bessie. And he says the waistcoats are worth two pounds, and he'll have them or their worth, if he takes my bed from under me. Then I owe our landlord for a fortnight's rent; for I didn't pay last week, thinking I should be so much better

off this. And I haven't a penny in the house for the children's food; they've been nigh famished as it is, for the waistcoats were almost the first work I did. And now how am I to look for money or work I don't know; or how I am ever to pay this dreadful debt: my poor little be all starving about me. How shall I bear it? to think who has brought all this upon me. it almost breaks my heart!

ones will

And then

Oh, Bessie,

"This is trouble indeed," sobbed poor Bessie, as she leant her head against her mother's shoulder: "I little thought of finding you like this as I came along. But, mother dear, you mustn't be quite cast down; put your trust in your Heavenly Father, without whose knowledge not a sparrow falleth to the ground."

“Ah, Bessie dear, but it's hard to put such trust in Him, when nothing but trouble is to be seen. I'm sure I try; but it's very hard, my child."

"Yes, it is hard, mother; yet who else shall we trust in? And, mother, here are my wages for to-day and to-morrow, and who knows what Monday may bring? Are not we bid in such times as these to take no thought for the morrow, for sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof?"

Mrs. Abbot pressed her child more closely without reply, and those of the children who were old enough to understand what passed, gathered reverently round to listen to Bessie's words, as she continued her attempts to console her mother. Nearly an hour passed in this manner, and at last Bessie's earnest, hopeful persuasions so far prevailed on her mother, as to excite a feeling of trustful resignation; and with a lighter heart the girl began the children's Saturday night's ablutions, while her mother went out to make the necessary purchases of food; and when, on the return of the latter, the hungry little ones were regaled with a large piece of bread, trouble seemed for a while forgotten. However, Bessie, when she had, as she expressed it, "cleaned all up," was obliged to depart; and after a tearful adieu, she was once more hurrying through the streets she had so lately traversed with such different feelings. "Boast not thyself of to-morrow," she mused as she