“If you please, Miss Charlotte, may I speak with you a minute?" asked Martha the kitchen-maid, with a curtsey, as Charlotte was passing to her room that night.

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Yes; come with me now, if you like,” said the young lady, turning from her own sad thoughts to the interests of her protégée. "Have you heard of a place, Martha? We shall be very glad to recommend you to a good mistress.”

"Oh! miss; no, indeed, miss." And poor Martha took up the corner of her white apron, and twisted it to a point, then untwisted it again, stammered unintelligible words, and finally burst into tears.

"Poor Martha, what is the matter? My good girl, don't cry: you will always find friends, and we shall never fail to be interested about you."

"Yes, miss-no, miss; it isn't that," sobbed Martha.

“Then sit down and tell me what it is, and we can talk it over together.”

"Oh dear, Miss Charlotte," said the poor girl, presently, "they say you are all going away, and you won't keep any of the servants."

"It is true, Martha: we cannot afford to keep any;" and Charlotte's lip quivered as she spoke; "but I think you might, perhaps, venture now to try a place as plain cook in some small quiet family where the lady would guide you a little: you must have learned a good deal by this time if you have been attentive."

"Ah! but please, Miss Charlotte, I don't know enough to set myself up to that yet; and any lady would be disappointed if I did. But I want to ask if I mayn't go with you? You haven't ever been without servants in all your life; my mistress mustn't do for herself; and, if you please, I'll do everything as ever I can: I'll wait upon you, and wash and iron and cook and clean, and shan't miss any comfort as I can help: dear miss, do please to let me go with you."

you

Martha spoke thick and fast, anxious to be understood, and yet afraid of seeming presumptuous.

"My dear kind Martha," said Charlotte, gazing with love and admiration through gathering tears on the earnest girl, "I do thank you for this proof of love; but think what you offer. I proposed one kind of duty to you, and you feared to undertake it: how could you do so many things for us?"

"Ah, miss, I beg your pardon for seeming foolish; but

what I wouldn't pretend to do for wages, because it wouldn't be right, I'd try to do for love and gratitude to you; and if I made mistakes you would tell me kindly as you have before. I don't mind where it is, nor what it is, if I could only help you some way."

"Dear Martha, it would indeed be a comfort to have you; but I need not disguise the truth from so true a friend: we must now try to get our own living. Mamma will pay a long visit to my aunt and other relations, and then, perhaps, live in lodgings somewhere. We cannot afford wages for even one servant, Martha."

"That's just it, Miss Charlotte; I don't want any wages. I wouldn't ask for a penny till you could just give me what would keep clothes on my back; and, thanks to you all, I shan't want any more for a long, long time; and my mourning all new. And then I've a whole pound in the Savings' Bank, you know, miss, if I want anything before then: so I hope you'll settle for me to go. I'm only an orphan, Miss Charlotte, that you provided for with a home. here- and one in heaven too; but I'll do for you and yours as long as I've hands to work, indeed I will."

Now Martha was fully understood, and she paused for breath, looking anxiously in the face of her young mistress to make sure that she had not spoken too freely. Charlotte rose, and taking both the hardened hands in hers, imprinted a kiss upon the blushing cheek of the good girl.

"May God bless you, dearest Martha," said she, softly: "and he will: go now, pray for yourself and for us, and we will talk together another time.'

Sweetly slept the orphan girl, for she was understood and valued where she had lawfully desired it; and she felt as if she could "do all things through Christ," who would strengthen her, and who had constrained her by his love to feel as she felt, and to speak as she had spoken. And as Charlotte laid her weary head on the pillow after prayer and thanksgiving, the sweet peace that passeth understanding pervaded her spirit; love and sympathy where least looked for had cheered her heart, and she realized the fulness of the promise, "Blessed are they that mourn; for they shall be comforted."

THE VILLAGE DANCING MASTER.

WHAT a title! Are the days of maypoles returned, with their garlands, and merry round of light footsteps and small "Queen of Beauty?" If they were, I fancy, no such public functionary would be needed to teach the active young feet how to circle them round. Nature is the best dancing-master" after all; witness the lambs in the meadows, and the children in the infant-school playground.

It was for older pupils that John Saunders exercised his art; and it is a sad fact that he kept his noisy school in a rural alehouse.

Nowhere could be found a more decent, staid, industrious mother than his widowed parent; nowhere a neater cottage or more productive garden. The hearth was swept clean each evening; the supper was hot and well seasoned, if there was but a very small bit of meat in it to give the relish. The fields where his father used to work for many a year lay sunny and sleeping on the steep hill-side; but they had no charms for John. He loved neither home nor work; his handsome face and lithe figure were better bestowed (so he thought) in teaching ungraceful rustics how to set one foot before another; and his musical ear, which he had inherited from his father, as the best bass singer at the little white church in the dell, was employed in tuning up a wretched fiddle, and making its strings sound with low dancing tunes. The mother was proud of her fine-looking son, while she regretted the unsteady turn he had taken. It did not end in the fiddle and the dance : drinking was the natural supplement to such company keeping, in such dangerous nearness to the tap.

There was another gentle influence in the valley besides his mother. Its schoolmistress was one who not only taught the young, but was herself a disciple in the best of schools, for she had "learned Christ." Many a time did she try, by mild rebuke and admonition, to call back this fine young man to duty, and to a steady life. Her interest in him was deepened by early memories of innocent pleasures shared together. Was it not he who used to bend down the blackberry bough that it might not scratch her fingers, when they were little people together? Who had once rescued her quilted cotton bonnet from the beck? Who had helped her to gather Easter ledges and nettles for the annual herb pudding, giving her the best part of the

hedge-side spoil, and taking all the stinging to himself? And had he not always stored her own brown earthen jar with ripe nuts? And, more than all, had he not taught her tunes, and helped her to sing them, while they sat together on the stone stile, looking down the valley from the steep hillside? She used to think then that there never was such a capital helper and playmate.

Years passed on, and Alice Blake had gone away for school-training. Her character had deepened and settled. His had run into all manner of riot and extravagance; and when she returned home to take her place in the village school-house she found nothing left to realize her cherished hopes, but a kind look and a handsome countenance, and a fine figure.

The same frank temper made it easy to discuss the points of difference which had become so wide between them in the interval; and very soon, with an aching heart, and a buried weight of sorrowful affection, Alice felt compelled to avoid the society of her youth's associate, and to decline his attentions. "How can two walk together, except they be agreed ?"

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John Saunders was not a man to break his heart about a pretty bit of Methodism," as he scornfully called his earnest adviser; and it had been long since any words, beyond the common interchange of neighbourly civilities, had passed between them. Meantime the habits of idleness and intemperance were confirmed. He wandered about from dale to dale, from market to fair; he was to be found at every village revel within many a mile, scraping his harsh-toned fiddle, and exercising the indefatigable limbs of the rural population. If he had spent days of labour in the fine health-giving air of that valley among the hills, his natural delicacy of chest might never have been developed into active consumption; but night air after hot rooms, and blood heated by intemperance, are bad doctors. Perhaps they sowed the seeds of decline, which they afterwards ripened with rapidity. The mother saw how the occasional bad cough and pain in the side had settled down into a constant illness, and that the hectic flush was not always the consequence of inebriety, but told its own tale of hidden disease. At last the check came, and his defiant spirit sank under it.

Contrary to his mother's wish, he chose to go to the hiring fair in the county town, some ten miles distant; for

he well knew there would be plenty of rude fun, and plenty of foolish dancing and jollity. He went, and found the groups of young men and maidens, who meet twice a year in those rural districts, with those who wish to hire them for farm or field work. All day they stand about in groups, very fine indeed, after their manner, talking, jesting, and displaying themselves. A piece of straw, stuck into the hats of the men, means 66 on hire," and "not engaged." Then bargains are made, and wages fixed, and work arranged; and afterwards the alehouse and dancingroom close by draw aside numbers from the paths of virtue and good order. At one of these dancing-rooms John Saunders presided, but this time not for long. The merriment had changed into loud revelry: drink overcame him; a fearful attack of illness seized on him, where there were many to laugh, and none to sympathize. He left the place nearly dead with pain and exhaustion, and took refuge at the house of a relation, wholly unfit to return to his home.

And mercy found him there. The "strong man armed " could keep his house no longer. On that bed of fever and anguish he felt his weakness; he learned what it is for " a worm" to "contend against God." It was a sore conflict. Groaning with mental and bodily distress, he knew not where to look for ease; yet even then he was met by the Saviour of sinners. He was led to see, by kind endeavour and the ministry of the word, how sadly he had wasted, how wickedly he had abused, his strong, young life. He was led to see that he had nothing to bring, no offering, no redemption; but this blessed truth was brought home to his soul-"The blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth us from all sin."

As an encouragement to affectionate labour for the good of souls, it may be noticed that the first thing which seemed to touch him was the earnestness of a lady-visitor to bring him to a better mind. "Poor body! I do believe she wants to get me saved, if she could," he said. But what, indeed, can human agency do in any case without the Spirit's help? He that convinceth of sin did come to this poor prodigal. He that revealeth "the righteousness which is by faith" revealed Jesus to his inner heart as a Saviour. He that brings the sins of the old nature to light and judgment taught him that, though weak, worthless, and sinful, there is yet a name under heaven given among