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E do not know who drew the picture on page 89, but if we had been by his side, we should have said, "Did you ever see a cat sit as quiet as a mouse when its breakfast was about to be put down on the floor?" We never did. When cats are about to be fed, they are what we fear some of our readers are at times-restless. But perhaps some little girl is ready to say, Pray, Mr. Editor, what was the artist to do? Could he have made the cat to be running about and twirling her tail in the picture?" Now, there you have the Editor fast. You see how easy it is to find fault, but how difficult it is to mend the matter. And so we find it all through life. But if the artist has not succeeded with the cat, he has certainly done well with the girl. She looks very bonnie. How steadily she carries the basin, so that she may not spill the milk. She does not mean to stumble and dirty her pinafore. After having fed pussy, she will hasten to her own breakfast.

We hope all our readers are kind to dumb animals. We heard the other day of some boys who had shamefully tortured a cat. If

they had got what they deserved, they would have been severely whipped. And it was reported in the newspapers not long since that three medical students had set on a dog to worry a cat, for which cruelty they were brought before the magistrate and fined £5; and very justly so. It may at times be necessary to kill the dumb creatures round about us, but it is wicked to torture them.

But

The cat is very useful, but the dog is a much nobler creature. The cat becomes attached to a place, to a home, but it does not matter to the cat who lives there. the dog becomes attached to persons rather than places; and will go to the ends of the earth with his master. In this respect the dog manifests a higher nature. Our attachment to persons is much stronger than it is to places. It does not depend so much where we live, as with whom we live, whether we are happy or not. If all the readers of the HIVE will learn to obey their parents as lovingly as the dog obeys his master, there will be little ground for com plaint on this point.

I as

as a whole, was the family of the Gibbonses. There were in the village more daring and, perhaps, more hardened sinners, but this family was the worst. The father was dead. The mother was living with

some of the remnants of a better time— when she was respected and respectable— about her. The young men were poachers, the girls had come to no good; they were a ruined family, and were rapidly sinking

* From "Blind Amos," by Rev. Paxton Hood. (A most interesting book.) London: S. W. Partridge.

down the steep of vice into the blacker gulf of crime. How they lived was a matter of surmise; it was very well known their life could not be honest; they never did a day's work, and yet they had money for drink and gambling. Words would be only thrown away on them. They were very near the end of their tether. Well, one morning our village was not a little alarmed by the report of a great robbery at Farmer Purton's. There was money, plate, and a variety of things gone. The question now was, who could be the robber? and there seemed to

be a very general idea that there was one family not unlikely to be implicated pretty deeply. Farmer Purton himself stepped along to the house of the Gibbonses. The girls had left, and gone to a town at no great distance, some time since; and the young men who lived at home were not to be seen. The old woman, with a tearful sincerity of which there could be no doubt, declared her innocence. No one suspected her; but when she began to avouch the innocence of her boys, it was felt that the ground was more doubtful.

A rather dark case was soon made out against them, and a warrant taken for their apprehension. There were two young men, and a young lad of not more than twelve or fourteen years; the lad was not included in the warrant, although he, too, had disappeared with his brothers. Before the day was out he made his appearance again. He had only been to the early morning market of the large town near, but shrewd eyes noticed that he had more money in his pocket than could be picked up night and day in a market. At night he started away again—his feet were carefully tracked -he was followed to a field, in a corner of which he began to dig-and just as he had laid bare the greater part of Farmer Purton's plate from behind a hedge, a darklantern gleamed, and a rude hand was laid on his shoulder. Before the morning he and his brothers were all safely lodged in custody. They were in hiding at no great distance from the spot. We have little to do with them-the evidence was so clear they were instantly carried to the county goal.

Little sympathy was felt for them through the village, and little was felt for the poor mother either. But amidst all the ruin wrought by sin and its overthrow, it was impossible altogether to forget that in one household, by the corner of one emberless fireside, a broken or breaking heart might

be found sitting. And so by a miserable hearth sat poor Widow Gibbons, lonely and desolate gossips visited her to inquire, but none visited her to comfort; the neighbours wondered what she would do-how she could live where she would go-when she would leave the village-whether she would go to the workhouse. In some kinds of distress the kindness shown by the poor to the poor is most exemplary and full-hearted; but in some others, and especially in distress like this, they exhibit to each other a degree of coarse and unsympathising hardness truly distressing to see. As for the poor widow, she sat and rocked herself to and fro on a little stool by the fireplace; all her hope seemed to be entirely cut off; she had no earthly rest or trust; disgrace had fallen like a plague on her and her whole family. She had forgotten God for many years—although once she had been seen amongst His people. Thus it seemed as if she had no friend either on earth or in heaven. So she sat and said scarcely a word, after replying to the first inquisitive questions, during the whole day. Towards evening Amos heard of her and her distress; so he took his old companions (his walking-stick and Melly's arm), and started off to see if he could comfort her. She needed comfort, but where was it to come from? She sat the picture of stolid dumb despair in her miserable room. It was hard, poor old creature. She might have said, "I have nursed up children, and they have rebelled against me." The arms that ought to have been her support and security were the cause of her fall, and ruin, and misery in her weary old age. Amos and Melly went in: she did not look up, however, for some time, till Amos spoke in his kindest and most soothing tones, "How is it with you now, my poor old friend ?" then she lifted her eyes for the first time for hours. "I be all the better for seeing you, Mr. Blake, anyhow," she said. "I thought

of you several times to-day, and wondered whether you would come to see me." Amos laid his hand on hers, and after Melly had spoken some kind words to her, he said, "Have you prayed to-day, Betty? I fancy you will have forgotten that. Now I want to talk with you, but it's always best to pray first and talk afterwards, and especially now. Prayer is good at all times, but prayer is always best at the worst times." And then they knelt down, and old Amos, after some moments of deep and impressive silence, with his hand laid on the cold hand of the poor widow, poured out his heart before God for her and hers; it was a stream of deep, holy, quiet talk with heaven; the simple heart of Amos expressed all the widow's woes in all his and in all her simplicity too.

How blessed prayer is at such moments none can know but those who have

tried its power. The poor, stricken, bereft

creature felt the words; they unlocked her soul, and she burst into tears-tears which freshened and soothed. While old Amos sat after prayer by the old woman, Melly bustled about, and looked a little after the desolate cottage.

"I dare say," said Amos

before he left home, "we shall find her in a sad state; take up two or three little things, Melly, to make her comfortable." So, while the old couple talked, as I said, Melly gathered some sticks, and brightened and swept up the hearth, and set the kettle on the fire, and looked into the miserable room where old Betty slept, and shook up her bed, and made it, I promise you, more comfortable than it had been for many a day. Then she came downstairs and found old Betty's tea apparatus, and from her little basket, which she had brought on her arm, she took two or three little comforts, which she hoped would tempt the poor old creature to break her fast before she went to her sad and weary bed. Dear Melly! nobody heard her step as she moved about, but before she had been in the house many

moments she had effected such a change! She had put this thing into a corner, she had hung this old shawl on a nail; and what with a little dusting and sweeping, a bright gleam from the fireplace, and a kettle beginning to sing, the whole room looked, I can tell you, as it had not looked for many and many a day, ay, and month too.

She

And Amos was playing his part; he knew what he thought, and what he hoped in the midst of the widow's sorrows; but he did not utter many of his thoughts, nor express, as yet, many of his hopes, except in a very general way. The prayer he had offered had opened the widow's lips. was able to talk, and she had found a friend to talk to, and a friend universally beloved and honoured and respected in the village, although in the scale of rank not very much above herself; and thus her tongue was liberated, and she began to talk away freely. And Amos performed the part of a listener, only throwing in an occasional Yes! or No! or Eh? or Ah! Do we not all know how it eases the heart sometimes to be allowed to talk? Talk is like tears, it helps us to get rid of our sorrows. And the poor especially love a good listener-one who, without replying, will just pay attention to them, and take in all their tales of grief without interruption.

But Amos wanted to be a true comforter, and people in the circumstances of poor Betty are dissatisfied unless you hold out to them false hopes. She began to talk of getting the boys off. She hoped they would come back again—she could not think they were guilty. No, there was Tom Forbes and Bill May, ard a host of Toms and Bills, who were to blame; but she could not see that her poor lads were so bad. so bad. They might have shot a hare or a partridge; but to break into a house to steal, she could not believe that. They would be acquitted -they certainly would-and come back and

lead different lives, and be honest, and steady, and sober.

Amos was a sound-hearted and real man, and he never could hold out or encourage any false hopes, and he had no mock philanthropy about him-he had no sentimental sympathy with crime. He did not approve of all, or of most, of man's methods of punishment; but he believed that punishment for sin was a Divine law; and although he did not regard the punishment of revenge as at all Divine, or as man's province, yet he did see clearly that sin deserves and must receive punishment. For poor Widow Gibbons he had hearty sympathy. For the two young men, I am afraid he was so hard-hearted as to be very glad they were stopped. And I believe he was further so hard-hearted as to wish that they might be found guilty on their trial, as beyond all doubt they would be. For the lad, again, he had sympathy; and for the last two or three hours he had been revolving in his mind whether there were no means of saving him. And the question still was, How could it be done? He did not say one word of all this to the unfortunate old mother he thought he saw in his own mind how this affliction might turn out greatly to the advantage of old Betty; but he said very little to her; he satisfied himself for the present with simply holding his peace, and conveying no false hopes; for he knew that conviction was certain. At last he said, "I must go now, Betty; I must tell you

again that you have forgotten God too long. 'He hath smitten, He can bind up.' You are no stranger to these things-you know who said, 'When my heart is overwhelmed within me, lead me to the Rock that is higher than I.' It is quite true, all God's waves and billows have gone over you, but I believe He will command His lovingkindness in the day-time.' 'Pour out your heart before Him.' • God is a refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble.'" All these words were said so gently and impressively, that Betty not only heard, she felt every syllable. "And now," said Amos, "before I go, and I must go at once, I mean to know you have drunk this cup of tea, and eaten this little bit of toast; and then I shall think that you'll have another cup and eat another piece after I am gone." The poor old thing declared she could not touch it; but Amos knew that although she could not have eaten when he went into the cottage, she had refreshed herself by talking; and Melly brought her a pan of cold water, and made her refresh her hands and face; for the greater part of the night and all day she had sat rocking herself to and fro by her miserable fireplace. And so the cup of tea was drunk, and the bit of toast was eaten; and when Amos rose to leave, "Don't forget to pray," said he, with his fingers on the latch. "No," said she; "and when I do pray, you may depend on it I shall pray for blessings to rest on you." (To be continued.)

crossed his fields, or even entered his woods. Robert did not like to meet him.

But Robert had more fear of doing wrong than of facing the anger of the lawyer. So he went up to Mr. Hardwick and said, “In throwing a stone just now I broke a pane of glass in one of your windows."

"Well, then, you must send a glazier and have it mended," said Mr. Hardwick, in an angry tone.

"That is just what I wished to do," said Robert, " and I will do it at once."

Struck by his manly reply, Mr. Hardwick asked Robert if he had any money to pay the glazier.

"Yes," said Robert, "I have half-a-crown that I have been saving up."

"What have you been saving it up for ?" asked Mr. Hardwick.

"I have been saving it up to buy my sister a sunshade," replied Robert.

"Well, sir," said the lawyer, "I look to you to see that my window is mended."

Robert bowed, and took his leave. That same day he sent a glazier, and had a new

pane of glass set in place of the broken one. He felt that Mr. Hardwick had claimed of him no more than was right, and he did not blame him. But as Robert sat at his lesson that evening, the door-bell rang, and a package was left for him. He opened it, and what do you think he found ? In the package was a beautiful blue sunshade, and with it a letter from Mr. Hardwick in these words: "Take this as a proof that I was pleased by your readiness in doing right today."

Robert ran and gave the sunshade to his sister, and she was delighted with the gift. His father, when he learned what had happened, said to Robert, "We should always do right for the love of right, and not in the hope of reward."

"I am sure I did not hope for a reward," said Robert. "I should still have been glad that I paid for mending the window, even if I had got nothing in return. For surely I deserved nothing. I see that a man may seem stern, like Mr. Hardwick, and yet be kind at heart."-The Appeal.

Is Albert walked slowly along towards home, his reluctance to tell his father exactly how it happened that he had been tardy at school increased. The reason of this was, that he had been trying to make it seem right to keep back a part of the truth. If he had resolved at once to go directly to his father and state the circumstance just as it occurred, there would have been an end of all difficulty. But he did not like to be blamed, even a little, and therefore he did not wish to say anything about playing with the dog.

Just before he came in sight of home, and before he had concluded what to say, he saw his father walking along in a direction

TRUTH.