"Look at that beautiful sun, and look at this little daisy, Harry," said mamma, pointing to a daisy in a little green flower-pot standing on the window sill. "I would like my dear boy to know that he has still a Father, and that that Father made yon great sun, and cares for that little flower, and will care for my Harry too." The young scholar looked up in her face. “ See," she continued, “that kind Father gave this daisy its drop of dew to drink each morning; he clothed it in its green robe, and crowned it with its white flower, tinging its edges with red; and so He will feed and clothe my little Harry, and make his cheeks blush with health."

"Will He? But, mamma, I never saw Him. Where is He ?"

"God will be your Father, my boy, and he is ever near, though you don't see him. You know at night I often come to the side of your crib, and though you don't see me, you feel happy that I am there; so you should feel happy that God is near, kindly to watch over you, though you don't see him either."

There was a pause for a little. The mother's eye wandered to a picture of Harry's papa hanging over the mantel-piece; and as she gazed, her eyes filled with tears.

"Dear Harry," her voice trembled," you remember what aunt Mary said to you when she came to see you, that you were just like your dear papa. Now, all who are God's children are like God, and God is very good; they love him-they are kind and obedient. Will my Harry try to be good, and be God's own child?"

"Oh, yes," exclaimed the little fellow, and threw his arms round his mother's neck, and kissed her; but again he sunk back, and looking anxiously at her, asked, “But, mamma, will God never die ?"

It was too much for that wounded heart: it cost a great effort ere the mother could say, "No, my boy, if God is your father, that great Father can never die."

Little Harry seldom afterwards forgot to kneel down each evening and pray to his great Father, God. Often, too, on Sabbath evening, he asked mamma to tell him of

that beautiful home where all God's children will meet at last to be happy for ever and ever; and then they sung together the hymn, "Round the throne of God in heaven."

"PEACE AT THE LAST."

Not many weeks ago, I stood, for the first time, beside a dying bed. I had looked on death before; for who has reached manhood or womanhood without being called to gaze upon the awful aspect of that universal visitant. But I had never watched the stealthy progress of his inroads, or spoken with one who stood face to face with him, in near expectation of the last great struggle. It was therefore with a new and solemn feeling that I entered the chamber of a dying girl who had expressed a wish to see

me.

I had visited her in a former illness about twelve months before, and seen reason then to hope that the grace of God had fitted her for either life or death; a belief confirmed by every thing I had since heard of her. For a while she recovered sufficiently to be able to return to her situation, but now, for two months, she had been again confined to her bed, suffering from a fearful disease, which it was evident could only terminate in death. Incessant pain rising at times to paroxysms of terrible agony, and only lulled at night by powerful opiates, had worn her almost to the appearance of a living skeleton; and it was to the surprise of her medical attendants, as well as of all who saw her, that she could have lingered on so long. These particulars her mother told me on a previous visit, dwelling on Ellen's patient endurance and resignation with many tears.

When I entered the room, a smile of grateful welcome lighted up the poor girl's wasted features, and the warm pressure of her thin white fingers, told almost more plainly than her whispered words that she was truly glad to see me. As soon as I was seated she expressed in a few unobtrusive words her sorrow at hearing of a sudden and heavy bereavement I had recently sustained. I have often

been struck with the extreme delicacy and refinement of feeling and manner which religion sometimes produces among the poor, but never more so than in this case. Ellen H- had been a servant of all work to a mistress as uneducated as herself; but in all my visits to her I never heard a word or an idea that would have ill become a Christian lady, and her delicate consideration for the feelings of others was such as many ladies might have studied with advantage.

She was unable to speak above a whisper, and a choking cough frequently compelled her to pause; but she answered all my questions calmly and without reserve. I have said before that I believed her to be a Christian; but knowing now how near she stood to that eternity where the stability of her hopes would be tried, I was most anxious to have clear testimony from her own lips that they rested on a sure foundation. After a little conversation, I began, therefore, by asking if she knew the physician's opinion of her state. She told me quietly that he said she could not last long; adding, "I am willing to wait God's time." To another question, she replied that she was quite happy, and that no doubts or fears were ever permitted to disturb her mind.

There was an indescribable serenity about her whole manner, a look of settled peace on her emaciated countenance, which eloquently corroborated her words, and which I knew, if rightly founded, could spring but from one source. I asked her, however, solemnly to tell me, as in the sight of God, and the near prospect of eternity, on what her hopes of salvation rested. "On Jesus," was the brief and instant, but most comprehensive answer.

Still, feeling anxious that no loose idea or acquired phraseology of religion should mislead either her or me on so momentous a subject, I pressed it yet closer, asking, with the deepest and most solemn interest, whether she felt that her coming to him had been real and personal, such as to enable her to look forward without shrinking,— whether, casting away all other hope, she could meet the last struggle, and go forth into eternity, and stand alone

before the throne of God without fear, looking to him? It was an awfully momentous question; one which I should scarcely have dared to put in all its naked force to one whose faith seemed feeble, or whose courage shaken; but there was no hesitation, not a momentary tremor in her voice or look. Her answer was one never to be forgotten, so simple yet so decisive was it: "I know that He will carry me through it all."

There was that in her manner which I cannot describe, but which carried to my mind the conviction I was seeking. The solemn thought I had suggested was evidently no new one to her. I felt that often in her long, silent hours of pain and wakefulness, it must have risen before her, and been met and conquered till it became no longer startling, she had triumphed over it in Jesus. In quietness and assurance she was resting on his righteousness, and its work on her soul was peace.

I sat a little longer with her, speaking of him and of his mercies, while her glistening eyes and feeble utterance told the adoration of which her heart seemed full; and then I left her, promising soon to come again.

On my next visit two days afterwards, I was surprised to find her to all appearance better. Her voice was less feeble, and there was even a degree of brightness and animation, like that of health, about her manner. I took her some flowers, of which she was very fond, and she held them in her hand inhaling their fragrance, and drinking in their beauty with the deep, almost tearful appreciation which it needs a long confinement to a sick room fully to bestow.

I spoke to her of Him who clothed the earth with these fair witnesses of his power and love, of his minute and tender watchfulness over his redeemed ones, and of the glorious home he had prepared, to which she was now hastening; and she lay and listened with a countenance radiant with interest and joy, her brief remarks showing the undoubting faith with which she rested on his promises. I then read to her part of the closing chapter of Baxter's "Saint's Rest," which she seemed thoroughly to

enjoy, and finished with the 14th chapter of John's Gospel,— those precious parting words of Jesus, which have cheered the hearts of thousands of his dying people, and lighted up the dark valley with joy unspeakable and full of glory.

She thanked me with warm and repeated expressions of gratitude, and I soon after left her, bearing with me an impression that, I think, no years will efface, of the peace with which the religion of Jesus can soothe a dying bed. I have often read of it, often heard of it, but the bright and holy calm of that wasted face, and the meek assurance of the feeble but unfaltering voice, was beyond even my imagination. A holy, deep serenity breathed in every word and look, unlike to any on earth, except, perhaps, the all absorbing peace and adoration of a soul newly brought to rejoice in the light of God.

The next day but one I went again. My visit was unavoidably delayed till evening, and when I had reached her house I had to wait some time before I could see her. Her mother told me that she had been fearfully worse since I last saw her, and was then having a little rest. Symptoms which told unmistakeably of approaching death had appeared, and her sufferings, for about six hours that afternoon, had been most agonising. Now, for half an hour, she had an interval of ease, and her mother expressed a wish that I should wait and see her, as it might probably be the last time.

It was growing almost dusk when at length I anxiously ascended the narrow stairs, and entered her little room. The usual smile of welcome greeted me, but I could not catch her first feeble words. Bending over her to listen, the perfume of the fresh flowers I had brought attracted her notice, and she thanked me for having again remembered them. I held them near to her, for she was too weak to lift up her hand, and she dwelt on their beauty with the same look of earnest admiration which I had before remarked. I felt that it was not the mere earthly loveliness of the flowers which filled her mind; and, half to myself and half to her, I said in a low voice, "His flowers." She caught the words in a moment, as if they were the echo of what was passing in