early Christians did. Papa, did the cruelties keep the Lollards from increasing in numbers?" "Not so much as had been expected. Many persons were prosecuted or burnt for heresy in the reigns of Henry IV. and Henry V. and though during those long civil wars, which are called, you know, the Wars of the Roses- the Lollards seem for a time to have been partly forgotten, there appears no doubt that their opinions spread in secret, and helped to prepare the way for the Reformation." 66 66 Papa," asked Robert, our translation of the Bible is not the one that Wycliffe made, is it?-oh no, I remember, by the by, you told us a long while ago that Cranmer and good Bishop Ridley translated the Bible, when Edward VI. was king." "Yes," said Mr. Morton, "but their translation is not the same as the one now in use, though it a good deal resembled it. Our present translation, or version, of the holy scriptnres was made in the reign of James I, it was undertaken by forty-seven of the most learned men in the kingdom,-the bishops over-looking the whole, and the king himself giving great encouragement to the work. The Bibles, in the first instance, were chained in the churches to save them from robbery." "Ah papa," cried Robert, "the clergy, now that they were Protestants, did'nt want any longer to keep the Bible from the people, and how much better it was to be translating it than to be shutting themselves up in a little narrow cell, and spending their lives in fasting and doing penance, and reading religious books all day, as the best of the monks thought right! But did it take a long time to make this translation?" "So many persons were employed in it, and the work was so well divided among them, that the translation was finished in about three years; it was then ordered to be read in all the churches of the kingdom. I quite agree with you, my boy, in feeling a great respect for the translators: they seem to have taken most conscientious pains with their work, and we must always feel grateful to them for having helped, as they themselves expressed it, to open the window in order to let in the light." "To let in the light," repeated Robert, "that's just what they did, was'nt it Emmy?" His sister started on being thus addressed, and caused him to add with a laugh, that she must either have been in a very brown study, or in a doze." "A doze, indeed," cried Emma indignantly, "I was only thinking, -papa, I want to ask you something, -when Robert was speaking so against the monks I could'nt help wondering whither he were altogether right, because after all, there seems something grand in a convent life, in giving up riches and pleasures and everything in this world you know, in order to prepare for the world to come, for though it's right to be just and kind and all that, it's right too, as I have often heard you say, to read good books, and pray, and go to church." 66 Certainly my dear, and no really religious man will neglect either his moral or his religious duties,-his duty towards God, or his duty towards his neighbour. The New Testament teaches us how these two duties can be made perfectly to agree, but the monks seem to have fancied that by neglecting their duty towards their fellow creatures, they should be better able to perform their religious duties. Many, however, had better notions even in those days, and there is just now come into my head an old tale, or rather legend, which I will tell you Emma dear, for I think you will like it, if you can understand it, at least." "Oh papa, do let me hear it please: is it meant to teach anything?" "It is, but you must find out the meaning for your self; as far as I can recollect it is this,—a pious monk was one day on his knees praying very fervently, when suddenly a dazzling light shone in upon his cell, and lifting up his head, he saw a vision of the Saviour gazing down upon him, a smile of approval on his lips, and his hand stretched out as if in blessing, As the monk was gazing in rapture upon the heavenly vision, the convent bell sounded, calling him away, for it was his turn that day to give away alms to the poor at the convent gate; the monk could scarcely bear to go, yet he thought it right to obey the summons, so he sorrowfully arose, and went abont his appointed work. His duty done, the wants of the poor supplied, he hurried back to his cell fearing to find that the glorious vision had departed, but no! it was still there, the smile upon the face yet more beautiful than before, and the monk heard the words addressed to him, “If thou had'st not gone, I should have fled.'” Robert perhaps could not enter into the beauty of the legend, but Emma caught something of its meaning. "I think I understand it!" cried she; "if the monk hadn't prayed, he would not have seen that beauful vision at all, and it would have left him if he had failed in his duty towards his fellow-creatures; it was the doing both that was right, papa!” 'It is, my child," said Mr. Morton, laying his hand affectionately on his daughter's head. A short silence succeeded; it was broken by Robert's exclaiming, "How the twilight has faded while we've been talking! Look how bright the crescent moon is growing; it will soon be set. I think," he added, as if a new thought had struck him, "I do think there's something very beautiful about evening." "And so there is about noon, when the sun is high and bright,” cried Emma, "and I'm sure there is about morning and sunrise." 66 'Yes, every time of the day and year is beautiful in its turn; and so would every season of our life be, if we faithfully performed our appointed work, and were contented with the station in which Providence has been pleased to place us. Different times of the day, and different seasons of our life, generally bring with them different duties; but whether these duties be great or small, we should try to perform them all in a Christian spirit." "What you've just been saying, papa," said Emma, "puts me in mind of the last verse of that pretty hymn we sung last Sunday at Church: do you remember it?" "I do, and I think it very pretty too." "Repeat it then, my child." Emma looked up at the soft evening sky, and repeated in a low reverent voice, "The noontide blaze,-the midnight scene, The dawn, or twilight's soft serene, The sick, nay e'en the dying hour,- THREE WAYS OF BEING ALIVE. LITTLE MARY WILSON lived in a very quiet country home. Her mother was too busy with her work to talk much to Mary, or to try to amuse her. When the weather was warm enough, the child used to sit for many hours on a little stool in the garden in the pleasant sunshine, watching the birds or the flies, or in bad weather she would sit by the fire-side and watch her mother at work. For the first few years of her life she had generally little or nothing to do, and it was some time before she began to think much about anything. "Do not hurt the tree, child," her mother would say, if she saw Mary cutting a rose-tree with her little knife; "there is something that you may cut;" and she gave her a stick of dry wood. you "Do not hurt pussy; pussy will scratch if you hurt her; you can feel, so does the cat, and you must not hurt her." 66 "Does the rose-tree feel? The rose-tree has scratched me," said Mary. "Feel, child, no! Trees and plants do not feel like us." "But you said that I should hurt the rose-tree if I cut it; and now it has hurt me with its sharp thorns." Mary did not hear much talking, she sat and thought by herself about things which puzzled her. The trees and flowers were living things, she found; ..they could be hurt, sometimes they died. The stick of dry wood was not alive. When a shower of rain fell upon the dry, parched earth, the plants seemed, she thought, to like it; she almost thought that they must feel, and she heard some people say, the rain will do all the plants good." But no one could doubt that the birds liked the warm spring showers; for they sang so sweetly after it, and drank the water left in the little hollows. Mary wished to believe that the flowers liked the water which she sometimes gave them, aud when they raised their drooping heads, they seemed, indeed, as if they had enjoyed their draught, though they could not show their thankfulness like the purring cat, or the dog so obedient to command; or the tame sheep, or the poor much-abused ass, which learns to know a good master, and gladly follows him. One day, a lady, who sent clothes to be washed by Mrs. Wilson, Mary's mother, sat down in the garden to rest herself, and talked with Mary about the sweet flowers, and the pleasure which it is to see all that is beautiful and happy. 66 Pray, Ma'am," said Mary, who had often wished to ask the question, "will you tell me, is a seed alive?" 66 Yes," said the lady, "I should say it is, it is the beginning of a little plant; but it will not grow into a plant unless it can be put into the warm, moist earth, which is warmed by the sun, and made moist by the rain." "But, to be alive like a plant, is not like the other way of being alive," said Mary. You mean, perhaps," said the lady, "that it is very different to be a plant or tree which grows, but is held fast in one place by its root; or to be a living creature, |