"All the more need," I told him, "to seek the Lord Jesus in prayer;

They are all His children here, and I pray for them all as my own;"

But he turned to me, "Ay, good woman, can prayer set a broken bone?"

Then he muttered half to himself, but I know that I heard him say,

"All very well-but the good Lord Jesus has had His day.”

So he went. And we passed to this ward where the younger children are laid.

Here is the cot of our orphan, our darling, our meek little

maid;

Empty, you see, just now! We have lost her who loved her

so much

Patient of pain, though as quick as a sensitive plant to the touch;

Hers was the prettiest prattle, it often moved me to tears, Hers was the gratefulest heart I have found in a child of her

years.

Nay, you remember our Emmie; you used to send her the flowers.

How she would smile at 'em, play with 'em, talk to 'em, hours after hours!

They that can wander at will where the works of the Lord are revealed

Little guess what joy can be got from a cowslip out of the

field.

Flowers to these "spirits in prison" are all they can know of the spring;

They freshen and sweeten the wards like the waft of an angel's wing.

And she lay with a flower in one hand and her thin hands crossed on her breast-

Wan, but as pretty as heart could desire, and we thought her

at rest,

Quietly sleeping--so quiet, our doctor said, "Poor little dear! Nurse, I must do it to-morrow; she'll never live through it, I fear."

I walked with our kindly old doctor as far as the head of the stair,

Then I returned to the ward; the child didn't see I was there.

Never since I was nurse had I been so grieved and so vexed! Emmie had heard him. Softly she called from her cot to the next,

"He says I shall never live through it. O Annie, what shall

I do?"

Annie considered. "If I," said the wise little Annie, "was

you,

I should cry to the dear Lord Jesus to help me, for, Emmie,

you see

It's all in the picture there: 'Little children should come to

(Meaning the print that you gave us; I find that it always can please

Our children-the dear Lord Jesus with children about His

knees.)

Yes, and I will," said Emmie, "but then if I call to the

Lord,

How should He know that it's me? such a lot of beds in the ward!"

That was a puzzle for Annie. Again she considered, and said: "Emmie, you put out your arms, and you leave 'em outside on the bed,-

The Lord has so much to see to! but, Emmie, you tell it Him plain,

It's the little girl with her arm lying out on the counter

pane.

I had sat three nights by the child--I could not watch her for four

My brain had begun to reel-I felt I could do it no more. That was my sleeping-night, but I thought that it never would pass.

There was a thunder-clap once, and a clatter of hail on the glass,

And there was a phantom cry that I heard as I tossed about, The motherless bleat of a lamb in the storm and the darkness

without.

My sleep was broken, besides, with dreams of the dreadful

knife

And fears for our delicate Emmie, who scarce would escape with her life.

Then in the gray of the morning it seemed she stood by me and smiled.

And the doctor came at his hour, and we went to see the

child.

He had brought his ghastly tools.

again,

We believed her asleep

Her dear, long, lean, little arms lying out on the counter

pane.

Say that His day is done! Ah, why should we care what

they say?

The Lord of the children had heard her, and Emmie had passed away.

THE FIERY ORDEAL.

ON pottery my love was pleased to paint
Designs that were exceeding rare and quaint;
And when she had them done as she desired,
With neatness and dispatch the pots were fired.
"Love, I am but a vase of common clay—
Design me as you will, I humbly pray!"
The maiden fashioned me as she thought best,
And then-why, I was fired with the rest.

HOW DOT HEARD THE MESSIAH."

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

THE

[Arranged by Claribel Brooks. By permission of the author.]

HE church was vast and dim. The air was fragrant with pine boughs, and over the golden cross of the

chancel hung heavy wreaths of box and fir.

shone in front of the organ.

A solitary light

Little feet were heard on the stairs, and a door in the

organ-case opened quietly.

"Is that you, Dot? "

"Yes, sir."

"What makes you come so early?"

"I always come early," said the boy, timidly.

thinks it best."

"Come out, Dot, and let me talk to you."

"Mother

The little side-door of the organ moved; a shadow crept along in the dim light toward the genial-hearted tenor.

"Do you like music, Dot?"

"Will you sing for me?"

"I can sing, Hark, what mean those holy voices?'"' "Ah, Rossini-an adaptation from Cujus animam.' Well, I'll beat time-now, Dot."

A voice, flute-like, pure, and silvery, floated out into the empty edifice. The tenor stood like one entranced. The voice fell in wavy cadences, then rose clear as a skylark's, with the soul of inspiration in it. The tenor, with a nervous mo

tion, turned on the gaslight. The boy seemed affrighted, and shrank away toward the door.

"Boy, there is a fortune in that voice of yours!" "Thank you, sir."

"What makes you hide behind that bench?"

The boy slowly approached and stood beside the singer, and then the tenor understood,-saw all Dot's poverty.

At that moment there were other footsteps heard in the church, and sounds of light, happy voices. The choir was assembling.

Presently a bell tinkled. The organist was on his bench. Dot grasped the great wooden handle of the organ-pump, and moved it up and down, up and down, and then the tall, wooden pipes with the dragon mouths began to thunder around him, and the chorus burst into the glorious "Midnight Mass of the Middle Ages: "

"Adeste fideles læti triumphantes,
Venite, venite,

In Bethlehem.”

The great pipes close at hand ceased to thunder. The music seemed to fade away into the distance, low, sweet, and shadowy. There were sympathetic solos and tremulous chords. Then the tempest seemed to come back again, and the luminous arch over the organ sent back into the empty church the jubilant chorus: "Venite, adoremus!"'

Then the singers rested, laughed, and talked. Dot could

not help hearing, in his narrow room.

"I came to the church directly from the train," said the tenor, "and amused myself for a time with Dot.

derful voice that boy has."

Dot?" said the precentor.

"Yes, the boy that blows the organ. Oh, yes, I remember now.

I seldom see him.

A won

Now I

think of it, the sexton told me some weeks ago that I must get a new organ-boy another year; he says this one comes to the church through back alleys, and that his clothes are not