asthma, but there was a look of contentment on her pale face that made me wonder.

"You have done me good, Nanny," said Miss Ann, taking the wasted hand in hers. "It always does me good to see you so content and happy, when you have so many things to try your patience-it is a blessed thing to see how the grace of God can support us, no matter what our trials are. But you have an errand to Nanny," Miss Ann said, turning to me; so I will leave you here alone; I can come and see her any time."

I noticed that as Miss Ann left the room, she laid a small parcel covered with brown paper on the little table by the bedside. And when she had left the room, I asked Nanny what it was. Nanny paused a moment before she spoke. "She doesn't like me to tell," she said.

"Not to tell what is in the paper ?”

"Yes; and she does not like me to thank her over much."

"Is it something for you to eat ?"

so I'll tell

It's my tea

You see

"Well, you've guessed it pretty near, my dear, you for once; only don't you go talking about it. and sugar. She gives it me regular every week. the parish allows me three shillings a week for support, and I've a shilling rent to pay out of that, and sixpence for coal, and but for dear Miss Ann I should have to go without my tea."

"Does she always give it to you?" I asked.

“Yes, my dear; she never forgets me."

"I have brought some honey," I said, willing to change the subject, for I was fast growing ashamed of my unjust dislike to Miss Ann Smallpage.

Poor Miss Ann! the month of February was not yet out, and it was not to end without a serious accident to her. We had one or two days of sharp frost at the end of the month, and the boys of the town amused themselves, as they do in most towns, by making a number of slides across the streets in the most dangerous places to passers-by. We had

only one constable in our town, and he was growing so fat and sleepy that the boys might do all sorts of mischief under his very eyes, and he never seemed to see it. I know he never stopped them. Tom Stephens and some of his friends made a slide in front of Miss Ann's door, and the poor little woman had only just stepped into the street when she fell. Such a laugh the boys raised at first, Katie said, for she was standing by. I don't think they laughed out of cruelty, but Miss Ann had dropped a little basket of eggs from her arm in falling, and the eggs were running over the hard ground.

"Look at the eggs; she'll make no pudding to-day," shouted Tom, and the others joined in the laugh; but two who were kinder lifted her from the ground; she could not stand though; no wonder that, for her ankle was sprained. Tom saw that she was really hurt, and began to grow frightened, and a little sorry, and to make excuses, as did the others.

"Never mind, my dears," said the little woman in her weak voice, now tremulous with pain. "Never mind; it was an accident. You didn't mean me any harm, I'm sure; only don't laugh at one who is hurt, my dears."

"I'll never laugh at you again as long as I live," said Tom. "I am sorry you're hurt." And, quite subdued for once, he helped Miss Ann gently and kindly into her cottage.

I did not see her for some weeks after her accident, and then I went against my will, and only because my mother wished me to go.

"She is an old neighbour, and will take it kind of you to go and see after her a bit," my mother said; so I went.

I felt uncomfortable enough as I turned the handle of the door of her little sitting-room. She was lying on a sofa by the fireside, with a Bible open beside her. She looked cheerful and neat, but her face was pale-oh, so very pale! "I am afraid you must have been very ill," I said, after she had greeted me very kindly.

"I have suffered much pain," she said, "constant pain." "You must be weary of it, Miss Ann," I ventured to say.

“I very seldom feel so, my dear. As our day so shall our strength be, you know. God gives us grace as we

need it."

"How long will it be before you can walk again ?" "The doctor says a month or more. I shall be very

thankful if I can get about a little in the warm, bright spring days-that will just suit an old woman like me."

"You are not so very old, Miss Ann."

"Yes, my dear, I am old-older than my age-for I have had many a pain and ache to weigh this poor little body of mine down. I was never young, my dear-never young, like you."

"Never young!" I repeated, with a sudden sadness, for the memory of my own healthful, merry, childish days rose before me in contrast with her words.

"You must feel very unhappy," I said, after a pause.

"I am never unhappy-never," she said, with emphasis. "What have I to make me so? Nothing."

"You have always had some pain or other, and you have no one to love you much, and you must be very lonely, I should think; and you have a bruised leg just now to make matters worse."

She clasped her little thin hands together, and smiled as she answered: "And I am poor-a poor, little, ugly, old woman. Yes, my dear, I know how ugly I am.”

"Not very," I interrupted; for really she did not seem so, with that sweet smile on her face.

"Yes, very," she said. "But you are a little mistaken about me, I have One to love me, and I am never lonelySaviour loves me, oh so well! and he will never leave me." “And does that make you quite happy ?" I asked, wonderingly.

my

The smile on her face grew deeper. "Happy? Oh yes. I can trust his love. He will let nothing hurt me. He will cause all things to work together for my good here, and in a little while he will take me to be with him. I shall be with him. I shall wake up in his likeness, and be satisfied with it. There

is no more curse for me-no more death-and all things are mine, for all things are His, and He is mine."

"But how are you sure that He loves you so much? How are you quite sure ?"

"He died for me.

Greater love hath no man than this." "But He has let you be greatly hurt; He has not saved you from pain."

"I would not have it otherwise. His blessed will is my will. He wishes to teach me patience, to teach me to trust him more. I shall forget all my pain and weariness, dear child, the first moment I see his blessed face, and this frail body of mine will be made like to his glorious body then. So you see I need not mind any light affliction for a while." Something in her voice moved me, for I felt my tears fall.

"Miss Ann," I said, after a while, "I am very sorry, but I have often spoken unkindly of you-very; but I will never, never do so again. I wish you would forgive me; will you? I know I don't deserve that should."

Forgive you, my child?

you

Yes, with all my heart; but I have nothing to forgive," she said, soothingly.

"Yes, you have, indeed. I have laughed at you so often." "But you are sorry now, my dear, and I never was angry, so we will not think of it any more."

"Oh, you are so good--so good! You are good and kind to everybody, and nobody is kind to you! But I will never, never say an unkind word of you again. You are not ugly, Miss Ann," I could not help exclaiming, for the smile on her pale face was very sweet. "I shall never think you ugly again."

I met our village doctor in the street after leaving Miss Ann. He saw me leaving her door, and spoke to me. "You have been sitting with my little patient I see," he said. "Is she pretty well to-day? but I shall be in to see her before evening myself, I hope. I am anxious to get her out and about again."

"I hope she will soon be out, sir. Will it be a long time first ?"

"I cannot say certainly. I am doing my best. I miss her help sadly; there is so much sickness just now."

"Her help, sir ?"

"Yes, her help, certainly. Who do you suppose makes broths and jelly for my sick people, and visits, and reads to, and prays with them, but Miss Ann? She is the best helper I have. I do not know where she finds her time to do it all; her days seem to be twice as long as other people's. You children laugh at her, don't you, because she is oddlooking ?"

66

Yes, sir; but I will never, never do so again."

"That's right. Hers is a little odd face and stunted figure; but the soul of an angel is inside."

66

The Palace Beautiful.

Jow I should like to become a pilgrim and spend a night like Christian at that beautiful house on my way to the Celestial City!" The words were spoken by Evangeline Young to her mother, one sabbath evening after reading a page or two of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress."

66

"And why should you not, my dear child?" was the response. "The gates are all open-the strait, the beautiful, and the celestial,—and if you wish to enter I suppose, Eva, I need not remind you that Jesus is the way."

"But entering, mother? there is the difficulty in my case. In all my readings and thinkings I cannot make out what this coming to Jesus' is."

"I am sorry," said her mother, "you should have had any difficulty in so simple a matter. Why, I thought I saw you going to Him this morning, Eva. I assure you I am quite grieved to find I have been mistaken."

"Whatever can you mean, mamma? I cannot think what you are referring to."