came one day to their papa, and asked him to show them some pretty, curious thing; he said he would, if they would go with him into the garden, for there was something very curious to be seen there; well, they went gladly enough, and then they found this pretty thing was nothing but the grass growing on the grass plat!" "There's nothing to look at here," said they, one blade is just like another." "Is it," said their father, "then I'll give you half-a-crown if you will bring me two blades quite alike."

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“Oh what a nice easy way of earning half-a-crown, Ma'am !" cried the school girls.

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Easy! yes, so these children thought, and they soon brought a handful of blades to their father, but he took them into his hand, and making his children examine them carefully, he pointed out to them, that though each little blade was perfect in itself, no two of them were exactly alike in shape, or in the way in which they were marked. That's a true story, my dears; and now, every time you see grass growing up anywhere, even between the paving stones of a quiet street, you may think you see something beautiful.”

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When Mrs. Fortescue had finished, my old heart went thump-thump quite fast, for the story was one which I knew, and which I myself had been in the habit of telling. I turned quickly round, and was about to speak, but at that moment Miss Clara returned. "Aunt, you're wanted," cried she; mama sent me to tell you so ;" and before I'd time to say a word, Mrs. Fortescue was gone. She had hardly closed the door behind her, when we found ourselves, on a sudden, in total darkness. Oh dear, what a laugh Master Herbert set up; it was his sister's doing it seemed, she had softly opened the door of the lanthorn, and had blown out the candle that was burning inside. It was a silly trick enough, but no great harm in it, only unfortunately, in the confusion that followed, one of the magic lanthorn slides was thrown down, and the glass got broken. The clatter occasioned by the fall, brought back Mrs. Fortescue, to inquire what was the matter; "why,” cried she, "how come you all to be in darkness?" The candle's gone out, aunt," replied Miss Celia, before I conld speak.

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"Gone out? how came that? was it so short a piece then ?"

Oh my dears, I cannot tell you how shocked I felt to hear the young lady answer "yes," and before all those children too! Not but what a falsehood is as bad in itself if spoken in private as in public, yet still I could not help thinking that the mischief in this case would be likely to spread; and something of this I ventured to whisper to Miss Celia, but she broke away from me without a word; and I had no more time for serious thought just then, as I had to go and light up the Christmas tree.

(To be continued.)

MARIE DANTON,

(Concluded from p. 20.)

THERE was silence for some moments in the sick-room: suddenly, a neighbouring church clock struck eight; there were four hours yet of the old year, and it warned Marie that it was time for Clara to go to bed; so she fetched the little girl to wish her mother good night. Mrs. Danton, after fondly kissing her, told her always to be very good, to take care of Marie, and love her very much. Clara looked just ready to cry, so Marie hurried her from the room, and, after seeing her safe in bed, returned to watch by her mother. Mrs. Danton lay very still, and Marie almost hoped she was asleep, but just before twelve she called her hastily. Marie, my child, I am going, a few years and we shall meet again! take care of Clara; pray for me, my love." Marie knelt down, and slowly and distinctly repeated the Lord's prayer. She rose from her knees,—one look sufficed to tell her all. Mrs. Danton was dead. Just then, the church bells began to ring a merry peal, to welcome in the new year. It seemed a strange contrast to the scene around, as Marie crept in quietly to kiss her little sister, and tell her that her dear mamma was dead. The two girls spent the first days of the new

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year in tears, but they were obliged to work, and comforted themselves in one another's love.

"Clara, dear," said Marie, one hot day the following July, "have you finished that hood yet, that you were knitting; I am going to take back Miss Windham's veil to-day, and I should like to show it her, perhaps she may want one.”

'I have very little to do to it, Marie, if you do not go till after dinner, I shall have plenty of time to finish it."

Very well, dear, I am glad you have so nearly done it, for we shall have to pay our rent next week, and we want several shillings yet to make it up,"

It was not quite three o'clock when Marie started for her walk. The sun was very hot, and as she walked through the crowded streets, she longed intensely for a breath of country air. Miss Windham did not keep her waiting long; but unfortunately, was not in want of the knitting, though she admired it very much, and asked Marie who had made it; "I should think," she said, "your sister might do something she would be better paid for than knitting; how old is she?"

"Ten years old, ma'am, and she has been blind from her birth."

Blind, oh! poor child, how very dreadful; but, why did you not tell me so before? I should certainly have tried to have done something more to help you.'

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'You have been so kind already, ma'am, that I did not wish to say anything that might seem like begging." "At any rate you must let me come and see you now; I want to know your little sister very much," and she added, as Marie prepared to go, you had better leave that hood with me, and I dare say I shall be able to sell. it for you."

So Marie turned her steps homewards, but in spite of Miss Windham's kindness, her heart was very heavy. The following Monday was the rent day, and how was she to pay it, for even if the hood was sold, she should still be several shillings short. Besides this, she did not feel well, her head and back ached dreadfully, and it was with great difficulty that she could drag herself home. How she got through the evening she could.

hardly tell, but the next day she was in a high fever, and by the time Miss Windham called she was dangerously ill. Edith Windham had a very kind heart, and could not bear to think of Marie's lying so ill with no one to nurse her but her poor little sister. She wanted very much to go and nurse her herself, but as her father would not hear of her doing that, she was obliged to content herself with sending her old nurse instead, and by her Marie was tenderly nursed through her fever. As soon as she was well enough, Miss Windham took her out for a drive in her carriage. They drove far into the country, and Marie was nearly wild with delight at the sight of the green fields and hedges. These drives. were frequently repeated, and Marie soon got quite strong again. Without Miss Windham to help them, they would indeed have been badly off, for Marie's illness had cost a great deal, and Clara had hardly been able to earn enough to pay for the medicines. One day, about a week after Marie had been pronounced well enough to work again, Miss Windham called to see them. "I am come," she said, "to talk to you a little about your future prospects. Do you intend always to go on living as you do now?"

'I have not thought of any thing better, ma'am,” said Marie. But I have," she returned smiling. "Do not you think it would be a good thing, if Clara were to be admitted into one of the schools for the blind?"

"Oh indeed it would, there is nothing I have wished for more, but I did not know how to get her in."

"I will arrange all that, if she herself is willing. Come here, Clara" she said, as the little girl entered, "would you like to go to school and learn to read, and be with other little girls of your own age?"

"Oh yes, I should like to learn to read very much, and perhaps I might learn to sing too, Marie said I should when she had more money.'

"Are you very fond of singing, Clara?"

Yes, very; I always like Sundays because then I go to church and hear them singing, and it makes me think of the angels in heaven, and papa, and mamma, and my little brother who are gone there too."

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Miss Windham was silent for a few minutes, and then she said, "If you are a good child at school Clara, I will promise that you shall learn to sing, and now Marie," she continued, we must think of you: you will be very lonely all by yourself when Clara is gone to school, what should you say to coming to live with me? My maid has just left me, and if you like you shall be my new one.'

Marie was delighted, and gratefully accepted the situation. In a few weeks Clara went to school, and Marie to Miss Windham's. They often met, and Marie was delighted to find that Clara was soon very happy in her new home, and improving fast. It seemed now, as though all their troubles were come to an end; but it was not so, life is never free from sorrows, and there were still many more in store for them, but in all their trials they felt sure that the same hand which had supported them so far, would support them still, while they continued in the path of duty.

H. D. R.

PAPER AND BOOKS.

THERE is scarcely any article of common convenience more frequently used than paper; we should all be puzzled what to do without it; books, newspapers, writingpaper, to wrap up various articles, are become absolutely necessary for our comfort. Yet for many hundreds of years paper was unknown, and whatever writing

was done had to be done on some other material. The words " book," leaves," 66 paper," are all derived from the names of substances once used for writingpaper from the Egyptian plant papyrus, leaves from the leaves of trees being written on, as those of the talipot palm still are in the East; book from "biblos" (whence Bible), originally meaning the inner bark of a

tree.

The most ancient writing with which we are ac