unexpectedly take to themselves wings and fly away; but however grateful for the kind bestowal of their presence, the Denisons remembered the inconstancy of riches, and trusted rather, with enlightened faith, in a nobler heritage.

Besides domestics, the residence only contained Mr. and Mrs. Denison and their two children, Mary and Willie. Mary was twelve years of age, and was already beginning to display—unmarred by appearing habits of silly gossip, and false notions of life-those graces which speedily captivate the beholder, and lend an almost divine charm to the genuine character of her sex. Thus attractive, she became the guardian angel of the little household, daily cheering it with her ringing song, and lighting up with her sunny smile the quiet hours of evening. As may readily be imagined, she was one of those good things which rendered her parents glad, and they tenderly enshrined her the first-born joy of their hearts. Willie had reached his eighth year, and was likewise a sweet and interesting child-the hero, the philosopher, and the chatter-box of the home circle. There was little cessation in his prattle; and sharp and inquiring as boys of his age are, nothing easily escaped observation and comment. Question followed question with untiring perseverance, while the quick and eager mind drank up information as if for very existence.

But those children were not only loving and beautiful,they were pious; and that was the secret reason why they were happy-happiness not consisting, by any means, in being rich or pretty or famous, but in being holy and dutiful, accompanied by a sense of God's pardoning grace. Practically too they showed their appreciation of their gladness and

fortunate circumstances by strict attention to the ordinances of religion suitable to their age, and they did not forget the missionary box. Their parents also had long chosen the holiness and happiness of piety, and though they loved their children much, they loved Jesus more; for if fallen men fail to cultivate love to Him who came to save them, what other name under heaven is there to trust in, when brief chequered life draws nigh its end?

The autumn was in the " sere and yellow leaf," and dark heavy clouds hung charged over the homesteads, which would soon burst forth in copious showers. The precious fruits of the earth had nearly all been stored up in barn and stackyard; another harvest season had been crowned with goodness by an ever-faithful Providence; and now approached, with enfeebled step and hoary locks, that keen visitant of the closing year, "gloomy winter." Nor is he to be altogether undervalued, since he brings with him, wreathed in bright. scarlet-fruited holly and green mistletoe, his merry friend Father Christmas, and his long train of dancing bappy children.

Mr. Denison, as was his custom, had returned from town— where he was engaged in business as a merchant—in time for dinner, at three o'clock. The children frequently dined with their parents, especially if they were alone; and Willie had been taught to cover his face with his little hands, and ask the presence and blessing of Heaven to descend upon them. "Jesus, be Thou our guest, and bless what Thou hast provided, Amen," were the short and simple words uttered by those guileless lips, but the yet less than half developed, though earnest spirit, was not quite satisfied;

the answer, in the form he expected, was still wanting, and he resolved to make enquiry on the subject.

"Papa," said Willie on the day in question, "why is it, that though we ask Jesus to be our guest, He doesn't come? Does He not care about coming to our house, papa?"

His parent seeing, of course, the child's error-the material taking the place of the spiritual, undoubtedly an error which has long been extensively committed by generations of much older children-he determined to provide an illustration, simple and touching, to show, in one sense at least, how the presence of Jesus might be manifested, and how, in such a case, He ought to be served. Knowing, then, what would occur in the sequel, he proceeded with his reply.

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Perhaps, Willie, you have never yet given him a hearty and truly sincere invitation. You must know that Jesus inspects the reasons for which you ask His presence.”

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'But, papa, I do wish Him to come some day, because I should so like to see Him; and the Bible says He used to dine with people, and you say He loves me, and Mary, and mamma, and you, papa, and everybody."

you

"You ought to ask Him again, dear, and tell Him why wish to see Him," said his mamma encouragingly. "Shall I ask Him sincerely then to come to-morrow? I mean really, you know, papa."

"Do, my child," replied Mr. Denison; "and if you give Him a faithful invitation to-night, I promise you He shall come to-morrow, and may sit next to yourself.”

"And shall I set a chair for Him to-morrow, papa?"

"But are you quite sure He shall come, papa," exclaimed Mary, almost at the same instant.

"You need not fear His refusal, my children, for if asked aright, He is more willing to come than you imagine. Indeed He is waiting to come, knocking for admittance, and saying, 'if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' I pray God that you may admit your Saviour early, and give your hearts to Him. Willie, do as I have said, and you may place a chair for Him, as you wish."

Willie spent the remainder of the day in happy anticipation, and Mary also was pleased, although her years in seniority had very justly raised within her some doubts as to the nature of the expected visit. The hours at last shaded into twilight, and thence into darkness; and when the evening hymns were sung, sleep kindly threw his soft arms around them, as the delightful thought dwelt in their minds that the gentle Jesus would be their guest to-morrow.

CHAPTER II.

THE "HAPPY LAND."

THE same black lowering clouds which overhung Willie's home also deepened the gloom that constantly prevailed within the courts and alleys of the Canongate in the city. Indeed many of the cellar-dwellings, which were usually only illumined by the ever-open door, were in almost midnight darkness. This was verily a squalid portion of "Modern Athens ;" but such localities, it may be observed, are fast disappearing. of both ancient and modern notoriety, is that which stands on the right side of this main street, the Canongate, which leads from the grey rocky Castle to the royal palace and chapel of Holyrood. The building is very lofty, being eight or nine storeys high, like a whole village set on end. It was once the residence of Scottish nobles; and when the accumulations of centuries are cleared to a sufficient depth, traces of grandeur may still be found. In days only reflected in historic page, those winding corridors echoed to the tramp of steel-clad warriors, and round those massive marble fire-places the earl and his retainers revelled and

One of the most conspicuous edifices,