A STORY FOR THE FIRST OF

JANUARY.

"What a glorious way of beginning the New Year!"

"Yes, isn't it? A drive with papa to Bartonside in the morning, and a ball at night!"

"Splendid! I only wish I stood in your shoes, dear Blanche. You must be one of the happiest girls in the world."

"Why, as to that," said Blanche, "I am not quite happy yet; but when I am of age I think I shall be. Then, you know, I shall have money enough to be as gay as a lark, or a duchess. No more coaxing papa for half an hour, to get a blue gauze like Cara Ley's; no more hesitation about going to the theatre because of the expense. Yes, Floy, I think I shall be happy then."

"Well, I should be quite content to be as you are now," said Florence, with a glance at the blue gauze; "but at home we are so dull! Why, I never went to a ball in my life."

"Poor girl!" said Blanche, kissing her, "I feel for you, I do indeed. Oh, a ball is so fascinating; all glitter, and gaiety, and pastime, and then I get so excited, and feel so happy, that I wish I could be there every night. And, entre nous," she added, laughing, "I do like to dress with as much taste as possible, and look my very best, and hear people say, as I float by, 'Who is that pretty girl?' Oh, there is nothing like a ball. You can't imagine how deAightful it is!"

"Do not talk of it," cried Florence, "I get quite discontented over your descriptions; but for all that," she continued, gaily, "I shall run over to-morrow morning to hear full particulars."

"Do," said Blanche, with great good humour, "only give me time to sleep. I shall be very tired, you know. Mamma always says I am fit for nothing for a whole week after a ball; and I believe it is all true enough, for I do nothing but mope, and think how sorry I am it is all over, and wish I lived where people were less stupid and more gay!"

"I can quite understand that," said Florence, as she drew her cloak around her, and went forth into the frosty air. "Well, well, a happy New Year to you, Blanche !"

"Thank you. I am sure I wish you a

brighter and happier one, Florence. For myself I have not much doubt; this is such a good beginning." And she bade her a laughing adieu.

No

Blanche Etherstone was a beauty. one ever questioned that. She was also vain, thoughtless, uneducated, and worldly. And yet her good qualities were not a few; for she was amiable, affectionate, of pleasing manners, and possessed of abilities that might, with proper cultivation, have made her a brilliant, and, better still, a useful member of society. Unhappily her parents were of the number of those who think it possible to serve both God and mammon, and waste their lives in the vain effort to put their precept into practice. Blanche studied their characters, perhaps, as much as she ever studied anything, and ended by plunging deep into the gaieties of the present, without much heed to the eternity which seemed so far beyond. Mr. Etherstone, on Sundays, would shake his head at this, and warn his laughing child that old age was coming on, and that she must be serious; but the next day his worldly plans thrust out the thoughts suggested by the sermon or the hymn, and in his deep absorption in the speculations, and anxiety for the paltry distinctions, of this lower sphere, Blanche found, too readily, an excuse for her own folly.

"Papa only talks," she would remark to Florence, her chosen friend; "but it is laughable to hear him warn me of approaching death, when he is years upon years older than I, and of course much more likely to have occasion for 'serious thoughts!' If I were as old as papa, I should not go on as he does. But at seventeen, pshaw ! I shall enjoy myself."

"Mrs. Etherstone is very good," Florence replied one day. "If I am like your mother when I am getting old, Blanche, I shall be satisfied."

"Oh, yes, mamma is a dear soul. But even she will preach more than she practises. Now, mamma is always reproving me for caring so much about dress, and yet she thinks a great deal more about her things than I. And I know she has a novel under her volume of sermons on Sunday afternoons !"

"Ah, well," returned the other, "such little things as that would shut nobody out of heaven."

"Of course not. We are here to enjoy ourselves; there can be no harm in that;" and Blanche tripped gaily to the glass and re-arranged her curls.

The first day of another year had come, and Mr. Etherstone had promised to drive his "little fairy," as he called her, to a place called Bartonside, where lived a cousin, who but lately had taken to himself a wife.

"I don't care much for the visit," said Blanche, as she stood beside the fire previous to their departure. "It is the drive, this sunshiny, frosty morning, that draws me from the snug hearth-side. Do you not think Philip fearfully puritanical, mamma?"

"He is very much altered, certainly," replied her mother; "but I do not exactly understand what you mean by puritanical, Blanche."

"Oh, like the Puritans,-those people who kept their religion in their hands, and were always showing it to everybody. Stiff, strait-laced folks, who believed it a sin to smile."

"Then I am sure Philip is not like them, for he is one of the most cheerful men I know."

"Yes, but-but-" stammered the young libeller of the Puritans.

"Never mind, now," interrupted her mother; "your father is ready for you;" and, with a gay wave of the hand, Blanche Etherstone was gone.

The ride to Bartonside was one of the most delightful in the neighbourhood; and the influence of the fresh air, united with her glowing anticipations of the evening's amusement, raised Blanche to almost painful excitement.

"Papa," she said, "I think this is going to be the happiest New Year of my life." Her father smiled, "Why so, little fairy?"

"Oh, because it is to begin with a ball. It is such a brilliant commencement,-the grandest ball there has been for many years."

"Yes," returned Mr. Etherstone, quietly; then, with a worldly man's glance into the future of the present, he added, "Be careful with whom you dance, my child. With the fortune your aunt has bequeathed to you, you should marry well!"

Blanche laughed, and tried to change the subject by a remark about "Philip's new house," which now appeared in sight. Her diversion was, however, on the very eve of

failure, when a carriage, drawn by two fine greys, dashed over the brow of the hill. Scarcely had Mr. Etherstone time to cast a hurried glance behind him, and to draw up his little equipage as close to the hedge as possible, when the bewildered horsesfrightened a second time by the blasting of some rocks on the opposite side of the river-described a considerable curve as they rushed on, and, despite the utmost efforts of the driver, threatened the phaeton with destruction. At this moment, Blanche, in an alarm which only those who have been in similar danger can understand, leaped suddenly into the hedge, while Mr. Etherstone, his eye fixed steadily upon the "greys," awaited the event. They passed within an inch of his wheels, and he breathed freely.

"It is over, Blanche," he said. "They have even crossed the bridge in safety; and yonder steep will cure them, if I mistake not."

Receiving no answer, he turned quickly round, and looking down between the wheels he saw Blanche lying there, with the blood streaming from a wound in the temple. It was but the work of a moment to draw her from her perilous position, and then the father's heart beat quick, as he looked around for help. A peasant, who was passing by, fetched water from the stream, and, bathing the fair brow so as to discover that the wound was comparatively slight, Mr. Etherstone bound up the head as best he could; then, seeing already some signs of returning consciousness, he rewarded the friendly rustic, and supporting his child in his strong arms, drove slowly towards the Lodge, for such was the name given to Philip's home.

Great, indeed, was the surprise of Edith Maye, when, looking from the window of her little dining-room, she saw the pony phaeton at the door, and Mr. Etherstone, with his scarce conscious burden in his arms. We will not stay to tell how tenderly the sufferer was received, nor how the kind attentions of her host and hostess soon found a place of rest for the sprained ancle and the throbbing brow; it shall be enough to say that Mr. Etherstone was at length persuaded to leave her with them till the morrow, in their peaceful home.

"Papa," said Blanche, when, two hours later, he rose to depart," about the ball to-night? I am so disappointed that I cannot go!" Mr. Etherstone bent low and kissed her, while Philip and his wife

looked with a loving sadness down upon them both.

"It can't be helped,” she said, her brow even then contracting with an expression of pain; "my foot is very bad. I wish I had never jumped into the hedge; it was then I sprained this ancle, and fell upon the stones. If I had been content to stay at home, but it was fated; everything goes wrong; and it is New Year's Day too; and this the most splendid ball; oh, dear! oh, dear!"

"Blanche, darling," said Edith, tenderly, "it is not well to talk thus ;" and, as the father hurried from the room, she took her hand, and whispered words that might have soothed more troubled souls, so softly were they uttered, so wisely were they chosen.

"It is very true," said Blanche, after a while; "but were you ever at a ball, dear Edith ?"

"Yes, I know more of these things than you think."

"Did people admire you?" asked Blanche, with a glance at her graceful figure and regular features.

"They professed to do so."

"And were you not happy ?"
"No."

Blanche looked puzzled. "I cannot talk now," she said; "but in the evening you shall tell me why you were not happy in those gay times."

"I will," said Edith, smiling, "on condition that you tell me why you are not happy in these gay times."

"How do you know that I am not ?" "Oh, never mind how; wait till the evening." And wait, perforce, Blanche must.

ing. Around her brow winds a thick bandage, which has rudely thrust aside the glossy curls; and in the place of the tiny foot, for which the fairy slipper had been designed, a swelled, unsightly thing rests there, and draws forth many a cry of pain.

"A Happy New Year!" she murmured as she lay," it is all misery. With such a bad beginning, I know it will be wretched."

Was it to be so? Nay; for He who sees not as man seeth was about to bring forth sweetness even from this bitter cup.

Presently Edith came and sat down with her work. Then Philip drew the couch to the fireside, and asked if he should read. Blanche had resolved to spend a miserable evening, so she said that, although she could not listen, she had “no objection."

He took his book, and began to read. Blanche found it impossible to be inattentive. Her cousin read well; and as he paused now and then to remark upon the sentiments advanced, she could but listen and esteem him wise.

Then her eye rested on the intelligent countenance of Edith, and as she marked the loving glance she bent upon her husband, and heard the earnest words of her replies, her heart said, "Here, at least, is happiness."

"You are better, my dear Blanche," said her friend, after a while. "Can you enjoy the reading in your intervals of ease?"

"Oh, yes," said Blanche; then with a sigh she added, "How happy you are here, in your sweet home!"

"We are, indeed," said Edith, with a glance towards her husband. “Oh, Blanche, if you were but as happy!"

"How do you know that I am not ?"

Edith turned without answering. "Philip," she said, "I promised that Blanche should hear why I was not happy in my ball-going days; will you tell the story for me?"

Philip laid aside his book and began. He told of "days gone by," when he knew Edith as a gay, thoughtless girl. He painted her as he once accidentally saw her, descending from her carriage on the night of a "magnificent" ball. Blanche listened with intense interest, and cried, “Go on!" when the wife would fain have enjoined silence. Then, in a more serious strain, he told of her unhappiness amidst it all; of fearful illness, resulting from the sudden changes of temperature to which she had been exposed; of brief repentance, and a second career of dissipation; of loss of

fortune, and relapse into an indisposition which threatened to end in consumption. And then he spoke of sorrow heavier still; a brother's death; and, lightly touching on the joy which he had brought to the last hours of the beloved one by frequent readings of the book which tells of Jesus, Philip described the change which came at last to Edith, and the deep joy she found in "setting her affections on the things which are above, where Christ sitteth at the right hand of God."

"And was she happy then?" asked Blanche, deeply interested.

"Yes, very," interrupted Edith. "Happy even in the face of death."

"Did you expect to die?"

"Yes; but my confidence in Christ was such, that I could look with calmness on to the "valley of the shadow."

Blanche turned pale. "I could not!" she exclaimed. "The thought of death is very terrible to me. But I am young yet."

"So was my brother," said Edith, with unconscious emphasis.

"Oh, don't talk so! Do not give me, who should have been at a ball to night, so horrible a subject for New Year's study."

"It is not horrible to the Christian," said Philip kindly; and taking up the Bible he read, "O death, where is thy sting? grave, where is thy victory? I thank God, which giveth us the victory, through our Lord Jesus Christ.'

"Teach me," said Blanche, "I am so ignorant. Oh, Philip, I acknowledge that I am not happy. I know that all these balls and plays, are dances on the edge of a great gulf; but unless I think about it now, while I am ill, I fear I shall go back and be worse than ever."

They were both touched by her unexpected confession,- Edith even to tears. Then Philip gently, like the Philip of old time, "opened his mouth, and began at the same Scripture, and preached-Jesus.' Not lightly did Blanche listen to those words. Her heart joined earnestly in the low prayer he breathed for blessing from on high; and when he brought her passage after passage, setting forth the fulness and the freeness of Christ's sacrifice for sin, her pride gave way, she wept because she felt that all this was for her, as much for her, as if there were no other sinner in the universe.

"Do you believe it, Blanche?" asked Edith, as they parted for the night.

"Wait till to-morrow, dear; I do not

like to answer now," she replied; "but when I am more calm you shall know all. Yet, oh, I am so happy!"

"Happier than at the ball?"

"Ah, do not ask! I would not have been anywhere but here! Oh, Edith, God is very good to me." What words of joy were those to Edith's heart!

"I must tell Florence," murmured Blanche, as tears of quiet joy bedewed her pillow. "Jesus is mine! Ah, this New Year is to be happier than any that have gone before it, after all!"

THE ANGEL VISIT.

At my

On the evening of the thirty-first of December, I had been cherishing the humiliating and solemn reflections which are peculiarly suitable to the close of the year, and endeavouring to bring my mind to that view of the past best calculated to influence the future. I had attempted to recall the prominent incidents of the twelve months which had elapsed, and in this endeavour was led frequently to regret how little my memory could retain, even of that most important to be remembered. I could not avoid at such a period looking forward as well as backward, and anticipating that fearful tribunal at which no occurrence will be forgotten, whilst my imagination penetrated into the distant destinies which shall be dependent on its decisions. usual hour I retired to rest; but the train of meditations I had been pursuing was so important and appropriate, that imagination continued it after sense had slumbered. "In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth upon man," I was mentally concerned in the following scene of interest. I imagined myself still adding link after link to the train of reflection, the progress of which the time of repose had interrupted; and, whilst thus engaged, I was aware that there remained but a few moments to complete the day. I heard the clock as it tolled the knell of another year, and as it rang slowly the appointed number, each note was followed by a sting of conscience, reproaching me with the loss of precious time. The last stroke was ringing in my ears, painful as the knell announcing the departure of a valuable friend, when, notwithstanding the meditative posture in which I was sitting, I perceived that the dimness of the apartment changed to brightness; and on lifting my eyes to discover the cause, I was terrified on perceiving that

another being was with me in my seclusion. I saw one before me whose form indeed was human, but the bright burning of his eye, and the splendour which beamed forth from every part of his beautifully proportioned form, convinced me at a glance that it was no human being I saw. The elevation of his brow gave dignity of the highest order to his countenance; but the most acute penetration was indicated by his 'piercing eye; and inexorable justice was imprinted on his majestic features. A glittering phylactery encircled his head, on which was written, as in letters of fire, "The faithful one." Under one arm he bore two volumes, in his hand he held a pen. I instantly knew the recording angel, the secretary of the terrible tribunal of Heaven. With trembling which convulsed my frame, I heard his unearthly accents. "Mortal," said he, "thou wast longing to recall the events of the past year; thou art permitted to gaze upon the book of God; peruse and be wise." As he spoke this, he opened before me one of the volumes which he had brought. In fearful apprehension, I read in it my own name, and recognized the history of my own life during the past year, with all its minutest particulars. Burning words were those which that volume contained; all the actions and circumstances of my life were registered under their respective heads in that dreadful book. I was first struck with the title, "Mercies received." Some there were the remembrance of which I had retained; more that were recalled after having been forgotten; but the far greater number had never been noticed at all. Oh, what a detail of preservations and deliverances, invitations and warnings, privileges and bestowments! I remember that SABBATHS stood out in very prominent characters, as if they had been among the greatest benefits. In observing the recapitulations, I could not but be struck with one circumstanceit was, that many dispensations which I had considered curses, were here enumerated as blessings. Many a one which had riven the heart, many a cup whose bitterness seemed to designate it as poison, was there verifying the language of the poet,

"E'en crosses from his sovereign hand
Are blessings in disguise."

Another catalogue was there-it was the enumeration of transgressions. My hand trembles as I remember them. What an immense variety of classes: indifference,

thoughtlessness, formality, ingratitude, unbelief, sins against the Father, against the Saviour, against the Sanctifier, stood at the head of their crowded battalions, as if for the purpose of driving me to despair. Not one sin was forgotten there: neglected Sabbaths, abused ordinances, misimproved time, encouraged temptations,-there they stood, with no extenuation. There was one very long class, I well remember,"Idle words;" and the passage flashed across my mind, "For every idle word that man shall speak, he shall give an account thereof at the day of judgment." My supernatural visitant heré addressed me, "Dost thou observe how small a proportion thy sins of commission bear to those of omission ?" As he spoke, he pointed me to instances like the following: "I was hungry, and ye gave me no meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink; I was sick, and ye did not visit me." I was consciencestricken. In another part of the record I read the title, "Duties performed:" alas, small was their number! Humble as I had been accustomed to think the estimate of good works, I was greatly disappointed to perceive that many performances on which I had looked back with pride were omitted, because, my visitor informed me, "the motive was impure." It was, however, with feelings of the most affecting gratification that I read beneath this record, small as it was, "Inasmuch as ye did it unto the least of these my brethren, ye did it unto me." "Whosoever shall give a cup of cold water in the name of a disciple, shall in no wise lose his reward." While I gazed on these and similar records, such was the intense interest awakened within me, that my brain grew dizzy, my eyes became dim. I was roused from this state by the touch of my supernatural instructor, who pointed me to the volume in which I had been reading my own terrible history, now closed, and bearing a seal with this awful inscription, "Reserved until the day of judgment." "And now," said he, “my commission is completed: thou hast been permitted what never was granted to man before: what thinkest thou of these words; dost thou not justly tremble? How many a line is here, which, dying, thou wouldst wish to blot ? I see thee already shuddering at the thought of the disclosure of this volume, when its contents shall be made known to an assembled world; and if such be the record of one year, what must be the guilt of a whole life? Seek, then, an