which his eyes would glisten with the only expression of pleasure that ever visited his face.

One day in December, when the biting winds were out, chasing the dried leaves, and making even active and warmly-dressed people button their coats closer and walk more briskly, Ralph carefully locked his door behind him, and sallied forth into the keen air. He had let his fire go out after breakfast, for his dinner was generally part of a loaf, and did not need much cooking, and he was shivering so much with the cold that he thought a walk would warm him and prevent him having to relight the firecoals were such a great price, and it was extravagance to burn them all day. Besides, he had no bread, and might as well supply himself at the village shop.

He was beginning to feel old-far older than he need have felt had he fed his body with sufficient food, and his heart with the nourishment of kindly feelings and deeds; and he tottered a little, and leaned wearily on his stick as the wind careered round him, and tried to blow off his hat, and buffeted him, as if in spite.

As he left the shop with his loaf carefully tucked under his arm, the snow began to fall; and by the time he had got outside the village and half way home, it was driving into his face so violently that he looked round for a few minutes' shelter. A small cottage stood near, with a deep porch, and he crept inside it and close to the door, which fitted so badly that through the chinks he could see and hear what was going on inside. Two girls ten and twelve years of age were moving about the kitchen and speaking to each other in a quiet, grave way, as if all childish frolic and fun were starved out of them. So pinched and pale their little faces looked that even Ralph's hard heart felt a sudden twinge of pity, and though-as he knew-their father had died a month before, there were no traces of mourning about the old but neatly-patched frocks they wore. There was scarcely any fire in the grate, only a handful of ashes, which they kept from quite dying out by occasionally putting on

the top a twig or two of dried wood from a heap in the corner which had been gathered in the neighbouring wood before the storm came.

Ralph knew something of the history of that povertystricken home. He knew that the father, after a life of hard struggle, had sunk down at last, conquered-as Ralph thought by his difficulties, to die. But he did not knowhow could such as he understand it ?-that even then Thomas Carter and his wife were richer far than he was; that having years before become children of God by faith in Jesus Christ, they were upheld in their trials by Divine strength and Divine promises; and that the dying man could calmly leave his sorrowing wife and children to the Great Provider, who says, "Let thy widows trust in Me," and could for himself utter the words of holy triumph in prospect of death:

"No condemnation now I dread;

Jesus, and all in Him, is mine;

Alive in Him, my living Head,
And clothed in righteousness Divine,
Bold I approach the eternal throne,

And claim the crown through Christ my own."

Harriet Carter had little time for the indulgence of her sorrow. She had taken up the burden of hard work which her husband had carried so bravely, and was toiling every day to earn bread for her children; and when she utterly failed, she could only ask the Lord to provide. She had done so that morning before she went out to a day's work.

As Ralph stood in the porch and listened, the younger girl spoke out in a clear, high-pitched tone, that distinctly reached his ear, and he could tell that the child was nearly crying, "Oh, Nellie, I am so hungry!"

"Yes, dear, you are like to be," said her sister, soothingly; "it's little enough you've had to eat to-day. But mother said she'd be sure to get paid to-night, and then she will call at the shop and bring something in with her for us to eat." "Yes," said Jenny; "but that's a long time to wait.

What shall we do till then? Don't you feel dreadful for something to eat, Nellie? Your piece of bread this morning was smaller than mine, and mother couldn't help crying when she gave it to you."

"Yes, I am hungry enough," said Nellie, " and I don't understand it at all; because mother read in the Bible last night, 'Thy bread shall be given thee, and thy water shall be sure;' and now we've only got the water, and that's not much without something to eat."

"Perhaps God doesn't know we are hungry," said Jenny. "Oh, He's like to know," said Nellie. "But may be He waits till we ask Him to give us summat to eat. I can tell that He looks sharp after us when mother is out of the way; for when that old tree blew down yesterday, it's just wonderful that it didn't fall right on the roof and crush us to death. But I think God just stretched out His hand and turned it the other way. And if He could take that trouble about the tree, wouldn't He be just as like to do it about bread? I'll tell you what we will do, Jenny: we will kneel down and say the Lord's Prayer, till we come to 'Give us this day our daily bread,' and then we will wait till it comes."

Old Ralph listened in almost startled awe. He had been familiar with those words from childhood, but never before had he understood them as actual speech from children on earth to a listening Father in heaven until he heard the petitions, one by one, drop with such realness from those youthful lips. Both joined in repeating them, and the prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread," was very slowly and earnestly uttered. And then there was a pause, and Ralph could see the little heads bowed low in solemn expectation. He did not understand whence the sudden impulse came that at that moment visited his heart, melting down its icy selfishness into a warmth of benevolent feeling most unusual, but very pleasant and comfortable. There was nothing to be done but to yield to its power, as the frost-bound earth to the genial spring, and in another instant the door was gently opened, and the loaf of bread he had held under his

arm was thrown into the little room with such careful aim, that it fell just at the side of the kneeling children. Jenny leapt to her feet with a cry of gladness, and then stooping, seized the bread with such a feeling, one may suppose, as that with which the Israelites gathered the first manna.

"Oh, Nellie! it's come directly. What a pity we did not ask sooner! Did you really expect God would send it like that?" she added, looking at her sister.

"I thought He would, but I wasn't real sure about it," said Nellie. "But now we know He answers prayer, Jenny, and I think we shall never be afraid about anything any more."

I do not know whether the momentary glow of warmth and sunshine that visited the miser's heart that winter morning lured him on to a life of greater kindness both to himself and his fellows in the future, nor whether, best of all, the glimpse he got in that little cottage of the living and true God dealing with and caring for His creatures led him to crave for the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ, and for a Divine love and companionship that would have cheered his lonely heart, and lighted up his last tottering steps through life with a bright hope of glory.

The incidents, as told to me, ended here; but they teach surely that, to the possessor of riches who may read this story, a life of selfish hoarding and caring is never a happy life. And to the poor who are "rich in faith" they give encouragement to remember that, though your own cupboards may be empty, there is a great and overflowing storehouse in heaven, and on its walls are written in golden letters, "The Lord will provide!" Do not believe this truth yourself merely, but teach it to your children; then in some dark and cloudy day, when your own spirit is almost overwhelmed, their simple faith shall open the windows of heaven, and bring down for you and for themselves timely supplies from the loving Father there.

M. C. F.

OR, THOUGHTS ON CHRISTIAN

INTERCOURSE.

CHAPTER III.

HAT, Fanny " exclaimed Clara Grey, in a tone of surprise, as, on reaching a sudden turning in the shrubbery where she was walking at an early hour one summer's morning, she met her youngest sister coming rapidly towards her.

"Well ?" returned Fanny, shortly.

"I should never have expected to find you here," said Clara.

"Probably not; I'm certainly not given to

taking solitary walks at unreasonable hours! But you needn't rush off in such a hurry," continued Fanny, as her sister, apologizing for having "disturbed" her, was turning away; "indeed I was thinking of you a moment ago, and I'm glad I've happened to meet you; so do, my dear Clara, stop a bit, and let us talk confidentially for once in our lives!" and linking her sister's arm within her own, Fanny drew her onwards to a rustic bench at a little distance.

"Talk confidentially with Fanny, of all people!" was the thought that passed through Clara's mind, as somewhat reluctantly she took a seat beside her sister, and waited for her to speak again.

"I'm not at all happy," began Fanny, abruptly; "and as you're so much older than I am, and understand so much about all these things, I want you to talk to me and help me." "What things?" asked Clara. "What do you mean, Fanny? and how can I help you?"

"Why, about religion," answered Fanny, with sudden agitation in her tone; and then in rapid and incoherent words she poured forth the record of her heart's history for