mother burst out crying at the question. "It was my son, sir, my only son. He went out to the Crimea as a soldier, got ill in the trenches, and came home to die-just in time to have his eyes closed by the hands he loved, and to be laid in the grave of his fathers. But there was one thing to comfort us-he was so happy in dying, so peaceful, so anxious to be with his God." The colporteur asked what was the cause of all this joy and peace. They said it was a book; he was always reading it; and his last injunctions to his family were that they should read it themselves, and never more bow down before a graven image. The book was brought to the colporteur: it was a Bible; seventeen pages had been torn out successively, all the remaining ones were perfect. Passage after passage was marked. In the inside of the cover the colporteur read " Boulogne," such a date, and these words, "read it, believed it, and found it salvation." On comparing the date with that in his own note book, my friend found that it was the very same day on which he had given the Bible to the soldier at Boulogne ! "I AM GOING HOME." Ir was towards the close of a bright spring day that I was returning to a small village in Devonshire, from an excursion I had been making in search of white violets. As I approached the confines of the village, I saw a little girl apparently about ten years old, tripping gaily along, her hands filled with primroses, violets, and other spring flowers. I spoke to her, and asked her where she was going, and for whom her pretty flowers were. She lifted up her bright rosy face, and answered confidingly, "I am going home, and these are for father." I walked with little Rose Brown, for such she told me her name was, to her home, a very pretty cottage, with 'a small but beautifully kept garden: her father, a widower, was waiting for her at the gate, and was delighted to welcome her. As long as I remained in the village I often visited the Browns, and became much interested in little Rose; but after a few weeks I went away and did not return for four years, during which time I quite lost sight of them. It was a lovely evening in summer that I once again set out for Rose's home; as I walked up the little garden I noticed how neglected it looked, "Have they left it?" I thought to myself. The door was opened by a woman. "Do the Browns live here?" I inquired. 66 The woman shook her head sadly, Rose, ma'am, is dying of a consumption; her poor father is almost distracted; I am staying with her while he fetches her a few strawberries. Would you please to walk up and see her?" I followed the woman up stairs to a room, where on a small bed, placed near the window, Rose was lying: she was looking at the setting sun, but turned as we came in. She knew me directly, and held out her poor thin hand to welcome me. Tears were in my eyes as I said, 66 Oh, Rose, I'm so sorry to see you like this!" She looked at me with such a beaming expression, and said, sweetly, "Oh, ma'am, I am going home!" Ere another week had passed away, Rose had received a glorious welcome to her eternal home, and a pure and living flower was blooming in the paradise above. "I am going home." Who says it? A lady, as she steps into her carriage, and is whirled away to a home where every luxury that wealth can procure is provided for her. Who says it? A poor artisan, as he walks towards a poor house in a crowded street; but poor as it is, it is not the less his home, for a loving wife and children, with cheerful, happy faces, greet him, and they sit down to their humble fare with light and happy hearts, for they feel the blessing of God is upon them. And home is home be it ever so homely," the palace or the cottage-all are hallowed by the sweet name of home! But much as we may love it, and thank God for his goodness in giving it us, let us never forget that we are strangers here; and the home we have to look forward to is infinitely more blessed than any earthly home can be; our Father's house, where is no night, no sorrow, death; all is bright and lovely there, no delusions, no doubtings, but pure unfading joys. no Reader, if you were on your death-bed now, could you say, as Rose did, "I am going home?" Can you think of death as did this dear child. The first time I met her, she was going home to her father's house on earth with her gift of sweet fresh flowers. The last time I met her, she was going home to her Father's house in heaven, to cast her crown before him and give him glory. One by one we are passing from earthly dwellings, "This is not our rest.” "Here we have no continuing city." When this earthly house of our tabernacle is dissolved, have we a building of God-a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens ? 66 They are gathering homeward from every land One by one, As their weary feet touch the shining strand Their brows are enclosed in a golden crown, One by one. Before they rest they pass through the strife Through the waters of death they enter life To some are the floods of the river still As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill; One by one: The waves of the river are dark and cold, Plant thou thy feet beside as we tread On thee let us lean each drooping head Let but thy strong arm around us be twined, Mr. Merton MR. FARMER'S forebodings were verified. became rapidly worse; the fever had taken a strong hold upon him, and would not let him go. The doctor himself shook his head doubtfully and despondingly as he informed my mother that the case was even more serious than he at first had supposed, and that the life of the patient hung on a balance. This was about ten days after he was called in. JUNE, 1863, About this time my mother received a visit from the lawyer of whom I have spoken. "I am sorry that I was the means of your getting into this trouble, Mrs. Arliss," said he. "I do not quite understand you, Mr. Wilby," my mother replied to her old friend. 66 Why, did I not recommend Mr. Merton to take your lodgings if he could get them? To be sure, I thought I was doing you, as well as him, a service." 66 Pray do not be sorry," returned my mother. assure you I do not regret having had Mr. Merton as a lodger; though I am sorry for his illness." 66 Ah, just so," said the lawyer, in a certain sharp, short way he had of speaking. "what a sad thing "Think, sir," continued my mother, it would have been for him to have been ill, with no one near him to take any care of him." "Um !" said the lawyer: "that's looking at it from one point of view to be sure." "Is it not the right point, sir ?" 66 Possibly; but I was looking at it from another point; and I am coming to that point now. Mr. Merton is, do you not, Mrs. Arliss?” Yes, she knew this, my mother said. "And you do not expect that he will be able to pay you for all the trouble you are taking for him, to say nothing of the extra expenses you are running yourself to ?" "No, sir." My mother said this so quietly and simply, and in such a matter of course way, as Mr. Wilby afterwards told me, that he was both puzzled and amused. "Then why did you not take Mr. Farmer's advice, and get the poor fellow into the hospital? He would have been well enough cared for there; and you would have been rid of him. Excuse my freedom, as an old friend, Mrs. Arliss; but you are not rich enough to be going about, looking after objects of benevolence-are you now?" he asked with a good-humoured smile which half atoned for the sharpness of his question. My mother smiled too, for she could make allowances for her friend's freedom of speech. Besides, he had put an argument into her mouth. "Mr. Wilby, we have read of one who was so poor as to have no where to lay his head; and yet he went about |