than our little Annie's.

Fragments of childish hymns, broken by recollections of childish duties, such as "sweeping up the hearth before mother came home," or "heating the water to wash baby-brother with;" sudden gushes of childish tenderness for her pet kitten; sudden gleams of childish mirth over some remembered "fun with Nelly;" all strangely mingled up with scraps of prayer, and broken words of awe and worship, too deep to be called childish. At times all this was merged in the overwhelming sensations of pain and bodily anguish. But for these she had no words; only wails and sobs and moans, and shakings of the little weak head, and restless shiftings to and fro, most pitiful to see and hear.

And so the long night wore out, and the next morning, and the brief winter afterHoon. Then came a change. The quick rambling talk sank into inarticulate murmurs, the white eyelids drooped languidly over the bright, restless eyes, and a heavy sleep stole over her. I had sat up with her on the preceding night, keeping up to a warm and ruddy glow the fire that was 80 much needed by the chilled and suffering child, and striving alas! vainly striving-to keep up also that more precious fire of human life within her little frame. Slowly and surely that fire had died down despite our best efforts, and it was quite without hope of recovering her that I took up my second night's watch at her side. But I had seen enough to be quite sure that in this one case at least the pagan saying might be used in a Christian sense, Whom the gods love die young." For little Annie was very poor and very beautiful, sure to be exposed to much temptation if she lived; very open, with that self-sacrificing, loving nature of hers, to much suffering.

A brief watch was mine that night. For just as midnight sounded Annie started from the heavy sleep in which she had lain motionless for some seven or eight hours, started suddenly as a person does who is roused by hearing some unexpected voice speaking close to them.

Did she indeed hear an actual call? Who shall say? I shall always cling to the belief that she did. But all that I know is, that after the first start of her sudden waking she slightly raised her little head from the pillow, and looked up full and clear, with no trace of delirium, no trace of coma, in those beautiful blue

eyes, and so, gazing upward with a strange, wistful intensity, she smiled a smile of unearthly joy and ecstacy, such as I never saw on any other face. It lasted but a few moments; then the eyelids drooped again, and the little head sank back heavily, and the light for ever passed out of the halfclosed eyes. But that strangely radiant smile lingered about the lips all night, making me say whenever I looked at the sweet still figure, "Surely the angels-ay, and another more awful and more holy presence-have been very near us to-night in this little bare-walled, humble sick ward."

I have seen many deaths before and since -most of them calm, many of them happybut never one like this. And I never watch now by night, keeping up the fire, but my thoughts stray back lovingly and tenderly to my little Annie Anderson, and to the bleak December night when I sat by her bedside in the ruddy fire-glow, and seemed for a moment to look with her straight up into the opening gates of heaven.

"THERE'S LIGHT BEYOND." "How is the Lord dealing with you?" inquired a stranger softly, silently watching for some time the light and shadow flitting over the face of a sick woman, whose dwelling she had that day for the first time entered.

The pale emaciated form that lay extended on the bed might easily have been mistaken for a corpse, had it not been for the occasional spasmodic contraction of the features, that told of the sufferings with in; whether wholly bodily, or mental, wa not then evident.

A glad uplifting of the closed eyes, followed by a smile of unutterable peace, responded to the voice of sympathy.

"Do you suffer much?" continued the visitor.

"More than they know," answered the invalid, glancing at the half-open door of an inner chamber, where sat her husband at his work, his sister and a little child by his side-" More than any one can tell, but God and myself."

"How long have you lain here?
"Soon it will be three years."

The same smile--the same rapid glance upwards, that seemed to pierce beyond the murky sky, visible through the upper pane of the window. The sick woman passed

her hand slowly over her brow, and in a voice of deep thankfulness, replied:

"Pain!-yes!-but there are no thorns here, you see-no bruises;" and stretching forth her arms until they formed a line across her pillow, she continued, "No nails!" and she spread forth her open palms, "No spear here!" and she clasped her hands over her fast-beating heart; "for He was wounded for my transgressions, He was bruised for my iniquities, the chastisement of my peace was upon Him, and with His stripes I am healed."

"When did you know this?"

"With my head years ago; with my heart, only since I lay here; yet these were the words with which the Holy Spirit strove with me in girlhood, and I comprehended but little what it meant; it was nothing to me then-it is everything to me now."

The visitor was a stranger no longer, for the words and smile told of one faith, one Father, and one fatherland; and afterwards, when she watched the affectionate care of the young husband, and listened to the prattle of the fair four-years' child, she marvelled if these ties, so soon to be severed, had any part in casting the shadow which, from time to time, seemed to gather on the fast-closing pilgrimage of the sufferer.

"Your husband-and your little child? Can you look forward resignedly to part with them?" inquired her friend, thinking that now she had a clue to the cause of the depression.

a

"Oh, yes!" was the cheerful answer; fortnight past I was able to give them to Jesus, and now He has all of me."

The Good Shepherd had allured her into the wilderness, and she was learning there to trust the God of the valleys, as well as the God of the hills, as the ever faithful One.

Still there was one cloud, and one alone, that disturbed at intervals the otherwise unbroken peace of Letty S―'s quiet confidence. It was the unsubdued terror of the last enemy, lest in the valley of death the brightness of the face of her Saviour should be veiled, and a dread of the final physical struggle-fearing also the anguish of that moment, and that she should then dishonour Him she loved.

The cup was mixed with weariness and pain, but "with strong consolations;" it was the loving cup!it was worth draining

it was drained at last! The death

angel came, but Letty still shrank from the shadow.

"I want you to pray for me," she said one morning, when more than usually tempted, turning to one watching by her side.

"Pray that the dark valley may be light that I may see Jesus, and not go down in a cloud. I want you to pray now, and every step of your way home." They did so.

The dying woman listened, and in a voice of peculiar feeling whispered, as if some sweet assurance dawned, "God hears your prayers-God answers!" and the cloud was raised for a moment. Another fearful physical pain shook her frame, and again the enemy came in like a flood, when, after a pause, as if to meet him, by displaying the banner of her faith, she told forth, in broken works, her shield, her refuge, and her everlasting peace. "He was wounded for my transgressions, He was bruised for my iniquities, the chastisement of my peace was upon Him, and with His stripes I am healed;" and then as she caught the eyes bent on her face, she added, "We shall soon meet again, you know. It won't be for long

Her failing breath could not conclud the couplet-and as a voice beside her repeated it for her

"And then how triumphant the conqueror's song!"

"Yes," she added; "but you will pray every step of the way home about the cloud?

And the friend promised; and they parted to meet no more, until they mingle songs of praise in the dawn of that day where shadows can never more darken the brightness of the King in His beauty.

Yet that afternoon clouds darkened on the soul of Letty S--as never before, just as we see the heavy canopy of vapour gather round the setting sun, before its last golden beams are shed over the earth. Satan knew he was soon to be bruised beneath her feet, and that his triumph was only in harassing the feeble one upon the threshold of that rest he could never trouble.

She was looking onward to the cloud, and adding a shadow to her path, when the grace given for the present moment is the promise, and for the future there is a light beyond that never failed.

"At eventide it shall be light!" Midnight came, and the earth-mist which had shrouded the fair land of promise from

the eye of faith suddenly dissolved, and the brightness of that dying face and the broken song of praise bore testimony that the shadows were at her feet, and that joy unutterable and full of glory was breaking upon her soul.

There is no shadow but the sun is near; there is no cloud but there is a light beyond; and the faith which presses forward shall feel the shadow worth chasing, if it has obscured one sight of the Beloved, on whom the soul is leaning while coming up from the wilderness. Oh ye over whom the clouds are gathering, who have sat beneath the shadow! be not dismayed if they rise before you. Press on-THERE IS LIGHT BEYOND !

"Halloa! what are you about there? " aried Tom, as he came towards them.

"I am going to mount," said Harry, "if Jenny will let me."

But Jenny did not seem inclined to let him. She twisted, and turned, and kicked, and even rolled over in the sand; but she would not let Harry mount.

"Let me do it. I will show you how to manage the creature," said Tom.

"I advise you not," said Alice.. "Jenny has already thrown me over her head." "But she shall not throw me," said Tom. "I know how to master a stupid donkey better than that."

"Then let us Harry. "Mount, and I will hold her head."

see you do it," cried

her back. Mrs. Jenny seemed to consider So while Harry held her, Tom got on what should be her next move-should she kick up behind? No; she thought

better of it. Should she stand stock-still, and not put one foot forward to please any one? Yes, that was what she would do; but a touch from a switch in Tom's hand caused Mrs. Jenny to think better of that too, and off she set, at a good sharp trot, round and round the garden walk. Now and then, when the mischievous lady came by the wall, she rubbed Tom's foot against it, but Tom did not care for that.

"You see," he cried-" you see I can do it. I told you so; I know how to tame her; she dare not throw me."

Indeed, Master Tom! How was it, then, that at that moment, down, with a sudden jerk, went Mrs. Jenny's head between her forefeet, and up into the air, and over her head flew Boasting Tom, coming down face and hands plump into a gooseberry bush ?

Tom was well scratched, and Mrs. Jenny started away; and a rare chase after her had Harry Carson before he caught her.

And now I must tell you how Tom became cured of boasting. There was to be a grand regatta. The boys in the neighbourhood had been very busy for several weeks; some at making new boats, some at newly rigging and painting old ones. Much of their time during the midsummer holidays had been taken up with this work, and now the holidays were almost over, and the boys determined they would have one grand day before going back to school. The use of a large pond within a gentleman's grounds was kindly given to them for the great event. Many were the ships that were entered-the Hector, Warrior, Great Eastern, Firefly, Lucy, Great Harry, Victoria, Tom Thumb, Sea Foam, Flying Eagle, Shark, Prince of Wales, and others.

"I have a new scheme," said Boasting Tom, "I am going to sail my ship with- " out trying her beforehand. I have an idea about vessels. It's my belief that if you form a ship's lines in a peculiar way that I know how to manage, she is sure to sail-~ ay, and to sail well; and I'll bet you anything, lads, that she will win the race!"

"What! and you not to have tried her ?" And the boys laughed.

"Yes; I am not going to let her kee touch water till she is off for the prize!" "You stupid fellow!" said Albert Hay; "how can you know whether she is steady? how can you know whether she has enough of lead? how can you know whether she doesn't carry too much sail ?

It may be well enough for men who know what they are about to build a ship by rule and compass; but even they make big mistakes; but you-why, I don't believe you ever in your life made a regular ship like what we are to run."

"No, I never did," said Tom, "for it's quite a new plan that I am going upon; but it's sure to answer. I tell you she's certain to win."

The boys only laughed.

"Ah,"said Tom," let those laugh that win." Now Tom had a dear little sister, who loved him very much. Her name was

Grace. Many a day, with her doll in her arms, she sat by Tom, watching him as he worked at his boat; and she thought Tom a very clever boy, and she thought Tom's boat was the most beautiful boat that was ever built, and that it would certainly win the race.

"Ot name 'ill 'ou call it, Tom?" she asked him once.

"Name-why, Gracie, that's just what puzzles me; I cannot think of one that will do. I don't like a common name for her. She is, you see, such an out-of-theWay beauty."

"Den call her ma's name. Ma bootiful, 'ou know."

"No, no, Gracie; the Fanny will not do. I have it. I'll call her Masterpiece." "'Ose name is dat ?

no one.

That name, little simpleton, belongs to It means something that's firstrate. It is the very name for her. Hurrah!" Gracie's round blue eyes stared at Tom; but though she could not understand all he said to her, she was satisfied that the name was rightly chosen, so she was content.

The day came. Albert Hay was appointed umpire. There were to be three races. The prizes were-the first, for schooners, a cricket ball, bats, and set of wickets; the second, for yachts, a beautiful little yacht that had been built by an old sailor, and was given by him to the boys; and the third, for luggers, a copy of "Robinson Crusoe," with very pretty pictures.

The boys erected a tent by the side of the pond, and rolled and carried logs of wood from the plantation near, for seats for themselves and the ladies whom they expected; for they had given express invitations to their mammas, and sisters, and cousins, and friends to come to the regatta. One kind lady, thinking that they might erhaps become hungry, sent to the tent a

basketful of buns; another lady, hearing of this, sent many, many quarts of fine ripe strawberries; another sent other fruit ; and a stout farmer, who lived close by, sent cans of milk and butter-milk.

A rare day, a grand day, the boys felt it would be. For a week before they had kept their sisters' fingers busily sewing long strips of gay stuffs and calicos for flags, and now they hoisted a great Union Jack on the tent, and hung banners and flags on cords slung from tree to tree along the borders of the pond.

What a splendid day it was! The sun streamed with such glowing, burning rays upon the broad earth, that people were glad of shade, and of the soft breeze that now and then gently fanned the surface of the water, and moved the leaves of the trees to " clap their little hands with glee."

Only the boys did not care for the heat. How busy they were, and how they ran and shouted! How their sailors' straw hats, with blue ribands, were tossed into air, the lads heedless of the knocks and crushes they got! How eagerly every fresh boy that came, boat in hand, was surrounded, and questioned, and his boat examined, and opinions passed upon it!

"Here is Wilmot; he's brought his yacht. Let's see her, Wilmot." Ob, what a beauty, what a bird, she'll skim the water." "What's her name?

66 Gadfly."

66

Gadfly, capital! Come along here to the tent. Donovan enters the names." And so came more and more, till nearly all were there; and then came Tom Phillips.

"Here's Boasting Tom," said one boy, as he nudged another. "What a lark it is about his boat."

"Look out for Tom Phillips," called another.

"Phillips, is your boat worth a fillip?" shouted a third.

Tom did not care; on to the tent he marched.

"Name of boat?" said Donovan.

'Masterpiece," replied Tom.

"What race?" asked Donovan.

'First," said Tom.

"Name of owner?"

"Thomas Elmsworth Phillips."

Little Gracie, with her nurse, had followed Tom to the pond.

All was at length ready; and then, at the brink of the water, on that side the

pond where the slight breeze was favourable, stood in a row all the boys who went in for the first prize; at a signal from Donovan they placed their ships on the water, still keeping their hold upon them; at another signal they gave their ships as strong pushes as they could, and away they went.

Now, Tom Phillips had made his ship's bow very sharp, and it so happened that he made it too sharp; the consequence was that the Masterpiece was much too light at the bow, and much too heavy at the stern. Her movements quickly became odd; she pitched a bit fore and aft as she caught the breeze. Tom watched her anxiously; he noticed she did not answer her helm. The Great Harry and she had started side by side, and now it seemed not unlikely that the two would soon run foul of each other, and a touch from the Great Harry on the bow would, Tom began to fear, be enough to send the Masterpiece down by the stern, for her bow sometimes rose clean out of the water, but her stern never. This was a sad state of things for Tom; and meanwhile the Lucy and the Sea Foam were getting ahead of all the others. What must Tom do ? What could he do? Not only was he in danger of losing the prize, but also of losing his ship.

"What a stupid lad I was not to try her first," he thought to himself. "I shall lose her-she will certainly sink."

Ah, Master Tom, it is now too late to wish you had tried her before. Pride must have a fall. See, there goes the Great Harry, as the breeze again freshens, right athwart the bow of the Masterpiece, and over she goes down, down, down; and Boasting Tom will not see her again, unless he fish for her.

"There's the ship of Tom's invention. Where's the 'own idea' now?" said Harry Carson, mocking. "You'll try that again, won't you, Tom? You'll sail a ship that you've never tried, won't you? Hurrah for the Masterpiece! Try that dodge once more, Tom; it's good fun."

And what did Tom do? He stood confused, and ashamed, and angry, before the boys, not speaking. He would much have liked to box the ears of some of them, but did not exactly know upon which to begin, while, at the same time, a small voice within told him in a little whisper that he had brought it all on himself by his own conceit. Ah! that same small voice often

whispers to little boys and girls when they do or say what is not right. It said to Tom, "You are a foolish boy, you are a conceited boy; if you had not been so silly as to boast that you could make a ship that would win the race, without even trying if she could swim, all this would not have happened. Take a lesson for the future, Tom Phillips. Do not boast any more. Give people no cause for calling you 'Boasting Tom.'"

now

But soon the boys gave up teasing him, for they began to leave the side of the pond from which the ships had started to run round, to receive the winner. How gallantly she came in-the beautiful Sea Foam, gently breaking the water with her bow, and leaving a long ripple behind! The Lucy had dropped astern. The Great Harry was far in the distance. The Flying Eagle and Prince of Wales were nearest to the Sea Foam, but small chance was there that they would beat her. She looked almost as if she knew it, and enjoyed the fun; so merrily on she sailed. Cheer after cheer greeted her as at length her keel grated on the bank; and her owner, Edward Chirrol, a timid little boy, with bright eyes, and curly hair, and very rosy cheeks, was declared to be the winner of the set of wickets, ball, and bats.

Meanwhile Tom Phillips had walked away into the wood; he could not bear to hear the shouting and cheering, and to think of his own dear boat lying at the bottom of the pond. And at last bitter tears came into his eyes, and he leaned against a tree, and sobbed. It was such a disappointment, such a great disappointment. He had counted upon taking the prize home to his mother, who lay ill in bed, and telling her how the Masterpiece had won the race. Instead of that, there was no prize, no glad tale to tell at home, his boat was lost, all the pleasure of the day gone for him, and the boys mocked him.

And the little voice kept on talking to him every time that it could put in a word between the sobs: "You are a silly boy, you are; and not only silly, but naughty; you are a wicked boy. Do you not remember how often your good, kind father and your loving mother have talked to you about your conceit? Do you not remember that they have told you that all you have has been given to you? What have you that you should boast about? Your happy home, your parents, your dear little