is grieved to say that a very dark cloud lately hung over the American Mission to China. Two of her devoted missionaries have been killed by the natives, at the very time they were trying to do them good. But to this cloud even there is a silver lining, although we cannot see it. "What we know not now we shall know hereafter."

But the Reporter would have all his young friends remember that Christians have a silver lining they keep by them, and it fits all dark clouds, and all weathers. It can be used-not only by old breathless men like him— but by all who love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity and truth. It is one of the precious promises of God, which always holds good, in youth and age, in sickness and sorrow. Here it is: "All things work together for good to them that love God." This will gild the darkest cloud, and make it shine as the day.

THE LITTLE OLD CHURCH AT HOME. I HAVE been at a good many churches and chapels since I first left my father's house to go out into the world, but there is none of them I love so much as the little old church at home. It hasn't changed much since then, outside or inside. There is the queer roof and the old creaking door, just as they were. Time and weather have worn the dim old windows with the little square panes a good deal, it is true, but they haven't changed so much as I have. The flat old grave-stones are still there, worn, many of them, with feet and weather; some of the upright ones have fallen aside a little, and the APRIL, 1862.

E

2

rudely-chiselled letters are wearing out; but I like to look at them still, for they remind me strongly of days gone by, and they mark the graves of my forefathers, whose memories I still love. They ploughed and sowed, they laughed and wept, and toiled and struggled with this rough world much as we do. But they rest from their labours now, and, at least of some of them, it may be said, "their works do follow them." These old stones have each their own story to tell, but few of them say much. In most cases all they say of the sleepers below is simply when they began to live, and when they died. But I have a kindly feeling to some of them, for they mark the spots where the ashes rest of those who once loved me-perhaps they love me still those who nursed me, clothed and fed me, taught me to speak, to read, and to pray. These stones mark the resting-places of some of those I hope to meet again when "the graves give up their dead," and all the children of the kingdom are gathered into their Father's house-the house of many mansions. But we must not linger here; let us go inside.

You may think it all dull, and plain, and common, but it is not so to me. It was by the side of that little old pulpit my father held me up, a little babe, and the minister baptized me in the name of Father, Son, and Spirit; it was from it I first heard a sermon preached; it was in these old deal pews I sat as a Sunday scholar in the minister's own class, where he talked to us kindly of the love of Jesus, and the way to heaven; and it was nearly on the same spot that I first professed my faith in Christ by commemorating his dying love. The 'pews look much the same; even the large painted numbers in white and black, on which I used to fix my

languid eyes, to keep myself awake, when the sermon seemed heavy or dull, are still unaltered. But, alas! few are left of those who sat in them then. The elders are all gone, not one is left, and nearly all my youthful friends with whom I sported and played are gone too. Strange that they should be taken and I left. May it be for good to me and others that it is so! The people who sit in these pews now are strangers to me; not all of them, but nearly all. A very few old men and women with silvery locks and feeble steps are left, and they sit in the places where they used to sit, like relics of the past, to tell wanderers like me, I suppose, that the dear old church is still the same. But they, too, will soon pass away, and leave their places to others. So it is the world One goes and another comes.

over.

"How changeful, O how changeful
Is this short and fleeting life!"

But still I love the little old church at home better far than all others on earth. It treasures up and reminds me of many sweet memories of the joyous sunny days of my youth that I would otherwise forget; it says, when I visit it, "This is not your rest;" and it points forward, with steady hand, to that city which hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God:

"Where friends, are never parted,
Once met around the throne,
And none are broken-hearted,
Since all in Christ are one."

rudely-chiselled letters are wearing out; but I like t look at them still, for they remind me strongly of day gone by, and they mark the graves of my forefather whose memories I still love. They ploughed and sowed, they laughed and wept, and toiled and struggled with this rough world much as we do. But they rest from their labours now, and, at least of some of them, it may be said, "their works do follow them." These old stones have each their own story to tell, but few of them say much In most cases all they say of the sleepers below is simply when they began to live, and when they died. But have a kindly feeling to some of them, for they mark the spots where the ashes rest of those who once lovel me-perhaps they love me still those who nursed m clothed and fed me, taught me to speak, to read, and @ pray. These stones mark the resting-places of some those I hope to meet again when "the graves give their dead," and all the children of the kingdom * gathered into their Father's house-the house of mary mansions. But we must not linger here; let us g inside.

You may think it all dull, and plain, and common, bu it is not so to me. It was by the side of that litt old pulpit my father held me up, a little babe, an the minister baptized me in the name of Father, So and Spirit; it was from it I first heard a sermon preached; it was in these old deal pews I sat as a Sunday scho in the minister's own class, where he talked to us kind ́of the love of Jesus, and the way to heaven; and it wa nearly on the same spot that I first professed my fait in Christ by commemorating his dying love. T 'pews look much the same; even the large painted bers in white and black, on which I used to fix